Packet Man

By Brian Paone

All he wants is to get home alive. But when he barely escapes a violent ambush, can he survive a deadly race across the city?
San Francisco, October 1989. Bennett Jacobs is okay with being square. With a loving spouse for company, the introverted software engineer doesn’t want or need to turn strangers into friends. But after the wife drags him kicking and screaming to a pool party, he reveals his computer smarts to a flamboyant artist dealing a popular street drug... and his life goes from blasé to bonkers.
Arriving at his new acquaintance’s place to hack the encryption on a stolen floppy disk, Bennett is stunned when a rival gang tries to kill them for the formula. And after he discovers something isn’t right about the ingredients, the frightened programmer finds himself on the run from both the criminals and the cops.
Can Bennett dodge the bullets and change this homicidal affair back to boring?
Packet Man is a gripping urban crime thriller. If you like ordinary heroes, tense action, and authentic Eighties backdrops, then you’ll love Brian Paone’s treacherous sprint around the Bay.
Buy Packet Man to fast track to funkytown today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Paone
• Release date: Apr 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960855015

Brian Paone

Brian Paone, a Massachusetts native displaced to Virginia, has been a published author since 2007. Brian has, thus far, released nine books: “Dreams Are Unfinished Thoughts”—a memoir about befriending a drug-addicted rock star; “Welcome to Parkview”—a macabre cerebral-horror tale; “Yours Truly, 2095”—a time-travel adventure; the “Moonlight City Drive” trilogy—a supernatural crime-noir series; “The Post-War Dream”—a historical-fiction military novel; “Packet Man”—an urban thriller, with a dash of fantasy; and “Selective Listening”—a multi-genre collection of twenty short stories.Brian is a police detective in Maryland and has worked in law enforcement since 2002. He is the father to four children, a self-proclaimed rollercoaster junkie, a New England Patriots fanatic, and his favorite color is burnt orange. And, in 2019, he fulfilled his lifelong dream of becoming the proud owner of a 1981 DeLorean!

Book preview

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Table of Contents

Chapter One ~ Street Scene

Chapter Two ~ Same Song

Chapter Three ~ Do What You Like

Chapter Four ~ Sex Packets

Chapter Five ~ Phone Call Away

Chapter Six ~ No Nose Job

Chapter Seven ~ Hip-Hop Doll

Chapter Eight ~ The Danger Zone

Chapter Nine ~ Gutfest ’89

Chapter Ten ~ Return of the Crazy One

Chapter Eleven ~ Shake & Bake

Chapter Twelve ~ Blind Mice

Chapter Thirteen ~ Round Midnight

Chapter Fourteen ~ A Tribute to the Early Days

Dedicated to all fellow Digital Underground fans, as well as all golden age of hip-hop lovers.

RIP Gregory Jacobs (aka Shock G / Humpty Hump) August 25, 1963 – April 22, 2021

Editor: Denise Barker

Front Cover Design: Renee Mallett, Amy Hunter, & Kyle Lechner

Chapter Graphics: Amy Hunter

Author Photographer: Christine Grier George

Formatter: Kari Holloway

Proofreader: Gerri Rodriguez

Published by Scout Media

Copyright 2023

ISBN: 978-1-960855-00-8 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-960855-01-5 (eBook)

SM__116

October 13, 2022 — March 7, 2023

(For Belvoir, VA)

For more information on my books and music:

www.BrianPaone.com

Chapter Art Layout_1

The Packet Man glanced over his right shoulder at the deserted parking lot before he added the final stroke to his latest masterpiece. He shook the can of bright orange spray paint, listening to the familiar sound of the mixing ball rattling around inside the canister, and nodded. He smirked, admiring his choice of colors on this mural, as autumn’s chill nipped at his hands. He stopped shaking the can and aimed the nozzle before depressing the knob.

The sound of cars traveling across the Golden Gate Bridge just in the distance faded into the background as the can released its stream of orange paint onto the large concrete wall. The Packet Man tilted his head and narrowed his gaze to focus on the lines and to ensure he didn’t accidentally sway the stream too much to mess up what he had already painted last night.

