Dick Winchester in… The Deflation

Hello! If you're new to the Dick Winchester series, I highly recommend starting with Chapter 1 of Book 1: The Box with No Name

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Book 2, Chapter 1

As I strolled through the marble-clad lobby of Courthouse Commons, the newest Arlington high-rise apartment megaplex, I counted the cash from the latest satisfied customer of Winchester Delivery Services.

Other business owners might shy away from the grunt work, but I embraced it. No better way to maintain the respect of the rank and file than to fight in the trenches with them.

In this world, where this generation was forced to choose between paying everything for a life worth living in Arlington or saving their money in some backwoods hellhole like Vienna, Winchester Delivery Services with its lack of service fees and time-honored tax loophole of never reporting income to the G-men cleaned up.

After all, what was the alternative? Learn to cook? That took time and effort: two things this generation shied away from at all costs. And God only knew how long it would take to produce something that rivaled the culinary perfection of the Chipotle burrito bowl.

Men like me who stayed in tune with the zeitgeist, who could feel the pulse beneath the pavement stood to make a fortune solving these inconveniences.

It was that innate instinct that first alerted me that not all was well as I turned the corner from Courthouse Commons. An instinct quickly reinforced by my Toyota RAV4 leaning at a most unnatural angle.

I threw all caution to the wind as I dashed to my gray steed, kneeling to inspect her wounds.

The front left tire had deflated. The tire closest to where I would be sitting. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone out there was trying to send a message.

Of course, the three-inch combat knife jutting out from between the treads alongside a “Proud Uber Eats Driver” sticker slapped onto the sidewall was another clue.

It didn’t take a man briefed in subtleties like me to realize this was more than simple vandalism.

It was a threat.

I just hoped they were prepared to back up that threat as I turned my eyes to the Irish pub I had parked in front of: Three Courts, a known gathering place of the local Uber Eats union. When I had called them to see if they might be willing to try a cost-friendly alternative delivery provider, they had laughed for a good minute before hanging up.

Guess that was a no.

The “Order Us on Uber Eats” stickers plastered in their front doorway had the same effect as the “no quarter” flags raised on the cannon-laden warships of past centuries: no quarter asked, no quarter given. DoorDash drivers enter at your own peril.

This stance even applied to how they ran their territories. It didn’t matter if you could get a better deal with another delivery service; if you broke the code, you best answer your next delivery call with a loaded gun tucked into your waistband.

Of course, that’s how I always answered the door, but that was the price of being an entrepreneur in these trying economic times.

Combine the ruthlessness of Big Delivery with the paranoia of those who lived under their thumb, and my latest customer had asked I leave the food at the end of the hallway, where I would also find my cash packed into an envelope and nestled between two ceiling tiles.

A dead drop. A classic espionage move right out of the spy novel I was reading in the few quiet moments I found. All to save $10.

I had to admire this customer’s tenacity for making it happen while protecting herself. More than once, we had delivered to an address only to later hear about how that resident had mysteriously broken their leg.

Some strange coincidences in this town, I had learned. Our customers just seemed to be more accident prone than most.

This time, however, the coincidence between the Uber Eats meeting house masquerading as a pub and the punctured tire with an Uber Eats logo was too great to overlook.

It was time to face these jackals head on.

Even stepping over the threshold of Three Courts, the air felt charged. A dozen pairs of eyes landing on me as I stepped into the darkened space didn’t do much to relieve the tension.

“All right,” I said, hand already flexing to grab the pearl handle of my Smith & Wesson where it rested in my jacket’s inner lining, “who did it? Who hurt my baby?”

Nobody moved or spoke for seconds that seemed to stretch into hours. Just as I had concluded the Uber Eats crew was about to blow me away for violating their sanctum, a screech drew all of our gazes. It was a chair, being pushed along the tile long stained brown by spilled Guinness. Sliding away from the bar at the tip of a leather shoe so polished they turned what little light was available into dazzling flashes of white.

“What do you know?” the owner of that iridescent shoe said, his eyes remaining fixed on the Capitals hockey game on the TV mounted over the bar even as he deftly maneuvered the chair. “A seat just opened up. Why don’t you sit down?”

I stayed where I was, unsure if this was a trick.

“Come on,” the man said a moment later, flicking his head to his right in an “over here” motion. “How rare is it to be able to sit down and have a beer with your enemies, huh?”

