Afternoon Coffee

Chris sat there, stirring his coffee, waiting.
Four stirs counterclockwise, two the other way, with a small sip, and repeat.
Generally a patient man, he became worried. His contact had assured him that he would be on time, and in this business, the unexpected invariably meant trouble. He looked out the window, down onto Seattle. A pleasant, though not particularly noteworthy view, for the Space Needle wasn’t quite as well situated as he had hoped.
“Ah, Mr…” came the voice behind him. He turned around into the friendly smile of a British man, about his height, of insignificant appearance.
“Biggs. My name is Biggs. And you are…” he returned, grasping the other man’s hand in a warm embrace.
“Laurie. A pleasure to meet you. Is that a… Canadian accent, I hear?”
“Very perceptive of you, Mr. Laurie,” he responded casually. “I have your shipment secured down in a warehouse down on by the port. I hope you’re government will have better luck reasoning the contents of it,” he continued, hopefully. He began a slow stroll around the Needle, with Laurie soon following.
“Yes, we have very good people for the job. I-“
Cutting him off, Chris quickly mentioned, “Ah, well, now the pleasantries are out of the way, I’ll be more than glad to discuss specifics, after I take a quick detour to the boys’ room. I’ll be right back,” he assured, with a smile.
Laurie nodded, and Chris quickly sped over to the washroom. Swinging open the door, he casually walked into a stall.
Working hastily, he removed his shoes and pants, carefully positioning them, then locking the door. With incredible flexibility, he sneaked underneath the wall into the adjacent stall, closing the door and standing on the seat.
He waited for a moment, when the washroom door swung open with footsteps gradually coming closer.
He waited further as the footsteps came even closer, then stopping.
Suddenly, he swung the stall door out, which subsequently richocheted off a body. He jumped out onto the offbalance Englishmen, who quickly gained his wits and focused upon his opponent, billyclub in hand.
A quick fake with the left, and Chris tossed the contents of his coffee cup into Laurie’s face, letting the scalding liquid burn through.
A solid kick to a critical point and a punch to the face, and it was over.
Another man rushed into the washroom, a man in a suit, with a look of concern on his face.
“What happened?” he puffed out, exasperated.
“Apparently there’s more danger to coffee than just it being ‘hot’,” Chris responded, pointing toward the spill and the bruise.
“But… how did you know?” the man slowly said as he turned to face his partner.
“The callouses on his hand. For a ‘British agent’, his callouses felt more like those of a knife fighter, not a gun slinger.”

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