Part IV
Spring 2070
Reed and Clavel walked their normal beat, down Commons Street passing the O'Rorke Bakery's open windows and smell of fresh baked bread wafting from inside. Tommy O'Rorke, the Bakery's owner since his father died 10 years ago, waved from behind the counter at the two officers. Reed and Clavel waved back lazily and O'Rorke held up his hand before disappearing into the back. Reed sipped the coffee he had in his hand after they had stopped, and Clavel scanned the street then returned a wave from a passing sedan.
A tall plump man in a clean white apron exited the shop carrying two wrapped loaves of bread under one arm, "Officers!," said O'Rorke, offering his free hand to Clavel then Reed, "How was the trial?" he asked, referring to the attempted robbery of his shop last summer.
"Guilty," said Clavel, smiling at the man, "Plenty of witnesses and a good District Attorney saw to that."
"How long?" O'Rorke asked with a slight North Dublin accent.
"Ten for attempted robbery," said Reed, "Otherwise, Judge Harriet hasn't said yet."
"Well we'll hope for the best," O'Rorke said tiredly, "In any case my wife and I decided you gentleman could use a little bit of thanks from the people in this town." he said, patting the covered loaves as the fresh smell began bleeding through the fabric.
"No, no that's alright, Tommy," Clavel said, hands up"
"Oh be quiet, James Clavel," O'Rorke said, "I already called your Sergeant and he said as long as it was under Ten dollars I was fine," he pulled back the fabric on one of the loaves and the smell was almost sinful, "So I figured as long as it was Ten dollars each that Mrs. O'Rorke and I could whip you each up a right good and proper loaf of bread."
Reed pretended reluctance, "Mr. O'Rorke surely you could think of something better to do with Twenty dollars than to spend it on two Flatfoots like us?"
"Well sure I could!" he laughed, "and what made you think I spent a full twenty dollars on you? You'd be lucky if I spent twelve between the two of you!."
Later that night Nimoy sat on his Lone Wanderer watching as what sparse traffic existed passed by. When an 18 wheeler passed by, Nimoy took off his helmet and stood up. He laid his helmet on the seat, and replaced the riding gloves with a thinner, lighter pair so as to feel what he was touching.
It was a little chilly that night, so nobody who saw him would say anything about the black ski mask he wore, rolled up to appear as a beanie.
He checked the satchel he wore for his tools, stretched his fingers and then crossed the street. Nimoy walked the sidewalk for two blocks until he came to a hardware store. He studied the inside through the windows as he walked by. Nobody was inside.
Rounding a corner he turned down a dark alleyway. When he reached the end he studied both up and down for pedestrians, and then went right, coming up behind the hardware store.
As expected the back door was locked, which wasn't a problem, and probably meant that the windows were locked. So Nimoy retrieved a hair pin and screwdriver he kept in his satchel and deftly unlocked the door with a satisfying click.
Inside he relocked the door behind him and checked for windows before taking the red lens flashlight he kept out of his bag.
