An Unexpected Blow to the Head, Chapter 2

Hey y'all!  Sorry about the wait!  I'm exhausted, so sorry about the (probably hefty) number of typos, and on to Chapter 2.

Chapter 2.

10:45 AM.

The cafe door gave a cheery ring as it closed behind her.  She sighed contentedly, and, after placing the small takeout bag on the sidewalk at her feet, checked her pockets again.  Luck was certainly on her side this morning.   Only four brushes and she had found enough to fund not only today's necessities, but a bountiful breakfast as well.  Eggs Benedict, hash browns (the cubed kind, not the shredded), bacon, biscuits and gravy, toast with marmalade, and a short-stack with extra syrup and butter to wash it all down.  A repast fit for a king.
Shame I wont be able to come back here any time soon though, she thought as she maneuvered the toothpick between her teeth from one side of her mouth to the other and back again.  Putting away that much food turned heads, especially given her petite stature.  The old waitress had said as much, and lost a few percentages off her tip for her tactlessness.  But that had been the only hitch in an otherwise perfect breaking-of-fast, and she refused to let it ruin her mood.  After all, she could count the number of times she had eaten so well in the last year on one hand.
Well, at least on my right hand, she thought, fingering the scar where her pinky had once resided.
She checked around herself before carefully removing the toothpick from her mouth and wrapping it in a small bag she produced from a dedicated inner pocket in her jacket.  Replacing it, she reached into the pocket on the opposite side.  Empty.  A look of bewilderment crossed her face as both hands begun digging in pockets, followed by irritation and then exasperation as more and more pockets (obvious and otherwise) were picked through and finally pulled out.  Though their occupants--yo-yo, dumpster filth, button collection, small rock collection, more dumpster filth, threaded needle, pocket knife, a paper clip twisted into an interesting shape, and more than a few bits that defied definition--became irretrievably intermixed with the remnants of her recent breakfast in the bag at her feet, she didn't care.  Finally giving up, she sat down on the edge of the curb and pulled the hood of her jacket over her head with a frustrated growl.  A small piece of paper carefully hidden there earlier that morning managed to poke her in the eye before falling between her crossed legs and into the season's last remaining gutter puddle.   She rubbed her injured eye briefly before turning to stare at the offending note.
(Perhaps it should be noted that, at this exact moment, a professional fortune teller operating out the second floor of the aforementioned cafe was suddenly knocked backwards out of her chair as the biggest release of pure psychic  rage the city had ever experienced erupted not thirty feet away from her early morning, appointment-only seance.  She was ferried to the hospital by her awestruck clients, wherein upon waking up several days later she decided to permanently retire from her work in the astral planes, convinced that she had been privy to, quote, "That which should never have been, nor ever should be, experienced again.")
Now reasonably calm again, she reached down to pick up the soaked page from ground, and carelessly wiped it dry on her coat.  She spread the note over her leg and, using an old-fashioned fountain pen she dug from the takeout bag, began reading and checking off lines of untidy scrawl one by one.

Weekly Itinerary:
Thursday:
Acquire funds: check.
Meld successfully  into morning crowds: check.
Ride three random buses in three random directions: check.
Cut through nearby crowded mall and / or supermarket for practice, and observe for possible tails: check.
Acquire breakfast: double-check.
Acquire new shoes:

She blinked at the sheet again and leaned back, the thoroughly masticated end of the pen comfortably between her teeth as she considered her possibilities.  Malls were out of the question, as were outlet stores and superstores, at least when she actually needed something.  Too many cameras, and they tended to have those poor old octogenarians at the doors that depressed her to no end.  Thrift shops never seemed to have her size, and she always left too much of an impression at those little mom-and-pop stores.  That meant either charity, which she would prefer to avoid, a gym, which was a gamble for the same reason the thrift store was, or taking them off of someones feet.  And she hadn't done that in years.
She sighed.  Charity it was, then.
She turned to look at the bag beside her and removed the threaded needle and pocket knife before throwing the rest into a nearby storm drain.  One last quick check of the front of her jacket for breakfast crumbs, and she was on her feet, headed for the nearest crosswalk.
The heavily graffitied street sign told her that, though she didn't remember it,  this wasn't the first time she'd been here.  Her good luck had been brief, it seemed.  As small as the chance might be, she might be remembered if she went into any of the nearby shops, and that could not be tolerated.  A few quick calculations in her head told her that she needed five miles, eight to be sure.  And after such a huge breakfast, running that far could only end in tragedy.
Well, nothing for it but to get moving anyway.  At this rate, she'd be at it all day just thinking about it, and that was definitely not her style.  She cracked her knuckles against the metal sign pole for good luck, and, after a few false starts and alleyway double-backs to shake off pursuers, began her long journey westward.

