Double Trouble Bubblegum
At 7:52, he opened the door.
Ding-a-ling.
“Oh, thank you.” A woman escorting a young child with an ice cream cone. He crossed the threshold and a wall of sweet scents hit him. Damian wrinkled his notes against the overpowering smells, his brain already clicked over into high alert, reading and filing details with reflex speed.
The decor was neon pink and lime green. Twelve chairs total, six occupied; four with teen boys in sweatpants and baseball caps making a mess of their deserts. The boy behind the counter was scrawny. High school or early college.
Seven people. Five seconds.
The boys looked up from their ice cream long enough to register his presence. He ignored them. At six foot eight, Damian was better than he should have been at disguising his presence, but that only worked in a crowded bazaar at night when everyone else wore neutral tones, or at an event in the capital where other servicemen wore suits.
He wore an all-black suit, intimidating because he knew who Leonard was and he did not intend to start off on the wrong foot. He was a professional. Six foot eight, black suit, in a tiny ice cream shop? He stood out. He would have to empty the establishment.
“Who! Check it out.”
“What the—”
“What does he eat for breakfast?”
“Your face.”
The boys kept their voices low and laughed, their numbers deluding them into thinking they were protected. He’d seen warlords make the same mistake. A lot in common between warlords and teen boys.
Damian went straight to the back. Lock down all exits; that was 101. There should be one exit back here. There. He opened it, pushed through, and looked at the alley he had swept an hour earlier. Nothing had moved, boxes in the same position.
He pushed into the “Employees only” room next.
“Sir! Excuse me- sir? You can’t go back there. It’s for employees only.” The flustered attendant called after him.
Damian ignored the boy. He went for the bathroom door next. It was locked.
“Unlock this,” he ordered.
Eighteen, Damian decided. The boy had curly black hair and several pimples.
Working at an ice cream store isn’t going to help that, kid.
The boy gawked at him. Civilians were so slow. Then he frowned, and, to Damian’s surprise, the boy squared his shoulders and stood straight.
“The facilities are for customers only.”
He pointed to a sign on the wall. It was a simple plaque, the typical bathroom sign, except the stick figure was eating an ice cream.
Damian stared the boy down. His name tag read Marcus. Marcus gave him a big fat smile. Message: No.
Damian’s enormous hand curled into a fist. He could dismantle and reassemble an AK47 in pitch dark, a skill which had come in hand on more than one occasion, and this child—
“Can I interest you in a scoop of Rocky Road? Or Nuts-Appaloosa? Or maybe Pistachio-Beans?”
It took Damian a moment to realize the boy was babbling ice cream flavors. He forced himself to breathe. Home soil. He was on home soil. Rules were different here.
His eyes narrowed at the obstinate teen boy, but he let it pass. He went to the counter, looming over the boy in his paper hat, and took out a silver credit card.
“Coffee.”
“Sure thing. Coffee pairs beautifully with our strawberries and cream. Can I interest you in a taste test?”
“Just coffee.”
See? He could handle civilians. His army-assigned therapist would be proud.
Marcus sighed, rang up the order, and Damian swiped his card. Marcus handed over the key, an overly bright ice cream cone dangling from it. Damian snapped it out of his hands and walked away, ignoring the boy’s shaking head. He was lucky Damian didn’t snap him.
Damian checked the bathroom. It was clean and empty of patrons. An hour earlier he had tapped the buildings around the shop with cameras. He checked them. No sign of the contact. An ice cream shop was not a typical site for a drop, but Leonard was known to be somewhat… unusual. Esteemed, certainly, even regarded as a genius in some corners, but unusual. That changed nothing; Damian was the best of the best, which no doubt was why Leonard had requested him by name.
He returned to the counter just as Marcus swirled a plastic cup filled with ice and a milky brown liquid. He placed it on the counter in front of Damian with a bright pink straw.
“What is this?”
“Coffee,” Marcus said.
Damian picked up the offending beverage with two fingers, lifting it to eye level. Undissolved sugar fell like flakes in a snow globe, accumulating in piles on the bottom.
He focused on Marcus, set the cup down, and leaned forward. The blood drained from Marcus’s face.
