BEAUTIFUL DAY
"Gentlemen," the Official announced. Darien Fawkes and his partner Bobby Hobbes
sat in the Official's office, waiting for their next assignment. "We've been put on full alert! A terrorist from the I.R.A. is believed to be
in the area, and we've been asked to bring him in."
"IRA?" Darien
repeated.
"Irish Republican Army," Bobby explained.
"I hear IRA, I think 'individual retirement account,'" Darien
smiled. "Broken into a
few of those." Bobby rolled his
eyes.
"We got an ID on this guy?" Bobby asked. Eberts handed the Official a photograph, the
Official handed the picture to Darien
and Bobby. The two looked at it.
"You gotta be kidding me," Bobby scoffed.
"You want us to find this?" Darien
asked, holding up the blurry picture.
"That's the only known photograph taken of him," the
Official snapped.
"This could be anybody!" Bobby protested.
"Look, all you need to know is that the man is Irish, he has
black hair and his name is Timothy Flanagan!
Now get out there and find him," the Official commanded. The two agents reluctantly rose from their
seats and walked out of the office.
"It's like lookin' for a needle in a haystack," Bobby
grumbled.
"Are you losing faith in yourself?" Darien
smirked. "Bobby Hobbes, the man who
found a piece of a sniper's uniform, like, out of nowhere!"
"No, I'm not losing faith in myself," Bobby defended
himself. "Bobby Hobbes' instincts are
still sharp as a tack!" He paused. "What was I complaining about again?" Darien
suppressed a laugh—there goes that Attention Deficit Disorder.
"Never mind, let's go," Darien
said. "Oh, but we're gonna have to take
my car. The van's in the shop." Bobby sighed.
*~*~*~*
The two parked across the street from a coffee shop called
the Fuel Stop. Bobby warily eyed the
place. They entered an artsy
coffeehouse, with only a handful of patrons.
One man that caught Bobby's eye was sitting alone, reading a newspaper
while he sipped his coffee.
"Ah man, you brought us into one of those bohemian joints,"
Bobby complained.
"Don't knock the place.
An old friend of mine owns the shop," Darien
explained.
"An old friend from where?" Bobby asked suspiciously. Darien
rolled his eyes and shook his head. A
bald, older man wearing a ratty Rolling Stones t-shirt and arms covered with
tattoos pointed at Darien and
smiled.
"Fawkes!" he cheerily called out.
"Dootz!" Darien
said, taking his friend's hand. As the
two ex-cons began to talk, Bobby heard a cellular phone ring. He turned around and noticed the lone patron
remove a cell phone from his jacket and began to talk. The man spoke with an Irish accent.
"Bobby," Darien
said, interrupting his thoughts. Bobby turned.
"This is Tommy Deucey. We used to
steal cars together."
"Charming," Bobby retorted.
He shook Tommy's hand.
"Call me Dootz," Tommy said.
"So what'll it be?"
"Two coffees," Darien
requested.
"To go?" Tommy asked.
"For here," Bobby said.
Tommy nodded, picked out two paper cups, and poured coffee in them. He handed the cups to the two agents, and Darien
paid him. They took their seats. Bobby glanced at the lone patron every so
often. The Irish man seemed to be in his
late thirties or early forties. He had
floppy black hair and tired blue eyes.
He wore loose, faded black jeans, Doc Marten boots, tight black t-shirt,
and a vintage black leather jacket.
Nothing about him indicated that he was a terrorist in Bobby's eyes, but
this guy matched the description. The
Irish man hung up his cell phone and put a cigarette to his lips.
"Excuse me, sir, no smoking in here," Tommy called out. The Irish man waved.
"Sorry. I'll take it outside,"
he apologized. He picked up his
newspaper and tossed his cup in the trash as he walked out. Bobby got up.
"Let's go," he said to Darien.
"What? Why?" Darien
asked.
"The guy that left, that's him."
"Him? Oh, him.
OK." They stood outside from an
unseen distance and watched the Irish man smoke. His cell phone rang again; he took it out and
started talking. Bobby nudged Darien.
"Go listen in," Bobby whispered. Making sure no one was in sight, Darien
Quicksilvered himself and tiptoed next to the suspect. Somehow, the man looked familiar but Darien
couldn't quite place him.
"Yeah, it's cool. No
one has recognized me so far," the Irish man said into his cell phone. Suddenly he turned and looked around. "What?
No, I just felt like someone was watching me." Uh oh,
Darien thought. I
must've been breathing too close to him.
"Yeah, it's on tomorrow night.
