Converging Paths
GW waved goodbye as the taillights of Henri's van sped off down the street after dropping him off at the Marina. They'd had a couple gigs up in Miami and the upper keys over the weekend and it had been easier for all the band to go up together, and it certainly saved on the gas!
It had been a profitable trip, both in exposure and money, but traffic had been terrible. GW had spent the last eight hours in a van crammed full of musicians and gear during the ride back to Key West, and the Cajun was definitely ready to stretch his legs. He really needed to decide what he was going to concentrate on professionally, trying to juggle fitness/martial art instruction and music was getting to be a hassle.
That thought in mind, GW hefted his guitar case and duffel bag and started down the dock toward his boat.
"No, would'ja listen, I--" Whistler paced to and fro in front of his houseboat, glowering at the static voice in his ear. He hated phone calls with the Council. They always knew best. Forget that their ranks were decimated almost a decade ago, their headquarters destroyed by a bomb. An enemy they didn't see coming. They were blind to the obvious. "She's already got some fight training! Kris is a fuckin' police officer. She doesn't need to start from square one, so if you're gonna hook her up with a Watcher, make sure he's up to speed before he gets here." Pause. "Yeah, trial by fire. Took out a vamp without much trouble. No clue about most of the supernatural stuff though, so bring a copy of 'Slaying for Dummies'." Another pause. "Don't even start, Rupert. I've been doin' this longer-- Oh fuck off. I'm not goin' senile."
Whistler lit a cigarette, his impatience growing. "No, she hadn't gotten back to me yet, but she will. Could see it in her eyes. Just have someone on a plane today and be ready to hit the ground runnin'."
He snapped the mobile shut and took a drag. "Fuckin' Council-ly know-it-alls."
GW couldn't help but hear the tone and frustration in the other man's voice as he approached that spot on the dock, even if he'd been too far away to hear the contents of the conversation. The body language was also a dead giveaway, nobody treated equipment like that if they weren't annoyed.
He didn't really know the other man well. Whittacker, or something close to that, had been around since GW had arrived in Key West with a boat bought from a combination of poker winnings and judicious savings of his last few years of combat pay. The man had liked to keep to himself and hadn't encouraged conversation, this was the most active the Cajun had ever seen him.
"Bad news?" He probably would be told to mind his own business, but momma always had told him he was too nosy for his own good sometimes.
Whistler shoved the cell phone into his pocket and took another drag of the cigarette. His head pivoted towards the voice. The memories scratched his brain until he put context to the face. Neighbor in the marina, accented, probably Louisiana. Parked his boat nearby some time after the Agent himself had 'retired' to the Keys. Tried a few times to strike up a conversation which the hatted man's previous self actively ignored. "Eh, just dealin' with idiots," he responded. "Business associates who think they know the game. What else is new."
GW chuckled knowingly, "Had a few lieutenants like that when I was in the Corps. Fresh out of the Basic School and thought their shit didn't stink. Know a few folks in the music business could fit that description, too." This was definitely the friendliest he'd ever seen the hatted man, and GW shifted the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder for comfort since it looked like he might actually get a chance to have a conversation with the neighbor. "Seems like they get into every kind o' business, sure enough."
Whistler ran through the mental 'to do' checklist. One: arrange a Watcher for Kris. Two: track down Rhiannon (seeing as how she'd skipped out of the hospital without a forwarding address). Three: laundry. As his neighbor remained stationary, he made a modification. One-A: behave in front of the neighbor. "Why I freelance," the older man added. "Free to travel, get shit done with less hassles."
"There are definitely benefits to writing your own schedule," GW nodded. He noted the cigarette and restrained himself from asking to bum a smoke off the man. Kicking the habit after getting out of the Corps had been too damn hard for him to start up again now. "Definitely helps when you're trying to juggle two careers."
Since the other man was making no moves to run him off, GW extended a hand. "Name's GW Robichaux, seen you around a few times but never had the chance to introduce myself." He wasn't sure his neighbor was interested in talking, necessarily, but these were the most words he'd ever gotten out of him since he'd been in Key West.