“I don’t do sugar,” Damian said.
“Who doesn’t do sugar?” Marcus forced a laugh, his chin wobbling back into a smile.
“Do you know what sugar does to you?” he asked. Marcus’s smile faded. “Sugar is inflammatory. It destroys your cells. It causes muscle pain, arthritis, Alzheimer’s, diabetes, weight gain, weakness, and cancer. And it’s addictive, so no, I don’t want your toxic wares. People like you are worse than drug dealers.”
Marcus held his hands up. “I just work here man.”
“The dealer is as culpable as the manufacturer.”
“Then... why did you come to an ice cream shop?” Marcus asked.
The refrigerators hummed in the background. The teenage boys continued to mutter to each other, cracking jokes. They had not stopped watching Damian since he entered.
“I did not pick the venue.”
“Oh, you're meeting someone?” Marcus’s expression cleared and became empathetic. Empathetic? “Well, dude, if this is a date and you don't like ice cream, you definitely should have picked a different spot to meet.”
The boys cracked up at this. Damian shot a glare at them, done pretending to overlook them. They mumbled into silence, looking into their own group and laughing outright when they caught each other’s expressions.
Damian glared back at Marcus.
“Coffee, black, hot, no sugar, no cream. Is that clear?”
“Clear as plastic wrap. Give me a minute, I'll brew a fresh pot.”
Damian approached the table of teenagers and they immediately quieted, the panic in the air palpable. He took a seat at the table opposite them. His long frame and filled-out black suit hid the pathetic plastic chair. He draped one arm on the table as though he were at the Village Vanguard on 7th Ave, and stared at the boys.
They did not acknowledge him, looking anywhere but directly at him, shifting uncomfortably. In short order they stood up and shuffled out, leaving a mess behind.
Ding-a-ling.
“Here you go; no sugar no cream, fresh coffee.” Marcus placed a to-go cup before him.
“Thank you,” Damian said. Marcus left and soon returned with a broom and dustbin.
The only people left in the restaurant were the couple in the back corner, and Damian settled his gaze, unblinking, on them. The male looked up at the sudden quiet and took in the empty room. His eyes met Damian’s, darted to the door, his date, and back. Damian did not break eye contact.
The man leaned in to whisper to his date. They stood and skirted past, exiting quickly.
Ding-a-ling.
Good choice.
Marcus swept the gummy bears and sprinkles from the floor, leaving the area spotless. He took the dustpan to the trash bin and washed his hands.
Damian focused on the window, waiting. He sipped his coffee and winced at the bitterness. He glanced at his phone. 8:02. Late. Perhaps they were establishing their own perimeter. He sent a text. “No sign yet.”
Ding-a-ling.
To Damian’s irritation, a woman entered the shop. One more patron to intimidate — and then he froze.
The world slowed, everything else blurring out, going quiet.
Female. Thirties. Hourglass figure, a fireworks display of bright colors. He dimly noted the fashion choices, too distracted by the large eyes and feathered black lashes. Her eyeshadow blended from bright pink to purple. A cat-like smile curved over her face as she strode past him, utterly oblivious, walking on cotton candy clouds.
Damian caught himself and closed his mouth. What just happened? He scowled at her and then glared back outside. Focus. The connect. The drop.
Damian watched her reflection in the storefront window, the last patron to get rid of. She leaned over the glass case, taking in the flavors and colors like a queen surveying her collection of gems.
“Good Evening! What can I get for you?” Marcus asked, too eager.
“Oh... let's see.”
Her voice was so melodic, so feminine, it sent goosebumps up the back of his neck. He shook it off and refocused his gaze on the dark street outside. Not ideal that they could see him and he couldn’t see them. He checked the video feeds on his phone. Cars passed on the street, but no one walked toward the shop. Maybe they would come in the back? It was 8:05. This was becoming unprofessional.
“So many good flavors. Ba-ba-baaaa. Hmmmm. Let's go with... Cotton Candy. Oh, look! Cookie Monster & Cream. No—wait—” she gave Marcus a sugary smile. Even from the reflection, Damian could tell the boy melted under it. “Double-Trouble-Bubblegum.”