It'll be a blast." That was all Darien
needed to hear. He ran back to his
partner.
"Hobbes," he whispered.
"It's him! I just heard him talk
about not being recognized and tomorrow night being a blast!"
"Good goin,' partner," Bobby said, reaching for his
gun. "Go visible. We're gonna nail this guy." Darien un-Quicksilvered as he followed Bobby. The two creeped up to the smoking Irish man
and Bobby aimed his gun. "Freeze! Federal
agents! Timothy Flanagan, you're under
arrest!" The man turned around, startled
and confused.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, almost laughing. "Is this a joke? Did Adam put you up to this?"
"No joke," Darien
said seriously, as the two held up their badges.
"But my name's not Timothy Flanagan!" the man
protested. "It's Boh—er… It's Paul Hewson!"
"You hesitated," Bobby noted. "Cuff him, Fawkes." Darien
fumbled for the handcuffs, grabbed the man's hands and cuffed them together.
"Not like that, Fawkes!" Bobby scolded. "You're supposed to put his hands behind his back! You of all people should know that."
"Sorry, it's my first time actually doing it to someone," Darien
apologized. They led their suspect to
the car and shoved him in the backseat.
"Would you two like to tell me what I'm being arrested for?"
the man demanded as they drove off. The
two agents guffawed.
"You mean you didn't think acts of terrorism were illegal?"
Bobby asked sarcastically.
"Acts of terrorism?" the man repeated incredulously.
"All right! Enough already," Bobby commanded. He turned on the radio and spun the dial
until he found the local adult contemporary station. He took out his cell phone and kept his thumb
on the speed-dial.
"What are you doing?" Darien
asked.
"I'm listening for the next U2 song," he explained.
"Why?"
"Why? 'Cause I
want free tickets to tomorrow night's concert."
"You're a U2 fan?"
"That's right, my friend.
Ever since I first heard 'Sunday Bloody Sunday.'"
"I wasn't really into their earlier stuff," Darien
admitted. "Seemed a bit too, I don't
know, preachy." Suddenly the song "Walk On" began to
play. Bobby hit the speed-dial button
and held the phone to his ear, biting his thumbnail.
"Damn! I'm caller number
four!" Bobby grumbled. He hit the
speed-dial again. "I need to be caller
number nine." He waited again. "Aw, man!
Now I'm caller ten." He snapped
his cell phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. "And by the way, Fawkes, U2 are not
preachy. They're spiritual."
"Whatever," Darien
grinned. "I liked their later
stuff. It was groovy, experimental, funky—"
"Weird," Bobby finished.
"Joshua Tree was their best album ever."
"I beg to differ," Darien
argued, "Achtung Baby was their best."
"Joshua Tree!"
"Achtung Baby!"
"Joshua Tree!"
"OK, compromise—their new album, All That You Can't Leave
Behind. It's got a sound that's a
mix of the old and new." Bobby nodded.
"OK, I got no problem with their new album," Bobby agreed.
"So 'Sunday Bloody Sunday' hooked you to U2?" Darien
asked.
"Yeah! That song was popular during my training with
the Marines. It was like an inspiration
to me, a battle cry! Made me ready to go
out into the field and kick ass!"
"I think you're completely misinterpreting the song," the
Irish man piped in.
"Excuse me?" Bobby snapped.
"It wasn't a call to war, it was a call against war," the Irish man explained. "It was a protest against the troubles in Ireland."
"Hey, just 'cause you're Irish you
think you know everything about U2?" Bobby retorted.
"Well, I'm sure I know a thing or two about them more than
you do," the Irish man grinned smugly.
The song ended.
"Congratulations! You're
caller number nine!" the on-air DJ proclaimed to the caller.
"Oh my god!" a giddy woman squealed.
"What's your name?" the DJ asked.
"It's Tracy,"
she answered excitedly.
"OK, Tracy, for
a chance to win tickets to tomorrow night's U2 concert, you have to answer
these three U2 trivia questions correctly.
Are you ready?" the DJ asked.
"Ready!" Tracy
answered confidently.
"All right. First question, and
this is a hard one. Where in the U.S.
did U2 play one of their first major gigs?" the DJ asked.
"I know this one!" Bobby exclaimed. "Boston!"
"It was at the Paradise in Boston,"
Tracy answered. "I'm originally from there; everybody knows
that!"
"That's correct!" the DJ said. "Second question: What is guitar player The Edge's real name?"
"Dave Evans!" Bobby yelled out.
"David Evans," Tracy
answered.
