Chapter 4
The taxi, redolent with incense, cigarette smoke, and sweat, wove through the streets of downtown LA In the background, the radio played tunes Jack didn't recognize and quickly decided he didn't care for.
What now? He remembered the envelope with a start, and dug it out of his pocket. The message inside was cryptic. "Report to the Director of Joint Ops." He read it twice through, then crumpled it in anger. Those b*stards. They had stood by and done nothing while the NSC railroaded him into prison. If they thought for a minute that he was going to meekly report back in to work...
...but of course he would, he admitted in resignation. It was his best chance to help Sydney. If by some miracle he regained his clearance, could utilize CIA resources, they'd be able to work together on finding out what had happened to her.
Jack looked up and caught the taxi driver studying him curiously in the rearview mirror.
"How 'bout those Dodgers? Can you believe they made the Series?" asked the driver, catching Jack's eye.
"Yeah, great," Jack muttered looking away, suddenly realizing that he knew nothing that had happened in the past year. He looked up to see the driver watching him again. "Is there a problem?" he asked coldly.
"Uh, is that beard real?"
Jack shifted slightly so that he could see himself in the mirror. Sh*t. No wonder he had had so much trouble getting a cab to stop for him. The combination of the suit and beard made him look like something out of a circus sideshow. "Yeah," he responded, casting about in his mind for a suitable explanation for a year's worth of untrimmed growth. "I - ,"
"-just got out of prison, didn't you?" supplied the driver quietly. "The Dodgers aren't in the Series. They washed out in August."
Jack's jaw tightened in aggravation. Wonderful. He'd lost the ability to think on his feet as well. Blew the cover story; missed the sucker question. If he'd been on a mission, he'd be dead now.
"My brother had the same look about him when he got out," the driver offered as explanation.
Jack said nothing, just stared out the window willing the cab to go faster. He wasn't in the mood for sharing.
"Anyone expecting you, where we're going?"
"No," said Jack shortly. "I live alone." The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, he thought dully.
"All the same, you might want to do something about that hair. Neighbors talk, you know." The taxi slid to a stop at the curb. 'Mario's Barbershop' read the sign on the aging storefront. "Mario can take care of you. I'll wait here."
Bemused, Jack looked at the driver in the rearview mirror.
"The transition back's a little tough," said the driver gently. "Best to start off with your best foot forward."
Jack climbed back in 30 minutes later, self-consciously rubbing his jaw. "Better?" he asked hesitantly, his gaze flicking to the rear-view mirror.
"Much," said the driver, giving Jack an approving glance. "Here, " he added, tossing a copy of the LA Times into the back. "Got this while you were in there. You might want to brush up." Jack stared at the paper then looked back up, bewildered.
"Sometimes," the driver explained patiently, "people just want to help. That takes a little getting used to as well."
Silence greeted his comment.
"What are you waiting for? Quiz in 15 minutes."
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, the driver heard a rustle as his client opened the paper, effectively blocking his face.
"Thanks," said the gruff voice behind the paper after several moments.
"Don't mention it," replied the driver.
The taxi, redolent with incense, cigarette smoke, and sweat, wove through the streets of downtown LA In the background, the radio played tunes Jack didn't recognize and quickly decided he didn't care for.
What now? He remembered the envelope with a start, and dug it out of his pocket. The message inside was cryptic. "Report to the Director of Joint Ops." He read it twice through, then crumpled it in anger. Those b*stards. They had stood by and done nothing while the NSC railroaded him into prison. If they thought for a minute that he was going to meekly report back in to work...
...but of course he would, he admitted in resignation. It was his best chance to help Sydney. If by some miracle he regained his clearance, could utilize CIA resources, they'd be able to work together on finding out what had happened to her.
Jack looked up and caught the taxi driver studying him curiously in the rearview mirror.
"How 'bout those Dodgers? Can you believe they made the Series?" asked the driver, catching Jack's eye.
"Yeah, great," Jack muttered looking away, suddenly realizing that he knew nothing that had happened in the past year. He looked up to see the driver watching him again. "Is there a problem?" he asked coldly.
"Uh, is that beard real?"
Jack shifted slightly so that he could see himself in the mirror. Sh*t. No wonder he had had so much trouble getting a cab to stop for him. The combination of the suit and beard made him look like something out of a circus sideshow. "Yeah," he responded, casting about in his mind for a suitable explanation for a year's worth of untrimmed growth. "I - ,"
"-just got out of prison, didn't you?" supplied the driver quietly. "The Dodgers aren't in the Series. They washed out in August."
Jack's jaw tightened in aggravation. Wonderful. He'd lost the ability to think on his feet as well. Blew the cover story; missed the sucker question. If he'd been on a mission, he'd be dead now.
"My brother had the same look about him when he got out," the driver offered as explanation.
Jack said nothing, just stared out the window willing the cab to go faster. He wasn't in the mood for sharing.
"Anyone expecting you, where we're going?"
"No," said Jack shortly. "I live alone." The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, he thought dully.
"All the same, you might want to do something about that hair. Neighbors talk, you know." The taxi slid to a stop at the curb. 'Mario's Barbershop' read the sign on the aging storefront. "Mario can take care of you. I'll wait here."
Bemused, Jack looked at the driver in the rearview mirror.
"The transition back's a little tough," said the driver gently. "Best to start off with your best foot forward."
Jack climbed back in 30 minutes later, self-consciously rubbing his jaw. "Better?" he asked hesitantly, his gaze flicking to the rear-view mirror.
"Much," said the driver, giving Jack an approving glance. "Here, " he added, tossing a copy of the LA Times into the back. "Got this while you were in there. You might want to brush up." Jack stared at the paper then looked back up, bewildered.
"Sometimes," the driver explained patiently, "people just want to help. That takes a little getting used to as well."
Silence greeted his comment.
"What are you waiting for? Quiz in 15 minutes."
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, the driver heard a rustle as his client opened the paper, effectively blocking his face.
"Thanks," said the gruff voice behind the paper after several moments.
"Don't mention it," replied the driver.