“That one's my favorite!” Marcus said with glee. Damian rolled his eyes. “Cup or cone?”
“Oh, cone, of course! Never blaspheme the cream with a cup,” she said.
Marcus handed Dolce the cone. She winked at him. Enough. Damian focused on the street and tried to ignore them as the woman leaned over the counter and whispered something to the boy. She then passed him a bill. Good, enough of her. Her heels clicked across the plastic floor.
She pulled out the available chair at Damian's table and took a seat.
Damian glared at her. She ignored him, enjoying her cone.
Civilian, handle with care, Damian reminded himself. He cleared his throat.
“I see why this is his favorite,” she said.
“Excuse me, ma’am, that seat is taken.”
“Correct. I've taken it.”
“I am waiting for someone.”
She crunched down on the cone.
“Not anymore, I'm here. Thanks for waiting.”
Crunch crunch. Damian stared at her. This couldn’t be his connect.
“You sure you don't want anything? I'll wait,” she said, gesturing back to the ice cream counter. “I’m a firm believer in having fun at work.”
“You're the contact,” Damian said.
“Yep.”
She reached into her pocket and placed a small black box on the table.
“That’s the drop,” he said.
“You catch on fast.”
He reached for it... but it was it’s gone. The woman continued enjoying her ice cream. When had she taken it back? He didn’t even see her move.
“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”
“You work for Leonard,” he clarified again. There was no world in which this woman and Leonard would make sense in the same sentence.
“He’d be lost without me.”
He wanted to deny it, but even he had to admit the value of a good disguise. His brain clicked into gear.
“You want to join our team? You have to prove yourself. I’m the only one he trusts to audition new team members.”
This was a job interview… of course it was. The message had been light on details, only come prepared. But… with all her bright colors and bubblegum ice cream, he couldn’t take her seriously. She wanted him to dance to her bidding?
Slowly, he rose to his full height, buttoning his blazer. He leaned over the table. She watched him with interest, still eating her ice cream. That, more than anything else, convinced him this woman was not a civilian.
“I have planned and executed covert ops in Istanbul. Dismantled human trafficking rings in Amsterdam, and negotiated treaties in Egypt. If Leonard hadn’t already decided he wanted my expertise, your people would never have reached out to me. I won’t be auditioning for anyone.”
She nodded knowingly. “Your resume speaks for itself. Tell you what; I’ll go easy on you.”
She finished her cone, wiped her mouth and hands with the small napkin, and beckoned with a finger. From out of nowhere, Marcus stepped up to the table and put down a large cup.
Marcus beamed. “One Ice Cream Supreme with extra gummies. Enjoy!”
It was a bucket of ice cream, multiple flavors showing beneath a mound of whipped cream. Rainbow gummy worms cascaded down the sides into a sugary trench. Thin cookie wafers stuck out one side, and a cherry sat on top.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough sugar?” he asked.
“Oh honey, this one’s for you.” She pushed the cup closer to him.
“I don’t—”
“—eat sugar. I know. I did my research on you Damian. You see, I know all about the kink in Istanbul, the snafu in Amsterdam, the hiccup in Egypt, and even the lateral adjustments your team had to make in Tiran. I interviewed your associates. You know what they all said?”
Her voice changed, mimicking the foreign accent of his Egyptian associate with disconcerting ease.
“Damian is a professional, he’ll get it done without fail. They also said you’re a pain in the ass to work with. You have arbitrary rules for your life that everyone else has to bend around. In short, you kill the vibe dude! Now, Leonard wants your experience, your expertise, but I ain’t dealing with a stick in the mud. Life is too short to work with assholes. So here’s my offer: eat the ice cream, I give you the box right now, and you’re on the team.”
Damian stared at her. She didn’t blink. He’d looked enough operatives in the eye to know when someone was bluffing. She wasn’t bluffing.
He looked down at the ice cream. The gummies mocked him. He hadn’t eaten ice cream — or any dessert — since before enlisting ten years ago. It would be the easiest job he’d ever gotten. Just one bite.
But why should he? What did it matter how he ate? He held himself to extremely high standards and was proud of it. That’s why he was the best. He shouldn’t have to compromise that for anyone, or for any reason.
