The Toolkit

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The alarm clock went off and Davis snorted awake in his chair. A few moments of fumbling around managed to resolve the noise and he slid his feet off the crowded desk, taking a pile of papers with them. He stood and reached his arms out and upwards and then rotated them in a wide orbit back to his sides to stretch. He pulled the chain over his head and the light on the ceiling fan came on. He looked around a moment and then retrieved his satchel from the coat hook next to the door. He set the bag on his desk and admired it for a moment as he opened it.

It was a good bag. The cracked and faded brown leather gave it a nice antique look that can only be found in clever modern design. The functioning straps and buckles he always made a large show of fussing with, hid small magnetic clasps for fast access to its contents. It was the perfect size; small enough to stay out of the way while slung, yet just large enough to have the possibility of containing practically anything when examined from the outside. Inside, a few custom alterations made its contents easy to find in a hurry, provided you were the one who packed it. With a smile he began to load it for his day.

He took the silver flask of whiskey from the shelf behind him and turned it over in his hands, the engraved letters “J.D.” glinted briefly in the lamplight. He tried, for a moment as he nestled it into the inner reaches of his briefcase, to think of how many people tried to guess his first name based on just that small inscription. The truth always kept a secret for his amusement, he had won it in a poker game long ago, and the initials stood for Jack Daniels.

He leaned over his desk and reached for his cigar case. He had given the habit up years ago but he was sentimental about the old brass object, it was the only thing his last ex-wife had given him that he ever really liked. It contained three imitation Cubans, quality knock-offs that were sometimes useful as bribes. He set it gently down in the bottom of the bag.

Next he pulled from his drawer the gun. The loathsome, inelegant thing. He hadn’t fired a gun in years, and only included it as one of his possessions because he was ordered to start carrying one again. He had chosen a simple on; a Smith and Wesson 642 revolver; it weighed less than a pound unloaded, and held only five thirty-eight caliber bullets. He knew from experience that if he needed more bullets or a bigger gun he was already screwed. He casually tossed it in hoping it would find away to lose itself. He quickly packed his notebook, reading glasses, wallet, and a few other mundane things on top of it. It wasn’t so much that he was opposed to the use of guns, they were just noisy, vulgar, and impersonal in his opinion. No wonder so many people liked them.

The last thing to go in the bag was the small package, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with butcher’s twine. A gift for Jerry, hopefully the kid will make quick work of its contents. Davis reached down to the desk lamp and picked up his watch.

The silver Bulova his father had given him for his eighteenth birthday was still one of his favorite things.  The glass was slightly scratched and the band had been replaced several times and you look hard to see the original date stamp of N2 on the back. He strapped it on and held it up to his ear to listen to the satisfying, high-pitched hum of the tuning fork contained within. Over forty years-old and it still had its original timing element, this fact always gave him comfort.

He slid on his coat, buckled the satchel back up, and looped the strap over his shoulder. Opening the door, he turned and looked at the mess that was his office. He nodded to no one and flipped the light switch, cutting off the fan and overhead light.

It was going to be a long day. He should pick up a couple of sandwiches on the way the Jerry’s place.

NEXT

This scene of fiction was inspired by a Weekly Challenge.
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