The Packet Man stepped away a bit and rubbed the back of his neck, beholding the entirety of his newest mural. He thought it was a worthy addition to all the other walls he had tagged throughout the Bay Area, none bearing any marks that could lead anyone to him as the artist.

When he heard a car’s engine round the corner, the Packet Man’s head snapped up, and he clutched the orange spray paint canister against his ribs. Prepared to flee if it was the police, he steeled himself to the asphalt. He knew he had a 75 percent chance that it was a customer, which left the odds in his favor that it wasn’t the cops approaching. But, just in case, he bent his knees and had already scoped out his escape route. He slid the spray can into his oversize Triple F.A.T. Goose bomber jacket as the headlights came into view.

He took a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled when he saw a beat-up Bonneville. He grabbed the brim of his fuzzy plaid fedora, yanked it off his head, wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, and adjusted the hat again atop his head.

The car rolled to a soft stop a few yards from him, and the driver slid out. Hey, you holdin’?

The Packet Man adjusted his oversize thick-rimmed black glasses and set the spray can onto the ground next to his foot. What’s up?

What you got, Humpty? The driver left his door open as he approached the Packet Man.

"Don’t be looptid. You with anyone? His gaze darted to the Bonneville to ensure the man had come alone. You tapped?"

The man squeezed his lips together and rolled his head side to side. Aww, man. You really think any of us would dime you out, Humpty?

The Packet Man scratched at the three-day-old stubble on his scarred cheek and glared at the man with the Kid-N-Play haircut. Looks like he just came from the barber, Humpty thought. And what better way to celebrate a new hairdo than with—

So, what you got?

You know I only deal in Sex Packets, man. You need anything? Humpty assumed his customer was about his age—midtwenties—but his ka-plow neon button-up shirt tucked into his Z Cavaricci pants made him look like a late teenager, trying way too hard to be part of In Living Color’s cast.

"That’s not what I meant, Humpty. I meant, who do you got?"

The Packet Man chuckled. Coming to me already? Isn’t it a little early to give up on a Friday night? And with your new do? You don’t wanna test out your hair in the clubs first? Nah, you wanna come to the Packet Man and just cut out all the dissin’ later.

The man tapped one foot and put his hands on his waist. If you weren’t the only affordable dealer in the area, I would take my business elsewhere.

Right, Humpty mumbled under his breath. Let’s see … He pulled a handful of square shiny packets, about the size of a condom, from his puffy jacket’s inside pocket. He tilted his head as he slid each packet to the bottom of the stack, as if he were about to shuffle a deck of playing cards. I got two sisters, two redheads, a strawberry blonde, and a—he had to flip over this last packet to see its description—Chinese girl.

Gimme the Chinese girl.

Humpty nodded and jammed the other packets into his pocket.

Is that okay? I haven’t tried anyone Asian yet.

Hey, man. Do who you like, right?

The wannabe gigolo smacked the roof of his mouth with his tongue and stepped forward. How much?

Ten dollars, like usual. Humpty held out the packet by its edge, the small square package drooping a bit but catching the moonlight so that it appeared to gleam.

The man handed Humpty a crumpled ten-dollar bill and snatched the packet from his fingers. He hesitated when he turned to walk to his car and spied the freshly graffitied wall. Your work?

Humpty bit the inside of his cheek and pushed his thick-framed glasses farther up his Groucho Marx–like nose with one finger. We done here? He inclined his chin to create an air of intimidation, his large and bulbous nose creating its own shadow on the ground from a streetlight in the parking lot.

Yeah, bro. Thanks for the packet. The man wagged the shiny silvery object in the air as a gesture of appreciation and headed for his running car.

Humpty stood motionless and waited for the Bonneville to disappear around the corner. He relaxed his shoulders and scanned the deserted area for any out-of-place cars that could be undercover cops. Satisfied he was alone and that no one had been watching, Edward Elington—aka Humpty—strolled across the parking lot, leaving his latest masterpiece to dry in the cool early October breeze, not caring what the business owners would think when they found his art gracing the outside of their building in the morning.

