Chapter 37

We spent the next morning driving around Baltimore, more specifically; we spent the morning driving around the neighborhood where O.T. and his crew made their home. It was a typical Baltimore inner city neighborhood, which meant fairly well kept, and not at all like the area recently trashed by the rioters with an assist by the Police Chief, and Mayor.

People came and went as they always did, unaware that there lived among them an evil man intending to destroy them and their loved ones. If they had known, there would have been no need for Angela and me to infiltrate their little cabal, because Baltimore is home to some seriously righteous people, who would squeeze Othneal like a pimple, until he popped.

We spotted the abandoned tenement where he was supposed to hole up with his crew, and marked it in our heads for later reference. The ways in and out and the street layout were very important to us, and even though we'd studied them for hours on maps, studying them in person was the best bet.

Angela carefully kept notes for me, speaking quietly to the iPad, that was equipped with a special microphone that not only recorded to the cloud, everything we said, but sent real time audio to our backup team. They were getting everything we said, so that when the roof caved in, they would have as much information as possible to find us and get us out, if necessary.

When Angela spotted one of the people we'd seen the day before, heading towards the diner, we left the area, drove back to the eatery, and walked in like the brother - sister couple we pretended to be.

Just before we were seated in a booth far from the door and windows, Angela moved to sit beside me on the padded bench, instead of across as the waitress intended. She smiled at the surprised server and slid her hand into my lap, squeezing Mr. Johnson for her benefit, and as explanation for her seating choice.

The girl smiled a sneaky smile, mouthed to her, "Oh ... It's like that ... I see." And sashayed away.

Angela planted a wet kiss on my lips as if she were reminding me not to become infatuated with the waitress and her swaying, big, soft looking bottom. Playing along, I slipped my hand under the waistband of her jeans, and softly stroked her, increasing her wetness as I ramped things up by rubbing her clit, and penetrating her lips.

When I glanced around, our waitress looked like she was about to come from just watching us, which was the whole point. Out of my peripheral vision I saw two more of yesterday's diners, watching the show with unabashed interest. That made me think several members of our audience were going to get very lucky a little later.

We kept our heads close together and whispered back and forth until breakfast came, and then dug in like we hadn't eaten since the last time we were in. At one point, Angela stuck her fork in a healthy looking link sausage, and pointed it at me until she had my undivided attention. Once she did, she slowly slipped the link between her lips, pretended to fellate it for a little while, then took it all the way into her throat in a mock blow job, causing Mr. Johnson to want some of the same treatment. The show had several others wanting some also, which was to our benefit.

I figured we'd exhausted our potential for being noticed for the day, and as we walked out, one of the younger watchers detached himself from the group and approached us. "Hey, man," he said, trying to sound both cool, and all grown up. "Do you two live around here?

Angela slightly gasped, and tightened her grip on my arm, just as we practiced. We wanted anyone who approached us to think we were hiding out from our parents, and her theatrics worker perfectly.

I looked at him warily, and said, "We're between destinations right now. Not sure where we're headed, though." I started to walk away, as if his question made me nervous.

"Hey, I'm well, we're not the cops, man. The thing is, we all have things we wish would stay a secret, but you two look like you might need a place to crash, and a bunch of us," he inclined his head to mean the group at the tables near us, "have kind of taken over an empty building and made a cozy crash pad out of it if you want, or need a place to land for a few days."

He was good at pretending to be no threat. He was so good, I was tempted to think that he wasn't, until I remembered what they were trying to build. At five-foot seven, he was slender as a rail, scruffy, but not dirty, though his clothes were very well worn. I guessed his age at maybe twenty, but could have been off by a couple of years.

I sort of smiled, peeked at Angela, and saw that she had a suspicious look on her face, just perfect for the occasion, and said, "How much is it going to cost us?"

More than anything, that question seemed to relax our brand new friend. Thinking he had us right where he wanted, he put up both hands in mock surrender and said, "No, man. It's not about money. We are all running from something. If you want to crash come crash, that's all."

Looking over his shoulder, I could see his group, two guys and two girls, watching us intently. They wanted us to join them, and I hadn't decided how easy, or hard to get, I wanted to play. Angela made up my mind for all of us when she said, "We kind of do need a place to ... You know ... Be while we find jobs, and get back on our feet." She looked imploringly at me, and said, "Let's at least go look."

I relaxed my shoulders, and said, "OK. Thanks, man."

We followed him in the Volkswagen to the empty building, and carefully climbed the interior stairs, stepping around everything from human waste, to sleeping winos. Our guide turned left, off the stairway, into an open loft, that was littered with debris. No one lived there, and I had that sudden feeling that it was all a trap, but he walked right on through into another area that was broken up into offices, or something, and that was where they all apparently lived.

The front' area was about forty by fifty. Strewn around were old, worn out, throw-away chairs, couches, and every other kind of furniture. For all the clutter it was surprisingly clean. Whoever was in charge could tolerate clutter, but not dirt. That made me wonder if O.T. was a sufferer of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

There were a few people hanging around the loft. The mix was roughly one to one, girls to boys. They were all clean, but none wore clothing that looked remotely new. In the far corner sat a computer desk, and at it was a man who appeared to be working furiously on something. The keyboard was almost vibrating because he was typing so fast.

After a few seconds, he detached himself from the desk and walked toward us. His clothing was as worn as the others, but of a much higher quality. Othneal Taughtan came from money. He might not have money, but that's how he was raised. His posture was finishing school perfect, and his manner screamed privilege.