No Viviremos Como Presos
by Bradley P. Beaulieu
Miguel jogged up the last flight of stairs to his grandfather's fourth-floor
apartment, but stopped short when he realized a bald guy in a gray herringbone suit
had just closed his grandfather's door and was now walking toward him. The guy
had the look of a lawyer all over him. He paced down the hallway and tried to sidle
past Miguel, but was forced to stop when Miguel placed his linebacker's frame into
Miguel glanced at the briefcase. "Were you here to see Sandro Rivera?"
"That's confidential." The man at least had the decency to look a little nervous.
"Not when my grandfather's the one you're talking to."
"Do we have a problem here?" He asked while touching his ear. He'd no doubt
primed his net phone and could have the Vero Beach P.D. here in minutes.
"Look --" Miguel softened his expression and jutted his chin down the hallway.
"He's my grandfather. I'm just trying to protect him."
"Be that as it may, any business I have with Mr. Rivera must remain between me
Miguel wanted to wipe the I'm-the-one-in-control expression off the guy's face,
but instead he tongued the control that activated the camera embedded in his
artificial eye. Miguel's vision blinked almost imperceptibly as the shutter release
captured the image. Over the next few milliseconds, the microprocessor at the base
of his brainstem intercepted the picture, sent a copy to permanent store and
embedded another inside a message addressed to Rich Carlsen, asking him to track
the suit down with the Post's facial recognition software.
He'd find out who he was one way or another.
Miguel stepped aside. "Got a card?"
"Sorry. Fresh out." And with that the suit was past him and headed down the stairs.