Robichaux? Why did that name sound familiar? It was obvious they'd never met formally before now, but tiny teeth ate at the Agent's brain...
The lights came on over the walkway as dusk settled over the marina. A light popped on inside Whistler as well. Searchlight, more specifically The Witching Hour. The two had gotten into a particularly fun bar fight, and shared a few beers another time at The Lighthouse. Or rather, he and a different GW did. And as this man reacted with a hand out as custom to a first meeting, it was obvious this was another version. "Augustus Whittacker." He shook the younger man's hand. "Blame the parents. They were pretty formal. Most people call me Whistler."
"Heh, 'GW' is short for 'George Washington', so I can relate." The Cajun said with a wry grin. "Born on the man's birthday and Daddy convinced Momma to stick it on me. Everybody just calls me GW though." Or 'Sensei', or 'Gunny', or 'hey you' depending on who was doing the calling. He shook the hatted man's hand firmly, but without the crushing grip that some of his age-mates liked to use as a show of dominance. It wasn't polite and didn't accomplish anything but making the crusher look bad.
"Pleased to meet you Whistler. I live in the boat three slips down, came in about November last year." He was proud of his boat, the forty five foot sailing yacht was a nice bachelor pad for a single man even if the slip fees were a bitch.
"Yeah, likewise." He was careful to keep the burning embers of the cancer stick pointed away. "Been here a while longer, assumed most people who moored up here were, uh, retired." And for a period, Whistler was as well. The main difference between himself and his neighbors was the early-bird special. Eating at 4pm was a crime against humanity. So was the 7-11 burrito.
The older man noted the firm grip, the way GW held himself, dressed, spoke. How he traveled via duffel. Everything about the man screamed military. Time to test the theory. "How long have you been out in the real world, soldier?"
"Marine," GW corrected politely, "a little over the year now. Spent ten years with Uncle Sam's Misguided Children, a grunt with th' infantry." And he'd had to get out while he still had his sanity. Too many of those years had been spent in very unpleasant places, he'd seen and done many unpleasant things.
"I like the location," he shrugged at the implied question in Whistler's statement about how most of the residents were old enough to be his parents or grandparents. There was only one way in or out by land, and he didn't have to worry about neighbors on the other side of the boat's hull like he would if he'd snagged an apartment over on Stock Island. "I work nights a lot of the time, being in the music business." He smirked as another reason came to mind. "Besides, if I want to move I can take my home with me."
Marine. That explained his affinity for water. If the Agent was correct, the Searchlight's GW was ex-military and a musician as well. It was interesting how lives converged and diverged. "Travel light, survive the firefight, huh?"
Whistler took another drag of his cancer stick before flicking some of the ash onto the planks below. "Singing for your supper seems an interesting choice for someone who could disassemble an assault rifle with his eyes closed. Would've pegged you for entering the private sector as a bodyguard, or maybe one o' those bouncers at a high-end Miami club."
"Something like that, though between body armor, water, weapons and ammo it got to be pretty damn heavy sometimes." GW shrugged a bit, uncomfortable talking about it. He'd done what duty required and had the scars and ribbons to prove it, but aside from protecting the Marines in his unit he hadn't done anything he would consider out of the ordinary.
"I been singing for my supper since I was a kid, but I teach martial arts and fitness classes here in Key West in addition to music. Miami..." he trailed off for a second, then shook his head. "Don't mind visiting to do a gig or two, but there are too many people there." One of the reasons he'd picked Key West was its relative isolation even if it made things more difficult to pursue a music career. That combined with the strong military presence made it a good place to try to decompress for a few years and put his combat experiences behind him.
One last drag and then the cigarette was ground under his foot. "Everyone's got a path, seems you're splittin' yours between what you are and what you wanna be." Hazards of the job, Whistler noted internally. Unless he intentionally blocked it, the man could 'read' people like an open book.