He pointed to a scar on his face.
“You see this? I let the sultan’s men have one free shot. It didn’t save them. I AM a professional. I take my work seriously. I don’t eat ice cream, and I don’t play games with little girls.”
Damian puts his hand out: hand over the box.
Dolce sighed. “So be it.”
Faster than Damian’s eyes could track, Dolce smacked the Ice Cream Supreme. It smashed into his face, whipped cream, cookies, and gummies blinding him. His head jerked back but the next instant the metal table crashed into his gut. He grunted and stumbled backward, but before he could gain his feet, she was on his back, gripping his head in a vice lock.
“EAT THE SUGAR!!!” she screamed.
He pulled on her arms, struggling to breathe. “Nooooo!” It came out a gurgled protest.
“Oh my God!” Marcus shouted somewhere in the distance.
Damian felt himself weakening, the edges of his vision spotting with black. He gripped her arms and heaved himself forward, rolling onto his back. More chairs and a table, clattered to the ground in their wake.
The shock of the ground loosened her arms. A quick jab of his elbow into her ribs and she gasped, releasing him. He scrambled away, coughing and heaving to fill his lungs with air. He didn’t let her out of his sight, and she was up in the next instant. The two of them circled each other, bodies poised for attack.
“Give me the box,” he ordered.
“Eat some ice cream and it’s all yours.”
He sighed. “I don’t like to hit girls, but it’s your choice.”
“How chivalrous of you.”
He lunged at her. She dodged his arms, gripped his thumb, and yanked back. He screamed, falling to his knees. She grabbed a plastic chair and cracked it over his head. He collapsed. If that had been a metal chair… she was too damn fast.
“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!” Marcus screamed somewhere in the distance.
He felt her standing over him.
“Do you yield?” she asked.
He spun and knocked her legs out. She went down. He locked her head between his legs and squeezed. She gurgled. He couldn’t blame her. He had to be twice her weight, three times even. It was only natural that — she reached up and hammered him that most sensitive of areas.
He screamed like a little girl.
Immediately she was up. She kicked him in the ribs for good measure. Ooof. That’s it, no more coddling simply because she was a woman. He grunted and rolled to his knees, reaching for the gun holstered at his side. He shook his head to clear his vision.
Marcus came running around the corner, holding onto his little paper hat for dear life, the plastic ice cream cone dangling from the bathroom key. Damian shot at it, reflex, his senses still a little wobbly. Marcus screamed, tumbling before the bathroom door.
“No shooting at the bystanders, Damian. Leonard likes his associates to accomplish missions without civilian casualties.”
Marcus scrapped to get the key in the lock, twisted, and stuffed himself into the bathroom, slamming the door shut.
Where had she gone? Behind the counter. Damian fired rounds into the glass case. It shattered, and sparks flew as the bullets hit machines on the back wall. The freshly brewed coffee pot shattered, spilling black coffee everywhere. Where was she?
“Tut tut, you have to resort to firearms to handle me? This is an audition, not an execution.”
Definitely behind the counter. Was that the click of a gun or the crack of glass?
“I’ll make a note for my report: quick to escalate things.”
She leaped up, fired, and Damian’s gun smacked from his hand. She missed him, hitting his gun instead. He dove after it, digging between the scattered tables and chairs. Found it! He picked it up. There was a hole straight through the side of his gun. His eyes widened.
“No,” she said. He looked up. She stood calmly behind the counter, holding her gun to the side. “I didn’t miss.”
Then she fired into the wall directly above his head. He crouched, covering his head as cement rained down on him. He lost track of the number of bullets — click click click.
Damian looked up. She removed the mag from her gun and shook it at him. Empty. She tossed the empty gun and mag away. She turned behind the counter to the soft serve machine and started filling a cup. He rose and walked to the entrance of the counter.
“Let’s see if we can do this like civilized adults, shall we?” She took a sip.
He raised his fists. She wanted to do this with hand-to-hand combat? Fine. He lunged at her. She tossed the soft serve in his face. He growled in irritation. He wiped his eyes clear and stocked forward, but then she was at the condiments section.
She reached in and grabbed a fist full of Skittles.
