Earth Thirst by Mark Teppo

into a shit show of red tape, you know?” She nods slightly. “Here's the thing. I got a call from Sally Morse—Thaddeus's wife, back in San Diego, California. She told me her husband—Thaddeus, though everyone calls him Capt'n actually—was going to get screwed by these other guys. She asked me to come down and straighten things out for Thaddeus—for Captain Morse. I get here, and these two dickheads downstairs try to tell me that Captain Morse isn't here—that none of them are here—and I can't believe it. Where the hell did they go? And why the hell doesn't his wife know?”
    She's trying to follow all of this, and I can tell from her expression that she's following the important part—that Morse isn't here anymore. “Which guys?” she asks.
    “Downstairs,” I reiterate. “Look, call down and see if they're still there. I just saw them not five minutes ago. They got off on the second floor as I was coming up.”
    Somewhat automatically, she reaches for the phone. I pretend to fume, but I'm keeping an eye on her fingers as they move across the keypad. She dials an extension and it's picked up almost immediately on the other end. “Hi,” she says. “It's Kelly up on four. Listen, can you do me a favor?” Her eyes flick up at me and I smile. “Are there two guys just… I don't know…” Her back stiffens slightly. “In the waiting area?” she says. “Are they—?” She looks at me.
    “Dickheads,” I say. “One and two. You can't tell them apart.”
    A tiny smile catches the edge of her mouth, and she relaxes slightly. “Yeah,” she says, listening. “Yeah, that sounds like them.” She looks up at me again, the smile still there. “Secutores,” she says, repeating what she has just been told.
    It's been a long time since I've heard that word, but I smack the counter as if it is confirmation of what I had been telling her.
    “Okay. Thanks, Shelli.” She hangs up the phone. “I don't know what's going on, Mr.…”
    “Mickelli,” I say, falling back on an alias I haven't used in decades. “David Mickelli.” From Florence, of course. The thing with creating aliases that stick over time is to make them easy to remember.
    “Mr. Mickelli,” she repeats. “I can't reveal anything about patient data, and I don't want to get involved in whatever is going on with the insurance companies and any law firm that might be representing patients. It's probably best if you just called—”
    “No,” I say, nodding. “I get it. I'll totally forget I was up here, okay?” I take a step back from the counter, far enough that I can't see her name tag any more. “What was your name? See? I've forgotten already.” I keep backing up until I reach the elevator, and I reach over and push the button. “I'll call Sally. I guess I'll have to call those bastards at the firm too, even though they're just going to give me the runaround. And these guys—Hippocampus, Hoplomachus—”
    “Secutores,” she corrects me.
    I wave a hand. “Secutores,” I say. “They're just being dickheads, right? There's no reason for that.” The elevator arrives, and I stomp into it theatrically. “I'm not going to cause a scene,” I tell her. “I'm just going to talk to them. Tell them I don't appreciate them fucking with me like that. There's no reason at all for it.” I press the button for the second floor.
    “Good luck,” she offers as the door starts to close. I smile and nod.
    My smile disappears as soon as the doors close. I press the ground floor button too, and then position myself against the back of the elevator. It trundles down two floors and then opens. I stare at the pair in the lobby, assessing them.
    They stare back, and none of us blink until the elevator doors close.
    The secutores were Roman gladiators, back in the day. They fought in the Grecian style—sword or spear and shield. I knew the techniques as readily as I knew how to breathe.
    Those two aren't lawyers.

    * * *

    One of the things I had