When he saw the top of a light bar on a cruiser creep into the far end of parking lot, Humpty retrieved a licorice stick from his back pocket, shoved it into his mouth, and quickened his pace. Humpty was sure the powers that be hadn’t yet assigned a classification to Sex Packets—he assumed they would bundle the new drug with ecstasy or LSD—but he didn’t want to wait around to find out.

Chapter Art Layout_2

Bennett Jacobs entered his kitchen, moving his head side to side as he adjusted the placement of his yellow-striped tie. His freshly shined black business-appropriate shoes clacked on the white tile as he headed for the Mr. Coffee. He glanced at his wife, hiding behind a raised newspaper, as he wove around the circular kitchen table toward the counter. It would be another monotonous day in Bennett’s life, but he had realized long ago that monotony was exactly what he strove for. He used three fingers to comb his mustache before reaching for the coffeepot handle.

His wife lowered the newspaper just enough to reveal her neckline and face. Bennett did not even flinch at the tendril-like appearance of her bedhead. She asked, You sure you don’t want to go to Gutfest with us? Ruth’s already waiting in line for tickets down at Neptune’s Cellar at the mall.

Bennett poured the coffee into his thermos without looking at his wife. You know all-day music festivals are not my thing, Anita. You girls go and have fun.

Anita lowered the paper to the table. Nothing is your thing, Bennett.

He flashed her the smile that had originally won her over in the first place a few years ago. You’re my thing.

"Mmm-hmm. Get outta here before you’re late."

He winked at her and headed out the side kitchen door toward the back porch and driveway.

"Not that you would ever be brave enough to be late!" she called out from inside the kitchen.

Bennett chuckled to himself and tucked his coffee-filled thermos under one armpit so he could navigate the car door key.

Good morning, Bennett! came a greeting from across the small cul-de-sac.

He looked up, losing the balancing act of keeping the thermos from tipping while inserting the key, and nodded at his neighbor. Please just let it be one of those mornings where we are just saying hello to each other and not—

Let me help you with that, man.

Bennett startled at how fast his neighbor had crossed the distance to reach for the thermos. I got it, Wes. Thanks. He opened the door and slid past the man, wearing a bathrobe over his pajamas, and into the driver’s seat.

Wes put his palm on the top of the door and leaned into the open door’s wedge space. His towering form cast a shadow on the smaller-than-average Bennett. You gonna be around this weekend?

Bennett looked up at his neighbor and had to squint from the brightness of the sun reflecting off the overcast clouds. We don’t have any plans that I know of. Unless Anita has something going on that she hasn’t told me about.

Right? Wives! Wes vibrated his lips and made a they’re so silly motion with his hand.

Gotta go, Wes. Can’t be late. Bennett leaned forward to reach past his neighbor for the door handle.

Wes stepped backward and cinched tighter his plaid bathrobe belt.

Bennett watched his neighbor from his peripheral vision, while backing his Cadillac out of the driveway. Then he straightened the car in the cul-de-sac and headed through the subdivision. He turned the radio dial so it clicked to On and heard DJ Ted Casey review the roster of bands and artists who would play at this year’s Gutfest music festival later this month at Lake Merritt in Oakland.

By the time Bennett had turned into the parking lot at work, the DJ was already needle deep into a playlist of songs from many of the bands to perform at Gutfest ’89. Bennett turned off his Cadillac’s engine, arriving at Cyber Teeth Tigers, the computer software company he worked for. The building sprawled across the span of his windshield. The single-story brick edifice looked more like a community college than a workplace for some of the brightest software engineers working just outside the confines of Silicon Valley.

Bennett opened his glovebox and grabbed his identification lanyard. He slipped the thin but wide cord around his neck as he exited his car. While he approached the building, the wind coming off the bay whipped open his suit jacket, and Bennett quickened his pace. Once through the double front glass doors, adorned with the Cyber Teeth Tigers’ logo on each side, he smoothed his tie—as if by fixing that one accessory, then his whole ensemble would also magically return to tip-top shape.

’Mornin’, Bennett, the security guard greeted without standing from behind the desk. The fluorescent lights above them rained a whitewashed hue over the whole lobby.

