May 28th, 2015.

A younger Athena Rex neé Xenaki would have still been in bed for another hour or two at this time in the morning, but here Athena the state senator was with the dawn on her windshield at 5:46 a.m. 

No amount of coffee could repair that damage, and the cupholder in her canary yellow post-war Bentley de Ville was empty. She loved her refurbished 1940s car. It was her second favorite classic automobile after the Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn. Other than the radiator grilles and the carburation, the cars were identical, but there were four times as many Bentley R Types in existence. Only 760 Silver Dawns were ever made. They were so expensive now that one would certainly break her piggy bank.

Drumming opal pink nails on the steering wheel, she was pleased at least that there was zero traffic into San Francisco at this hour. A trip most would expect to take over an hour had been whittled down to twenty-four minutes. Yet the irony was frustrating. Because the trip was so short, she would be almost an hour early to San Francisco City Hall. If she left any later, however, she would be at risk of getting stuck in a bumper to bumper parking lot on the Bay Bridge. Now she sailed across it from Oakland in record time, even speeding a little. Who would dare stop her?

The bay would be a beautiful sight if any of it were visible beyond the wall of gray fog past the white suspender cables. The placid overcast weather never stopped the roar of wind beating the sides of her car as the skyline of grayscale buildings grew bigger, the four-sided spear of Transamerica Pyramid drawing the eye as it always does. Yesterday, Friday, she had driven down from Sacramento, but she wasn't paying Airbnb or hotel prices in the City, not with what she got paid. She stayed with family in San Leandro, making this one of her shorter commutes as long as the Bay Bridge was empty — which it was, because of the ungodly hour.

There was a convention in town, like many weekends, but even the convention goers would all stumble out of bed at six and pour into The City all at once. She didn't look forward to the trip home, but on the bright side, if she was kept out until an ungodly hour of the night too, it would be smooth sailing.

The paper on her passenger seat read "GRAVINITES OUT ON BAIL FROM MAYOR BANIKAS TRIAL" and goes on to remark on the ineffectiveness of F.B.I. investigations and the uselessness of governing officials in curbing the raging mafia presence in Northern California. Every time she looked at it she would shake. Now even politicians could get whacked, that's how ballsy this crime syndicate was getting. No fear of high profile targets. Would she even be safe within the boundaries of her old home town?

In four minutes she was off the bridge and cruising the 180 west to Howard Street. The trip was going too fast and as she turned onto 9th a sudden dread of City Hall overcame her so firmly that she pulled off before she even made it to Folsom, pulled over, got out her phone and had typed "cafe" into Google Maps, surprised to find there wasn't one for a few blocks. She knew she was stalling, but caffeine sincerely was a good idea.

Pulling back into the light traffic, directions for "Gaslamp Cafe" called out of her phone on the passenger seat on top of the newspaper in spite of her trepidation over the new wave coffee scene in San Francisco.

Of course, it didn't open until six-thirty, and of course, both Google and Yelp could have told her that.

She got out of the car anyways to stretch her legs and look for anything, coffee-related or otherwise, that was open at 6:01 in the morning before she realized she was being ridiculous and the whole point of waking at daybreak had been to beat traffic. Still, her hands began to shake and she was breathing in and out deeply not because of a panic attack but to preemptively curb one, and thoughts like this isn't my job anymore kept racing to repeat themselves and pulling ahead of more useful ones.

Across the street, there was movement behind the glass of the Gaslamp Cafe, some employee, the opener, either mopping under tables or pulling chairs back onto the floor, she couldn't tell which through the gray translucence. Maybe she could beg him or her to put her coffee in a paper to-go cup, although she had been warned some of the newer shops didn't do paper cups, both for the sake of the environmental movement and the slow food movement that was a counter-reaction, she felt, to the kids' own damn obsession with the internet and smartphones, but she tucked her own phone back into her handbag and started across the empty industrial street, jaywalking the two lanes.

Beneath a gray heather cloche hat, hear head darting side to side looking for oncoming cars, and maybe not just that threat but any multitude of others, obeying the patter of her heartbeat with an abundance of caution.

No sooner had her patent oxfords hit the pavement of the sidewalk on the other side than she heard a shriek of rubber tires burning around the corner of Lafayette onto Howard and she jerked her head over her shoulder to see not one but three speeding black cars, an Audi and two Chryslers, tearing toward her. Athena gained the sidewalk gracefully as her first priority and turned around to face the automobiles that skidded to a stop facing her.

From the distance, not close enough for comfort, the single 'whoop' of a cop car reached her ears, but Athena doubted it had anything to do with this scene. What would the chances be of some service and protection when it's needed?

