Jack Gent came into the coffee shop and slapped a five dollar bill down on the counter.
The barista looked at him. "Whaddya want?" he asked in a bored, mulish tone.
"A grande cappucino," said Gent. "Make it snappy."
"Coming right up," said the barista dully. He picked up the five dollar bill and fished around in the cash register for change.
After Gent got his coffee, he went out and down the street, sipping genteelly from his drink, watching people hurry past him.
It was a pleasant Friday afternoon. The trees were just beginning to change color, and the wind, although cool, was not too brisk. The shops up and down the street were bustling with customers.
As he passed a bicycle stand, Gent caught sight of his prey. He was sitting miserably in a little open-air cafe several yards away, his head bent down towards his shoes, his hair flopping in his eyes.
Gent slid his hand into his pocket and fingered the folded paper.
Ab irato: actus me invito factus non est meus actus.
The man looked up as Gent approached. "I thought you said you'd be here at four."
"It's pretty close to four," Gent replied airily, taking a seat. "You must know by now that I never keep appointments exactly, John."
"Don't call me that!" hissed Agent II. "You're supposed to call me Anthony!"
"Very well, Antony," said Gent pleasantly.
"Anthony," Agent II muttered. "At least try to get it right. What have you found?"
"Anthony, Antonio, Antony. I find it odd that you'd choose such a name. Mark Antony had a name like yours. He committed suicide rather than fight like a man. Are you... like him?"
Agent II raised his eyebrows. "I don't see where this is going."
Gent reached into his pocket and slid the note across the table. "I do. Montague has instructions for you, Antony."
Agent II read it twice, then pushed it back. "I don't speak Latin. And it's not Antony."
"Let me clarify," said Gent. He cleared his throat. "From an angry man (or woman, who knows?): the act done by me (that refers to me, I suppose) against my will is not my act."
He pushed the note back.
"Well?"
"I - I don't understand," said Agent II. He looked down at the little white paper. "What act? What are you talking about? Is that really from Montague?"
Gent flipped the paper over. "Look."
There was an emblazoned crown on the back, glittering black in the sunlight.
"Yes, yes, I see it," said Agent II weakly. "But I tell you I don't understand."
Gent leaned back and crossed his arms. "There are two options, I believe. One: Montague plans for me to... dispose of you. Two: Montague expects me to dispose of you." He paused. "I'd like to keep my job, you know... So, you see, there is really nothing I can do."
"But - why?" Agent II mouthed, lips flapping.
"I suppose Montague is tired of you being alive," said Gent. "I don't really know why; one never knows with employers."
He got to his feet.
Agent II flinched, then lowered his head. "There's nothing I can say, is there." His voice was dull. "Everyone always said you were the best. I guess they were right."
Gent stood there, looking at him. There was a curious expression on his face.
Agent II looked up. "What are you doing?"
"Leaving, I think," said Gent.
He looked down at Agent II, stared hard at him. "I suggest you depart also."
"What?"
Gent bent down to his eye level. "Get. Out. Of. Town. I never want to see your droopy mug ever again."
"You're not going to - to -?"
"You are the thickest bonehead I'd ever had the misfortune of knowing," Gent snapped. "I am not going to do Montague's dirty work for him (or her). Get out of here. Vanish; disappear; vamoose. Capiche?"
Agent II had risen unsteadily to his feet. "Okay. I'll... be going, then." He glanced nervously around him; patted at his pockets. "I didn't pay for my meal."
Gent had sat back down, and now he pulled a plate of steaming food towards himself. "I've got it."
He glanced back up. "Goodbye, Agent II."
Agent II wobbled for another moment, cast a final astonished look at Gent, turned slowly, and walked away, clutching his briefcase. He melted into a crowd of chattering teenagers and vanished.
Gent picked up the paper and scratched his fingernail over the black crown, almost absentmindedly. It crumbled and flaked under the pressure; when he took his hand away, the ominous sign was gone.