Good morning, Carl. Bennett swiped his keycard across the pad, but nothing happened; the red Locked lights remained illuminated. He tried again. Nothing. He dropped his shoulders, thinking how he really didn’t want any further interaction with Carl. Bennett just wanted to be at his desk, pouring over whatever lines of coding awaited him. At least numbers never pressured him into going out with people he didn’t really want to be friends with in the first place, nor did they make him feel bad about not ever wanting to party. Humans, on the other hand—

Need a hand there, Benny Boy?

God, Bennett hated it when Carl called him that. Come to think of it, there was very little about Carl that Bennett did like. He plastered the fakest smile he could muster across his face and turned to face the security guard. Do you mind buzzing me in?

Carl’s face brightened, as if knowing that someone needed his assistance had just made his week. I got you. Carl had to rock three times, forward and backward, in his chair to wobble onto his feet. His stomach, which could be considered a weapon if used to lay on someone, clipped the phone sitting on the corner of the desk as he turned, and the receiver popped off, dragging the base with it, and both crashed to the white tile. Carl cursed under his breath and released a loud exhale that sounded like a car tire losing air as he bent forward to collect the phone off the floor.

Bennett contemplated helping the rotund security guard, but he knew that would mean having further interaction with a person who he always tried to dodge, if possible. He thought he should feel guilty, watching the man struggle to get both the receiver and the base from the floor—a decent human being would help their fellow man in need, right?—but all he felt was pity.

Bennett rested his left hand on the door handle while waiting for Carl to situate the downed phone back onto the desk and finally hit the button to unlock the door. He tapped his wedding ring on the top of the brass handle to pass the time.

There ya go, Benny Boy. Sorry for the delay.

A loud buzzing sound exploded from the door, and the handle loosened in Bennett’s hand. He yanked open the door, revealing a long hallway that would spill into a large rectangular room of cubicles. He started down the hallway without thanking or saying goodbye to Carl. Maybe if Carl would stop calling him Benny Boy or would stop trying to engage in small talk every morning, Bennett would have more tolerance for the daily interaction.

He took a deep breath as he reached the end of the hallway, sounds of fingers clacking across computer keyboards getting louder, and focused on the threadbare carpet to ward off any coworker who might have the urge to chat with him before he reached his cubicle. He quickened his pace and ensured he didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he maneuvered through the rows of desks and computer monitors.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he plopped into his chair; it rolled backward a few inches on its wheels from the force of his body landing thereon. He set his thermos next to his telephone and anticipated a blasé day of writing and rewriting code—the kind of day that Bennett would deem perfect.

That was, of course, until the phone rang.

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Bennett tucked the receiver between his shoulder and ear so he could use both hands to log on to his computer. Good morning. Cyber Teeth Tigers. Bennett Jacobs speaking.

Hey, sweetie. Wanted to catch you before you started working, Anita said on the other end of the line.

What did I forget today? he asked, pushing the floppy disk into the drive, waiting to hear the click that signified it was secured inside the computer.

Nothing today. I just wanted to let you know that Ruth has invited us over for an end-of-summer pool party tomorrow.

Bennett’s lungs deflated as he sighed louder than he intended. End of summer? It’s the beginning of October. It doesn’t matter that she has a heated pool. And why couldn’t this wait until I got home?

Because, sweetie, I ordered a cheese tray from Blue Diamond’s supermarket, and I need you to pick it up on your way home.

Bennett used his middle finger and thumb to rub his forehead. All right.

"Love yooouuu! Oh, and she scored Gutfest tickets for us."

Us? … As in me too?

Nah. I wouldn’t make you suffer through a concert. Just us girls.

I’ll see ya after work.

Don’t forget the cheese tray!

Promise. He placed the receiver on the base and caught movement behind him. He spun in his chair to see Jeremy leaning on his cubical doorway, slowly sipping from what had once been a white coffee mug, now stained beige from years of use.

Jeremy used the tip of his tongue to try to dislodge some food from between his teeth before he said, Boss’s waiting for yesterday’s log sheets.

Tell him I’ll get them to him before lunchtime.

Jeremy rocked onto his toes, then back onto his soles. You want in on this weekend’s football pool? Ten dollars. Winner takes the pot.