"Correct again!" the DJ said. "Now, last question: What is lead singer Bono's real name?"
"Ah, crap. I don't
know that one," Bobby admitted.
"It's Paul Hewson," Tracy
answered. Bobby's mouth dropped.
"Wait, did she just say…" Darien
began.
"That's right!" the DJ shouted. Darien's
car skidded to the side of the road as he slammed the brakes. The two agents looked at each other
incredulously and then at the Irish man in the back seat—Bono in the
flesh. He was beaming and his blue eyes
twinkled.
"Holy… Look, I'm so
sorry," Bobby began, then he and Darien
began profusely apologizing to the revered singer.
"I get it," Bono laughed good-naturedly.
"Wait, so you meant that tomorrow night being a blast was
the concert, right?" Darien asked.
"Yeah," Bono replied.
"But what about no one recognizing
you?" Darien inquired. "You're… well, you're Bono."
"Yes, I am," Bono chuckled.
"But I've been wearing shades for the last ten years now, so I figured
most people have forgotten what I look like without them. You did."
"Well, OK," the two agents admitted sheepishly.
"By the way, how did you know I said that?" Bono asked.
"Oh, uh…" Darien
began.
"Special wire," Bobby answered.
"Ah," Bono remarked.
"Look, um, we gotta take you back to our Agency," Bobby
said. "You know, to clear things up."
"All right," Bono complied.
Darien restarted the car and
drove.
*~*~*~*
"Mr. Bono," the Official began. "You have our sincerest apologies for this
unfortunate fiasco. Rest assured that
you are free and clear of all charges, and I can make it so this never
happened."
"Never happened," Bobby repeated assuredly.
"Shut up, Hobbes," the Official snapped. Bobby pursed his lips.
"It's cool," Bono said.
Just then, Claire the Keeper walked in and handed a clipboard to the
Official.
"I need you to sign this, Sir," she said. She then noticed the man in the chair. Her jaw fell.
"Oh my god!
Aren't you… Oh my god!" she
squealed. Bono grinned broadly. He stood up, took her hand, and kissed it.
"Very nice to meet you," he greeted. Claire giggled nervously.
"Aw, Claire, you make us look bad," Bobby complained. "You recognized Bono off the bat and we didn't!"
"I can't believe it!" she yelled, ignoring Bobby. "Oh, I just love your latest album. It's your best one ever!"
"Well, there's a bit of a debate on that, but thank you,"
Bono smiled. "Are you going to the show
tomorrow night?"
"No, I wish I could," Claire whined. "I tried to get tickets but they sold out on
the first day."
"I can hook you up with a few," Bono offered. Claire's eyes lit up.
"Really?"
"Sure. How many would
you like?"
"Well, um…" Bobby and
Darien ran up to Claire and looked
at her with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. "How about three?"
Just then Eberts cleared his throat.
He too looked at her with wide little-boy eyes. "Four?"
"You got it," Bono agreed.
"I'll have tickets delivered here within the hour." Darien
and Bobby shook his hands and gushed forth many thanks. "All right, all right! May I leave now?"
"Of course," the Official answered. "Eberts, why don't you show
Mr. Bono out?"
"Certainly, Sir," Eberts obeyed happily. "This way, Mr. Bono." Eberts showed him out the door and into the
hallway. As the two walked out, Darien
and Bobby shouted "Yeah!" to each other.
*~*~*~*
The next evening at the U2 concert, the two agents, Claire
and Eberts were dancing and partying away.
Bono had very generously set them up with third-row seats. But seating didn't really seem to matter at
this concert because all the fans pushed forward to the front of the stage.
In his trademark catwalk fashion, Bono strutted and pranced
around the stage. He sang voraciously,
giving it his all. They played old
favorites, like "With or Without You," "New Year's
Day," "Bad," "I Will Follow," all of which Darien
finally took the time to appreciate. He
found himself singing along to "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." And, of course, they played newer favorites
like "Mysterious Ways," "The
Fly," "Lemon," "Zooropa," "Discothèque," which Bobby still thought sounded
weird, but he found himself enjoying them.
Like hearing something new for the first time.
"I'm dedicating this next song to a funny dude in the
audience," Bono announced. "Now pay
careful attention to the lyrics, Bobby."
Bobby's mouth dropped as Bono pointed to him and winked. U2 began to play "Sunday Bloody Sunday." Bobby screamed triumphantly as his three
friends' eyes widened. They patted him
on the back and sang along.