_______________________

11:20 AM.

Suffice to say, while it may have been possible that she had many exciting encounters on her way to a less-recognizable area of the city, I can personally assure you that this is not the case.  No, whether by her own extraordinary caution in maintaining her anonymity, or just through the usual carelessness of the greater urban public, this extraordinary young woman in the dingy coat would not have anything particularly exciting happen to her at this time of the day.  Given all that she has done--or to put it more bluntly, all that she has stolen--this was actually quite an achievement.  For, as you may have guessed by now, this young lady (who from this point on I shall now refer to as 'Ivy' for simplicity sake, though this is not her name) is a thief.  A talented one at that, but I suppose that is more a matter of opinion, and you should not take my word for it.  I am, I have been told, what is called a compulsive liar, so perhaps it would be better if you didn't.
Ahh, but how she got this way is a story long and convoluted, full of shady contacts, extraordinary capers, and more than a few close calls, some of which (judging by the damage to her hands) cost her more than she was willing to give.
But in any case, trust me when I say that Ivy had a certain talent for procuring whatever she needed regardless of her past or current financial facilities.  And not all of her paranoia is overkill.  More than a few people out there, some less scrupulous than others, had gone to a great deal of trouble to find her.  And I?  I...

_______________________

11:55 AM.

Breathing lightly now, she finished her brief surveying lap of the block and came to a stop with a approving nod.  The store looked perfect.  Small enough to be unimportant, but not to be closed in.  Friendly enough to earn her that crucial benefit of the doubt, but impersonal enough to let her drift away should things turn sour.  There was even a smattering of shoppers moving through the aisles, the perfect amount to give unimpeded cover.  But she knew better by now to let it get her confident.  It was almost too  good, and it went without saying that something would happen to spice things up.  It always did.  For all she knew, the cashier could be an ex-marine with a chip on their shoulder.  Or an over-enthusiastic gun aficionado with a penchant for 'storing' extra security measures under the counter.  Hell, for all she knew this whole store's staff and clientele were made up of retired professional wrestlers and martial artists.  She had run into worse in her long and industrious career.
Well, except for that last one.  She'd never hit something like that.  But there was a first time for everything, right?  As dangerous as it was moving into an unknown area, it had always given her a thrill to rely solely on her reflexes and cunning in situations like this.  And this was only a small job, anyway.  She hadn't even needed to use her kit.  She gave one last, almost sentimental look at the old pair of running sneakers that had served her so well, and, lightly whistling, headed for the entrance.
The bell over the swinging glass door foretold her arrival, earning her a brief, judgmental glance from the old man reading the Times behind the counter.  He doesn't look like an ex-marine, but…She smiled disarmingly at him, earning an almost comically over dramatic frown and a stage-whisper grumble that the whole store must have heard.  Something about 'those damned vagrants', though by then she had already moved on.  He wouldn't be a threat.  A few minutes and she had every camera (two, one near the counter and another, likely fake, on the back wall) and exit (front, side, back employee, front window) discretely and permanently planted in her mind, and was ready to make her move.  The only thing that had stuck out in her mind was the lack of employees, but that wasn't particularly odd in a place like this, and while she needed one for the plan she had in mind, she wasn't in a hurry.  As luck would have it, it wasn't twenty minutes before she spotted movement coming from the direction of the break room.
She saw your long, lanky frame; your fresh-from-the-bathroom untucked shirt; your slumped posture that spoke clearly of mixed boredom, exasperation, and stress.
Perfect, she thought.
She moved up behind you, and, standing just a little too close, tapped you lightly on the shoulder.