One black Chrysler she recognized as one of her few companions getting off the I-80. Within a couple of seconds, she had the three license plates committed to memory, and it took little longer than that for the mobsters to get out of the car. The scene in the street went from an early morning abandoned industrial area to a spectacle out of a gangster music video as out of three vehicles a neat dozen three-piece-suited mobsters had suddenly appeared and were now all shouting at Athena incoherently, hooting and brandishing not weapons but thumbs and index fingers pointed like guns.

No distinctive leader approached, but Athena knew Jason Nakos by sight, even behind shades and under a fedora. The tall one. Given he was the one she recognized, he must be the one of importance, right?

She waited for the boys and girls dressed like mannequins in a storefront window, the shiny styles of their pristine suits accented with pops of teal and burgundy, to quiet down before speaking. It took a minute.

Projecting her voice like a theatre actor, Athena nearly shouted, "Are you kids just going to stand there making fake gunshot noises, or are you going to take out a state senator. I'm right here. What are you waiting for?"

The mobsters did not seem to like being called "kids" or having their threatening behavior downplayed. Jason Nakos's smile was gone, although some of the younger recruits were less affected by her nonchalance and continued to fire at her bell-shaped hat.

"Hello, Pigeon," said Nakos. "I wouldn't do harm to a hair on your head." It was hard not to be flattered when he blew her a kiss, but Athena knew she was a little older than Jason's tastes. The rest of the crew hadn't come to flatter and flirt, however, and while the young ones still laughed and jeered, the leaders of the pack became apparent as they broke from the group toward her, unsatisfied with how unthreatened she was (on the outside; on the inside she felt panicked, and she held sweaty hands behind her back out of sight).

Jason stayed where he was, but among the frowning predators, a real ringleader revealed herself with a pleasant interjection. "On your way to city hall, senator? You picked the best coffee in the tri-neighborhood area." The woman wore a three-piece like Jason and a dark cloche hat like Athena, red lipstick, and espresso victory curls. She didn't need to signal to the others to surround the senator, but in seconds Athena was surrounded. Maybe they would leave her alone if she cowered. Maybe there was nothing they could do in broad daylight (or in the foggy twilight of 6:04 a.m. on a San Francisco morning), or maybe they knew there was nothing anyone could do to stop them.

"I'm sorry, I don't know your name," said Athena, committing details the memory. The freckles on the woman's nose, the dimple on her left cheek, the slight sleepiness of her eyes beneath the winged kohl. This woman wouldn't be anyone important if she was willing to draw so much attention, but when you couldn't arrest anyone important, the girl who threatened you was better than nothing.

The distinctive female mobster clicked her tongue and wagged a finger, just saying, "You'll know soon. If you live at least." The other gangsters looked at each other and laughed. The fun was running out, though, Athena could tell, and when the cop car whooped much closer this time, it was right on twelfth in full view of the pack. As it turned onto Howard and sailed through zero traffic, the young'uns hoped back into their car seats and pulled the back doors shut, but the ringleaders refused to rush, even when Inspector Leander Prince of the San Francisco PD stopped his vehicle and emerged with his weapon drawn and pointed at the slowly retreating Mafiosi.

"That's right, move along!" he yelled. They did, but moving as if through molasses. Prince wasn't old enough to've made lieutenant yet and Athena wasn't sure he could grow a full beard yet. To be honest, she thought pulling his gun was naive. No one else had shown the faintest hint of packing heat. They wouldn't take a parting shot at the senator in front of an officer, even if she had been very publicly on the warpath to take back the northern half of her state from mob control and to put every single operative of the "business" into barred cells.

Athena shook her head at Prince and said, "You shouldn't have scared them off. If they killed me in broad daylight you'd have incarcerated the biggest chunk of their organization we've ever managed. Way to blow it, Inspector."

Behind her, the door to the cafe opened and Athena spun as if expecting a machine gun to pop out and plaster her with holes, but it was just the employee of the Gaslamp Cafe with a paper cup in hand.

She was maybe nineteen years of age, wearing an apron and a ponytail. A picture of innocence. "Are you Senator Rex?" she asked shyly. "Would you like a cup of coffee, on the house? Yirgacheffes are in season, this one's from eighteen hundred elevation."

Athena had no idea what that meant.

"It's floral with hints of Fuji apples and honeycomb."

That part made sense.

Thank you for reading Detective Fog. I am very grateful for all your support and the stars you leave behind. It helps to fuel my writing and my magic world. Let's give this book a little lift-off! Be well, everyone <3