When U2 began playing songs from their latest album, a man
in the sidelines caught Bobby's eye. He
was the only one in the crowd not smiling.
The man shifted about like he was waiting to make a move. He had bleach blonde hair, but his roots were
definitely black. He looked around and
snuck into a door marked "Private Access Only."
Bobby grabbed Darien's arm
and led him towards the door.
"What?" Darien
yelled as they entered.
"He went in here," Bobby said.
"He who?"
"Him! Flanagan!"
They walked down the hallway cautiously.
"Go cellophane, Fawkes." Darien
Quicksilvered just before a security guard stopped Bobby.
"Excuse me, do you know you're trespassing?" the guard asked
Bobby.
"Federal agent," Bobby announced as he removed his badge
from his back pocket and flashed it to the guard.
"Really?" the guard remarked doubtfully, eyeing the alleged
fed clad in black jeans, dark blue t-shirt and sneakers. He studied the badge carefully, and decided
it was legit after all. "What are you
doing here?"
"I'm on the trail of a dangerous criminal."
"At a U2
concert?"
"He's an Irish terrorist."
"Oh. OK, well go
ahead and look around."
"Thanks," Bobby said and headed off. He ran down the hallway and heard footsteps
heading up a flight of stairs. Bobby
reached down and removed a small pistol from his leg holster. Bobby Hobbes was never one to leave home
without a gun. But he figured he probably wouldn't need one at a concert,
so he left his bigger piece at home. Now
he wished he'd brought it along after all.
As he reached the top of the stairs, he peeked
his head through the doorway and saw the same man attaching an electronic
device to one of the stage lights.
"Freeze!" Bobby yelled out. The man turned around startled.
"Bugger off!" he yelled back, in a very Irish accent, then
reached out to the bomb to detonate it.
Before he could touch it, he was knocked to the ground. He lay there unconscious. Darien un-Quicksilverd.
"Good going, partner," Bobby said.
"Yeah, now let's get him out of here," Darien
said. They picked him up and carried him
out. As they trudged down the hallway,
the guard who'd stopped Bobby reappeared.
"Oh my god. Is that him?" he asked. "Wait a minute, where did this other guy come
from?"
"Oh, I'm a federal agent too," Darien
explained. "But I'm a super agent
specialized in covert entry." He smiled
mischievously as the guard wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Hey, Hobbesey? Um, I wanna go back to the concert."
"Me too. Take him outside; there's bound to be a ton
of cops," Bobby suggested. They headed
to the exit and, as they opened the door, were greeted by the flashing cameras
of the local paparazzi. "Smile, Fawkes." The two agents held up the Irish terrorist
and grinned for the cameras. Three
police officers ran up to them, and the agents handed Flanagan to him. They took out their badges and quickly
explained the situation. The police were
satisfied with the explanation and took the now-conscious Flanagan into custody. Darien
and Bobby ran back to the door.
Unfortunately it was locked.
"Ah, crap!" they grumbled in unison. They pushed their way through the paparazzi
and ran back to the front entrance.
Eighteen security guards were standing in front, refusing to let anymore
people in. Darien
took Bobby aside and Quicksilvered both of them. They carefully slithered between the guards
and ran back to the concert hall. As
they pushed through the crowd of screaming fans, the Quicksilver flaked off of
both of them. No one seemed to notice;
all attention was directed at the fabulous foursome on stage. The two rejoined Claire and Eberts.
*~*~*~*
"Good job, boys!" the Official congratulated them the next
day. He held up the newspaper, with a
front-page picture of Bobby and Darien
holding up Flanagan. The headline blared
"LOCAL AGENTS NAB IRISH TERRORIST AT U2
CONERT." The smaller headline
underneath it read "City's Newest Heroes Foil Bomber's Plans, Saving Irish
Supergroup and 10,000 Fans." Darien
and Bobby beamed proudly.
"I'd say this is cause for celebration," Bobby suggested.
"Of course," the Official agreed.
"How about a raise?" Bobby
smirked. The Official laughed; Bobby's
grin faded. "A bonus?" The Official continued chuckling.
"I do have front-row tickets to tonight's concert," the
Official revealed, holding up four tickets.
"But since you're more interested in money…" He made like he was going to tear them up,
but Darien got up and snatched them
out of his hands.
"We'll take 'em," Darien
smiled.
"Well… all right, you twisted my arm," Bobby gave in. "Maybe they'll play more songs from Pop
tonight."
"Nah, I'm hoping for a little more of October," Darien
admitted.
"Pop!"
"October!"
"Pop!"
"October!"…
THE END