GW tilted his head and raised a questioning eyebrow. "That so?" He wondered just how the other man could tell that, and what he thought the correct path was. Whistler didn't look like somebody who had the Sight, but he'd come across stranger things in his life. One summer working for his Great Aunt as a teenager had been an education in itself, considering the creatures and people he'd encountered then.
"Kinda obvious." Whistler examined what he already knew to further his point. "You're outta the military but you chose to live close to a base. Livin' on a portable house means you're ready to pick up and go wherever you're needed. You say you wanna get into music but do pretty much everything to ensure it's gonna stay on the fringes of your life. Anyone with real passion for it would be in the thick: Los Angeles, New York, Nashville is you're into Country and Western."
One hand reached over his shoulder to scratch an itch just under the back of his neck. "Don't take a rocket scientist to see you're conflicted."
Well aren't you Sherlock Holmes? GW thought, a tad annoyed at the older man's analysis. He had asked though, so had only himself to blame for the response.
The truth was the truth though. "Maybe so. What about you? Now that I've had a chance to talk to you, you don't seem like the type to just be a hermit on a boat."
"Recently came out of retirement." Whistler wasn't much to offer information as to his prior activities. "Turns out a life of leisure wasn't sittin' well."
The sun dipped lower, casting a long glow across the marina. It'd be a beautiful night. He pushed up the rim of his hat to catch a few rays on his face before the light disappeared for the evening. "Had to make a choice, decided to get back into the game. What about you, GW?"
Merde. GW ran a hand through his hair and looked out at the sunset for a moment before returning his attention to the hatted man. "I had enough of fighting other people's wars." He told the hatted man honestly, a bit of heat in his voice. "I understood why we went into Afghanistan in '01, that was the right call then. Iraq was a fucked up mess from the word go. Sure we could kick Saddam's ass, but nobody thought about what would happen afterward or why we were really going there in the first place. I've done my bit there, I have the scars to prove it. You give me a reason why I should get back in that game, I'll consider it."
Whistler scratched the scruff on his cheek. Maybe it was time to shave it off. "Some wars are fought closer to home, GW. And not every soldier has to fight. Some are best trainin' others to go into battle. Remember that."
"I'm already doin' that, teaching martial arts to folks here in Key West. Making better money than I was as a grunt too." He didn't have the housing and meal allowances that he'd had in the Corps, but he didn't have to worry about being deployed combat zones on a moment's notice either. The loss of money was a small price to pay.
"Why, you got someone in need of practical hand to hand skills?" He'd excelled in unarmed combat, and was certified instructor trainer qualified in the Corps Martial Arts program. Only his rank had held him back from going higher. Though if he was going to teach a civilian some of those skills he'd want to make sure he was teaching the right sort. Teaching karate for self defense and competition was one thing, teaching the more lethal skills he knew was another matter entirely.
"Yeah, I might," the Agent nodded. "She's pretty special but every little bit helps. Wouldn't mind seeing her get some Marine trainin' under her belt. Hoo-aww and all that." When he'd taken Rhiannon into the arms of her Watcher, a man who abandoned her at the worst possible moment, Whistler made a vow to ensure all future charges were properly taken care of. It made sense for Kris to take the benefit of other styles of combat. And if he could find his best friend, maybe her as well. "You got a card or a flyer for your dojo, soldier?"
"Oorah, Whistler," GW agreed, wondering who the other man could possibly know that would need those skills. The Cajun reached around to slide his wallet out of his pocket, shifting to keep the small duffel from sliding off his shoulder. A business card was removed and handed over to the older man. "You can get hold of me there, or knock on my hatch if I'm around." Which sometimes wasn't very long aside from sleeping or bringing the occasional female guest over for a nightcap.
"Close enough." Whistler took the card and used it as part of a make-shift salute. "I'll be in touch. Keep the lights burnin'."
With that, the Agent turned and climbed back onto his boat. Before he went below, the man glanced back to GW. "The brighter the light, the better to see what's in the dark."