__________________

6:15 PM.

You slam the weights down with a good deal more force than necessary, earning a more than a few nasty looks from the elderly aerobics class taking up the middle of the gym workout space.  Normally you would have been the soul of remorseful respect in this situation, but today you don't give them a second look.
They didn't get fired on their fifth day.  They didn't get chewed out by the whole management staff for knocking over a display.  They didn't get threatened with criminal prosecution for stealing, and assured that they wouldn't work in retail in this city again.
No, today they can go screw themselves.  You've got an angry workout to finish, the only redeeming feature of which is the pre-planned 'angry' set list you've been meaning to try out on your mp3 player but haven't felt angry enough for yet.  Normally that distinctive death-metal growl grates on your nerves, but today you feel like you could sing along word for word, and with feeling too.  But getting thrown out of two institutions in one day isn't something you really want to experience, and you'll have to settle for over enthusiastic weight lifting grunting.
You just can't stop running through it in your mind.  The way she looked.  The way she stood so close to you, almost whispered in your ear that she would like some help finding a certain pair of running shoes.  The way she took your hand as you motioned her towards the women's shoe section…  Heck, that alone was enough to overcome the smell of bacon on her breath.  Now that you look back on it, she really had your number.  From that point, you're not exactly sure what happened.  You remember her looking at several pairs in her size, and then asking for somewhere to sit.  The usual seat had been missing for some reason, and you had almost begged her to let you get another for her.  Then, carrying a stool you had liberated from the break room, something had hit you in the back of the leg.  Just hard enough to send you toppling, stool included, into the hefty athletics shoe display you had spent two and a half hours setting up just that morning.
It was the nail in the coffin that the girl--the girl who had led you along like a dog on a leash, that you were sure had taken them--had not been remembered by the cashier, nor shown up on any of the security cameras.   And behind it all, you can't shake the feeling that you're forgetting something, but you put it off in your mind as just another one of those things you should've seen coming.  Your death sentence as it turns out, as management, apparently not trusting you enough to keep your balance any more, would spend the next several hours setting up the display again only to find a pair missing.  Never mind that they were women's shoes, nowhere near your size, and nowhere to be found on the premises--clearly, as the one who set it up and knocked it down, you were the one who stole them from the display.
  You don't even want to get into the logic behind that one; you've had enough headaches for one day, and you've still got a dinner with Rick tonight.
Speaking of which, it is getting late, and you haven't exactly been focused on the workout at hand.  Perhaps it's best to just call it a night and hit the showers.  As much as he deserves it (and as little as he would care), you can't bring yourself to be a guest in someone else's home without putting your best foot forward, much less fresh from working out.  You owe your parents for that, at least.

"I'm sorry, but I just can't stop thinking about it.  I mean, the cameras aren't great, but they cover the store pretty well.  And Bob's not the most observant cashier in the world, but he knows the neighborhood, and I think he would've noticed a new face."
Especially one as pretty as hers, your add mentally before you can stop yourself.
As per usual, Rick makes no sign that he has heard you, and continues digging into your casserole with both hands.
Another dinner at Rick's.  Which is to say, another night of you cooking something big and left-over friendly, driving it across the city, and lugging it all up six flights of stairs into the tiny, dingy apartment that the only friend you have in this city likely squats in under the absentee landlord's nose.
"And then Angie starts getting her claws in me, telling them about how much extra time I take on my breaks and how I keep taking her food from the fridge.  As if she doesn't spend her entire day sitting in the break room or chain-smoking outside the delivery door.  Hell, she's got more food in that fridge than the rest of us combined.  She probably lost track of what she ate, and thought it'd be easier to blame it on someone else than face her own eating problems.  If there's one thing I wont mind about being fired--and that's a complete lie, the only thing that made that job worthwhile was the pay--is not having to look into her wrinkled, suspicious face every day."
Rick takes a long drink from the beer bottle in front of him, shaking it over his open mouth before tossing it somewhere behind him and uncapping another.