“It doesn’t matter what form the sugar takes.” She threw them at him. He lifted his arm.
“Are you seriously throwing food at me?” he demanded.
“Just giving you options,” she said. Next was crumbled Oreos, chunked heath bar, and sprinkles, every time he took a step forward. Finally, she grabbed the chocolate syrup and sprayed, aiming for the eyes. She treated his suit like a Jackson Polack. When she finished, he stood there and wiped his eyes clean. She tilted her head as if assessing a work of art. She grinned.
He was going to strangle her. He reached for her. She spun and at first he thought she was running, until she continued all the way around and something silver turned end over end. It smacked him in the forehead, knocking him backward, the pain radiating along his skill. Ice cream scoop, he noted, landing on his back.
She sighed. “Oh well, so promising. But I told Leonard you weren’t cut out for our team. Oh, look! Mint chocolate chip. Don’t mind if I do.”
Distantly he heard a thunk, then a door, then click click click. Her heels across the plastic floor. She was leaving. He climbed to his knees, reaching for the only thing nearby. He wobbled out from behind the counter. She stopped.
“You know what goes great with Mint chocolate chip?” he asked.
There were sprinkles in his hair, his expensive suit trashed with soft served and cherries, but it was almost worth it to see her cock a brow at him. He took the bottle of chocolate sauce and sprayed it in her face, her eyes, and wrecking once and for all her vibrantly colored clothing. She stumbled backwards spluttering, and he took his advantage. He threw a punch and it landed... in the hard-packed min chocolate chip. He yelped in pain and fell back, shaking out his hand. Had he broken it?
He threw another punch, and she caught it again in the mint chocolate chip. He yelled. Yep, definite possibility he broke it. He took another tack, spinning, and kicked the tub of ice cream from her hands. It hit the side counter, broke open, and mint green ice cream spilled onto the floor.
She shrieked at him, lunged, and took him bodily to the ground. They pounded each other, her punching his head, him landing a punch to her kidney, her retaliating by biting his hand, him yanking her hair back.
The parlor was a mess of ice cream, chocolate sauce, coffee, sprinkles, skittles, and a myriad of other condiments by the time she had him pinned to the ground with his arm twisted behind his back at exactly the right angle to break it.
He stopped struggling, the two of them panting. She reached over and grabbed something. Directly in front of his face she placed the ruined Ice Cream Supreme.
“Yield!” she screamed.
“No!” He grunted.
Three cars screeched up to the ice cream shop, blue and red lights flashing, sirens blaring.
“COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!” The command was radioed from the cruiser.
Gasping, they broke apart, her rolling onto the ground next to him. It was as though they had been locked in their own world, a little bubble of sugar and violence, and it had just popped.
“The kid,” she said, panting.
Damian lifted his watch. “We’ve got—” He whipped the face clear of chocolate sauce. “Three minutes, give or take.”
They lay there, catching their breath.
“What is your name?” he asked. He couldn’t help it.
For a long moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer.
“Dolce,” she said. She wiped chocolate sauce from her forehead. He turned to look at her.
“It fits.”
She grinned at him.
For a brief flicker in time, it didn’t matter that there were police outside, that his expensive suit was ruined, that he had failed the job interview, definitely ingested some sugar, and lost to Dolce when Damian never allowed himself to lose to anyone. A little bubble of joy rose in his chest.
Dolce got up. Damian didn’t.
A small black box landed on him. He took it, sat up, and looked at it. He looked at her. She shrugged, as if too tired to explain, and limped off.
“Hey,” he called. Dolce looked back.
He picked up a gummy worm from the floor. He held it in front of his face, bracing himself. He ate it, eyes scrunched shut. The overpowering sweetness stung his mouth. He shivered at the explosion of flavor.
Bad for you. Bad for the body and bad for the mind.
But if he was being honest, he knew a little bit of sugar every now and then was not in itself a bad thing. Not eating sugar was all part of the standard of perfection he held himself to, his identity as a flawless operative. But maybe — maybe there was value in being flexible.
“We ship out on Monday,” she said. He opened his eyes.
She was gone. He opened the small black box and took out the business card inside. On the card was a little drawing of an ice cream cone. The text:
Welcome to the team.
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