Finally, I crossed the room at a controlled pace, locking eyes with each of these coyotes that dared to look at me. Coyotes was an apt description: brave in packs, skittish when caught alone. Opportunistic scavengers that ate whatever meat they could find, no matter how rancid.

I pulled the stool up to the bar and sat down, turning to look at the man who had initiated this parlay. His eyes remained fixed on the TV, only looking down temporarily to hiss with dissatisfaction when the New York Rangers scored. The score was now 3-1 Rangers, and only half of the third period remained for the Washington Capitals to turn it around.

The bartender approached me with a Guinness. “That’ll be $20, buddy.”

Then the stranger held up his hand, and the bartender instantly nodded, retreating to the other end of the bar.

“My tab,” the stranger clarified.

The Guinness was too cheap not to look the gift horse in the mouth. “Only $20? What is this, the insider special?”

The stranger chuckled. “Nah, it’s happy hour.”

“You know who I am?”

“It takes a certain kind of someone to come charging in here demanding justice for his car. I’m hoping to find out whether he’s that bold—or that stupid.”

“Some might argue they’re the same thing.”

“Maybe, Winchester, but I don’t think you’re the average hothead.”

So he did know who I was. That likely wasn’t a good thing.

The man perked up as Kuznetsov drove the puck down the ice, then sighed as he took a shot from too far out and the Rangers goalie snatched it out of the air. “I guess the better question is… do you know who I am?”

This guy clearly had some status in the Uber Eats chapter to have offered me safe harbor in this den of jackals. That everyone around me appeared to have gone back to their drinks and chatter as if one of their chief rivals wasn’t sitting feet away from them confirmed they followed his lead. That they trusted his decisions.

I searched my memory for a moment, and then offered my best guess: “Vincent Moreno?”

Still focused on the game, he snapped his finger and pointed to me in classic “atta boy” fashion. “So glad I told my guys and gals to stand down. This should be interesting.”

Indeed, how often would I ever be able to speak face to face with the secondhand man of the local Uber Eats union?

Or at least, speak next to him? Vincent sure loved his hockey.

“First off, me and none of mine messed with your car. Let’s just get that straight right now.”

I found that hard to believe. “Why should I take your word on that?”

“One, we live by a code, Winchester. A delivery person’s car is their life. Without it, he has no way to provide for himself, to survive. A fate worse than death. We may kill the man, but we don’t ever mess with his vehicle.”

“Okay… but what about the Uber Eats sticker slapped on my now gouged and defiled tire?”

Vincent nodded as if he had already planned out this conversation down to my responses. “Two, if we were to take a shot at you, Winchester, do you really think we’d stop at a slashed tire? Why not cut the brake line instead? Heck, a car bomb would be a bit more of sure bet, wouldn’t you agree?”

He paused, gesturing his elbow to my untouched Guinness while still waiting for his team to force a comeback. “Best get drinking there. Nothing worse than warm stout.”

I took a swig, wiping the foam from my lips before speaking. “Say all of that is true, that you weren’t the ones who did that but if it came to that, you’d go full hammer and kill me. If that’s the case, shouldn’t I take the sure bet and put one through your skull right now?”

All chatter in the bar ceased, followed the same second by the sound of multiple guns being taken off safety and rounds chambered. I spun on my stool, finding myself looking down a half dozen gun barrels. Turning back around, I found the bartender had pulled a Bushmaster XM-15 from below the counter.

“That would be the sure bet, I dare say,” Vincent said, still watching the game as he took a long draft of his stout. “But it would be one hell of a mess, and they’re doing trivia tonight.”

For the first time, he looked at me, dark pupils flashing like his shoes. “I never miss a round.”

I sat there for a moment, feeling the energy of half a dozen men and women eager to pull the trigger on me. “Hypothetically speaking, of course,” I finally said.

“Of course.” Vincent tapped his shoe on the chair leg, and the lively banter resumed as well-concealed weapons returned to their nests. “It’s one of the things I respect about you, Winchester. You don’t shy away from the hard decisions. You don’t care how dirty your hands get.”

I inhaled deeply. “Sometimes in war, the lines blur.”

Vincent smiled for the first time. “Indeed, and in war, there is no prize for second place. Someday we will be looking at each other down our respective rifles’ sights. So, let’s turn your earlier question around. Why don’t I put one through your head here and now?”