Meeting Rick was perhaps the single most interesting thing that had ever happened to you since moving to the city.  Back in the good old college days, those golden days when you had a clear direction in mind and were still in good standing with your parents, you remember coming home to your student-rent apartment late one frigid winter night to find what looked like a corpse in a filthy overcoat dumped carelessly across the stoop in front of the lobby door.  Were it not for the fact that you had to move him to get in out of the 15 degree weather, you probably would have stepped right over him and just informed the night-attendant on your way upstairs.  But as it was, you were rapidly losing the feeling in your hands, and the few extra beers you'd had out with the guys had likely bolstered your courage above your common sense.  So, one hand balled into a defensive fist, you had kneeled down to roll him over.
You remember being surprised by how odd he looked.  He was one of those indecipherably-aged older men, somewhere between 40 and 80, with what looked to have once been a meticulously well-kept full mustache and beard.  His clothes, while filthy and worn, had obviously been expensive.  He was freezing cold, that much was clear; even inebriated as you were, the signs of worsening hypothermia were obvious to your scout-trained senses.
You knew he would be dead before dawn if you didn't help him, and something about the way he looked intrigued you enough to shake the last of your misgivings.  Between yourself and the attendant, you managed to muscle him into your apartment, where he spent the night semi-coherent on an air-mattress on your floor, never once saying a single word.  You, whether through fear or excitement, never fell asleep that night.
The next day (a Saturday thankfully), you stayed with him the whole day, going about your daily chores and recovering from a rather terrible hangover around him without much trouble.  He didn't wake until that evening, when, scaring the living bejeesus out of you, he sat bolt upright and, looking at you with feral eyes, jumped to his feet with his fists up.  You, still recovering, were in no condition to fight, and he put down his fists and took a quick look around the room.  Then, the first and last time you ever heard him speak, he turned to you and asked,
"When's dinner?"
It all runs together after that.  You remember making a meal for you both, and him heading out soon after without another word.  Then, exactly six days later, finding him sitting on the stoop waiting for you to get back from classes, following you up to your room, eating dinner with you, and leaving.  He was never hostile, but made it quite clear that he would not accept being left out of dinner on the nights he came.    All without a single word from his mouth.  After three weeks of asking about him with no luck, you finally let it drop, and fell into a semi-comfortable routine of you talking about your day while he ate your food.  One night a week was no problem for you, and he did look better for it; and you were left with the pleasant feeling that you had likely saved someone's life.
All that had changed since then was when, once night after dinner, he dug a hand into his pocket and dropped a stained 3x5 card onto your table with an address (his) written on one side.  Whether trusting you more or just being lazy, you didn't care.  Since then, unless he's shown up at your place, you brought dinner to him.  Even when you moved back home, you always drove back into the city to bring him dinner on Friday nights, and now that you're back in the city, it's been easy.
You're not entirely sure why you keep doing so, or why he keeps coming over.  Something about him just fascinates you still even so many years later, and having someone to dump all of the week's stress on without complaint has been extraordinarily therapeutic.
Every once in a while, at random as far as you can tell, he looks you straight in the eye and makes his opinion known through his expression.  It's remarkable how much you can get across with a slowly raised eyebrow, a pursed mouth, or a squint, especially when it's the only form of communication you ever use.

"...but I didn't really need that job anyway.  I'm well off enough to last a few months of job-searching, even with student loans to pay off.  It just irks me that it took so little to lose the job.  You know I always give people the benefit of the doubt, but there's no way she didn't steal those shoes."
Rick continues to chew, at times licking his stained fingers.
"It was just weird.  I get the feeling she played me, you know?  Read me like a book, took me along, and put me just where she needed me to be to get away.  It's not a good feeling, especially with how she was leading along at the beginning.  It's just not fair for a girl to act that way, you know?"
The beginning.  You've calmed down a lot since the afternoon (Rick tends to have that effect on you) , but man, she really did get your hopes up, and you've been so lonely since breaking up with your old girlfriend last year.  Her sleeping with your old room mate was not something you wanted to walk in on, and in your own bed no less.  Suffice to say, that was the end of it, and she's had the good sense not to contact you since.  The look in her eyes when you walked in on them...she was afraid.  Like she didn't know what she was doing, or wanted you not to believe it.  It disgusted you.
The look in her eyes...then it comes to you.
"But there was something kind of weird about it too, you know?  I think I was too pissed off to remember it before now, but when she first came up to me, when I turned around to see her... I don't know.  It was something in her, I think.  For just a second, it looked like she was scared.  Like, not just startled or whatever, but really terrified to see me.  But hell, at this point I might just be making up the details.  Between what she did afterwards and all of this afternoon, I wouldn't be surprised."
Rick pauses in his eating, and you cut off.  At first, you only glance his direction in anticipation of some response or gesture of understanding.  Then the seconds start ticking by.  Twenty.  Thirty.
By now, you're actually starting to get excited.  This has never happened before.
Finally, after nearly a minute, what sounds like a rock slide in reverse starts building somewhere around table level.  For a split second he matches eyes you, and slowly opens his mouth.  You hardly notice that it is still full of half-chewed ground beef.  The wait is killing you.
He belches, an almost symphonic blast of sound that literally brings streams of dust running from the cracks in the ceiling, and uncorks his fourth beer of the night.
You can only stare at him.

With nothing else to follow that, the night is pretty well over, and you excuse yourself after scraping the leftovers onto a paper plate and putting it into his tiny, empty fridge.  One unreciprocated goodbye later and you're into the rickety old metal elevator and out into the overgrown parking lot.
As little as he actually says during these dinners, you get the feeling that they mean a lot to him.  He doesn't have any decorations in his one-room apartment, no pictures of family or photo albums.  Just a fridge and an old mattress.  You've offered to bring him supplies, and ever gone so far as to bring him clothes and sheets.  Inevitably, you've come back the next week to find them folded neatly outside of his closed door.  After the first few times you got the distinct feeling that it was somehow insulting, and since then it's been the same every week.
An anchor of stability and routine in an unplanned, uprooted life.  Though, who's the anchor and who's the uprooted is entirely up for debate.
The dinner cut off a bit earlier than expected, so it's not too late when you pull up to your apartment complex.  A small sandwich-board on the sidewalk informs you that the parking lot is full.  A perfect end to a terrific day, you grumble.  More likely the old attendant just decided to play hooky for the night.  But at least the neighborhood's not too bad, and your car's not exactly a hot item.  You shouldn't have any problems leaving it out for the night.
You park it near the corner entrance and step out.  The chilly night wind that usually just blows through has actually done some good tonight, clearing away the perpetual smog and leaving a surprising amount of stars visible.  Even with the lights of the city, the spread of the velvet blue sky spread overhead is enough to make you take a moment to enjoy it.  Leaning against your car here, hands full of dishes you from dinner with a friend under a full night sky...maybe the day hasn't been quite so bad.
Live for the good and the bad, the tiny Buddha in your head tells you.  For once, you find yourself in complete agreement.
Riding on the natural high, you maneuver the dishes onto one arm, and begin digging around in your pocket for your keys.  You're just about to press in your code to enter the building when you hear a strange sound coming from somewhere around the corner, beyond your sight.  From the tapping and gasping, it almost sounds like someone sprin--
With your arms full, you can only turn to look as a very familiar dirty black jacket comes pelting around the corner, hood up.  An arm comes up to prop against the corner not six feet away, and you hear her voice rasping as she desperately tries to draw breath.  Something is wrong, something dripping from the left sleeve and the shape of it not quite right.
You recognize her, and, more unconsciously than on purpose, you hear yourself shout.
"Hey--"
Her head whips up and you can see here eyes shining underneath them.  Feral, like something cornered.  Recognition dawns in them, and she shrieks in what can only be described as absolute terror.  She spins, and out of the corner of your eye you glimpse what looks to be a familiar expensive black running shoe flying towar--
An impact, and all the stars are suddenly in your head as you hit the ground.

____________________________________________

3:00 AM.

She had been in this alley, and not long ago.  Slept in it, most likely, and tried to hide it.  Almost did it too, but for the leavings of a certain pair of dilapidated running shoes.
It wouldn't be long now.  Finally, I was starting to get closer.




Hopefully not as long between chapters this time!  Good night!