I pondered that one for a moment, and, coming up with no reason, answered truthfully, “I don’t know.”

Instead of that being the cue for the Uber Eats bar to unload on me, they continued with their merriment. “Yes, it might seem strange to an outsider that we sit here, drinking in this détente. But there is a good reason for it, Winchester. It’s because I’ve been ordered to leave you alone.”

That one caught me off guard. “Ordered? By who?”

“Not my boss, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Vincent said, chuckling. “Jimmy would love to see you at the bottom of the Potomac any day of the week. Even Sunday.” He shook his head. “No, this came from way up on the food chain. The people who pull most of the strings around these parts, so to speak.”

This was starting to sound an awful lot like a conversation I’d had with a certain high-ranking police officer a couple weeks back.

Vincent continued. “You ever notice that most of the property in Arlington County isn’t owned by the people who live and work on it? Most every building is renting the soil it’s standing on. Three Courts, here? Rented. The Uber Eats union hall? Rented.”

He nodded to himself. “Say I decide to take the initiative and pull the trigger on you. Tomorrow, eviction notices appear on our doors. Or maybe the next time the lease is up for renewal, the rent has gone up by 200%. Uber Eats in Arlington ceases to exist overnight.”

Vincent quaffed the rest of his pint. “So I play along, because it ain’t worth the trouble to do otherwise. Besides, sometimes I find myself almost liking you, Winchester. Not many men could raise a startup into the mainstream against such stiff competition.”

“Some might even call it ruthless.”

Vincent laughed again, pumping his fist as Wilson drilled one beneath the goalie’s shin pad to move the score to 3-2. “That’s it, boys. Keep it up.” He turned back to me for a second time. “Now the real question is, why do the powers that be keep you alive?”

Another patch of the conversation with Officer Teresa—no last name—bubbled back to the surface. “Something about the stockpile of weapons and explosives I’ve accrued?”

“The man really isn’t as stupid as they say,” Vincent said, clapping me on the back as the Rangers lost a player for high-sticking and a Capitals powerplay commenced. “Not just the heavy machine guns, RPGs, and C4 you’ve packed away in the Winchester Delivery Services warehouse, mind you. It’s that army you’ve built up willing to use them.”

“Quite a statement from a guy who can rally the troops with a tap of his shoe,” I said, looking around. Nobody looked back, but I knew they were all keeping their third eyes on me.

“They’re nothing compared to the band of psychopaths you’ve rallied around you.”

“Psychopaths? Isn’t that a bit harsh? There can’t be war without violence, can there?”

Blinking once, Vincent appeared to be gazing somewhere a thousand yards away even as his eyes traced the path of the hockey puck. “Don’t mean we have to enjoy it. I would have thought you of all people would understand that.”

So he knew about Mariupol. But he spoke like he knew more than the fact. He knew the grit and pain. He knew. “Iraq?” I asked.

“The ‘stan. Did a tour in 2014 with the Marines. Back when they were scaling back our assets to give our Afghan allies the spotlight. I arrived right before things went south.” I thought I saw the trace of a tear in his eye before he blinked. “Before guys started dying.”

I nodded. That made Vincent uniquely dangerous. The ordinary street toughs that made up most of our camps were one thing. The trained warriors occupied a whole different tier.

“All that said, I appreciate the higher ups for not being so quick to send me into another war. And make no mistake, it would be a war. A war in the streets, a bloodbath in the middle of Arlington. Bad for property values, of course. It’s that fact that keeps you alive.”

As Ovechkin took to the ice, Vincent nodded to the screen. “But sooner or later, you’ll fuck it up, Winchester. And that’s when they’ll pull out all the stops: star players, secret plays. Who knows, maybe those impotent cops at the Arlington PD will even come off the sidelines. God knows we’ve offered them more than enough money to make it worth their while, but they keep dragging their heels.”

As if he were following Vincent’s advice, Ovie proceeded to pull out a trick play that made the goalie lunge the wrong direction to block a shot that wasn’t there as he whipped the puck over the big man’s opposite shoulder. Vincent raised his arms with the player, showing the most emotion yet as the clock ran out and OVERTIME flashed across the screen.

“Extra hockey tonight, how about that?” He nodded to my near-empty Guinness. “But looks like you’re just about out of time. Don’t need you ruining my bonus game.”

I finished my stout, nodding. “One final thing, Vincent.”

He flicked his chin to the TV. “You have until the commercial break is over, Winchester.”

“If that really wasn’t your guys that fucked with my car, then who did? Who would stand to gain for framing you all?”

Vincent shrugged. “Surely you have more enemies than us, Winchester.”

I nodded. Understatement of the century.

“The better question is, who would stand to gain from initiating open conflict between our organizations? Especially a conflict so obviously on the horizon that no one would blink twice that it finally broke out.”

I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. “I can already tell you have an answer.”

Vincent smirked as he looked at me. “Someone who wants you out of the picture but doesn’t want to reveal their own involvement, of course. Someone who operates in the shadows.”

Then the drug commercial promising a cure for hot flashes with side effects that included hot flashes concluded, and the Capitals and Rangers took to the ice to duke it out.

“And now your time is really out.”

I stood up, walking toward the door as everyone’s eyes trailed me to see if I would now try something foolish.

“Oh, and go Caps,” Vincent called out from the bar.

“Go Caps,” I muttered in agreement as I stepped out into the night air. It felt a bit colder than I remembered. Or maybe that was a new sensation waking in the pit of my stomach.

A short while later, I had replaced my wounded tire. It paid to have a full set of spares courtesy of Shifty Stan’s Service Station.

Just as I sat in the driver’s seat, my phone rang.

Unknown Number, the screen read.

Someone who operates in the shadows.

I accepted the call. “Hello?”

“Good evening,” the caller said, their reply scrambled and distorted to conceal the person’s actual voice, “we trust you enjoyed your beer.”

That got my hackles up. Was it Uber Eats messing with me after all? “Who is this?” I demanded.

“Who we are is not what matters. What matters is what you do, Mr. Winchester. Consider this a warning shot.”

“Warning shot? This feels like the opening shot of the battle to me.”

“That depends entirely on you, Mr. Winchester.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s quite simple,” the voice distortion faded, as if the person had turned it off. What came next was a rasping hiss. “We. Want. Our. Taxes.”

Then the line went dead.

It took me a moment to put my phone back. When it fell into place, the beep of Siri activating carried up from my pocket.

Maybe I hadn’t turned the screen off—

“We’re watching you, Dick,” Siri said before deactivating herself.

I must have sat in my car for five minutes, staring blankly ahead as I tried to process all that I had learned this evening.

Then my phone rang again. This time, however, the number was very much known.

“Katie?” I answered. “What’s up? Listen, I know I haven’t been around as much, but work got busy and, get this, I actually have a date—”

“Life updates can wait, Dick.”

That was odd. Life updates were a core part of our friendship—alongside getting tossed out of bars.

“Okay… so what’s up?”

“We got him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We got the bastard that slashed your tire.”

“You did?” I sat up in my seat. “But wait, how did you even know about that? I haven’t talked to anyone since it happened.”

“Long story, but some guy I’m seeing from the Pentagon gave me a Predator drone for our two-month anniversary. Apparently they’re cycling them out for the Reapers and—”

“Katie,” I cut her off, “who exactly did you get? And who’s ‘we?’”

“Right, sorry. I’ve been tailing you to get the hang of the controls, and the resolution on the Predator camera is really something, so when I saw that Uber Eats sticker, well the answer was pretty obvious to me. So I reached out to some of your work buddies.”

Oh, no… I shoved my key into the ignition, already sure of where this was going.

I fought to keep my voice calm and level. “Who did you ‘get?’”

“Vincent Moreno!” she said, voice brimming excitement. “We got one of the top dogs at Uber Eats. Me and your coworkers were going to handle it all ourselves, but he’s demanding to speak to you. Something about a Caps game? His brain must be a bit scrambled from the ‘welcome’ Lenny gave him.”

Yep, I thought as I yanked the gear shift into drive and sped off into the darkness of Arlington’s backstreets, this might be the first war ever started over a hockey game.

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Tune in next week when the story continues in the next thrilling installment of Dick Winchester in… The Interrogation

More Dick Winchester in...

The Opening Salvo (Book 1)

• Opening chapter: The Box with No Name

The Counterattack (Book 2)

1. The Deflation — you are here
2. The Interrogation
3. The First Date
4. The Pentagon Part 1
5. The Pentagon Part 2
6. The Movie Night
7. [The rest of the book] — drafting in progress