Wetta Bradshaw sat watching the sun settle down into the Pacific ocean. She sipped her Scotch. It burned - badly. This was not the good stuff. This was not the same bottle she had shared with her husband the day he was accepted to law school. But it was the same brand. A cheap bit of a reminder to their earliest taste of success. It had only gotten better from there.
They had carved out a fortune for themselves so great they could never hope to spend it all. Money had been their motive to begin with - they both thought this. But it wasn't - not really. It was the thrill. They were good at it. Nobody knew anything about the illegal empire they were building for themselves. And then, by the time the whispering had begun, they were so powerful, so rich, so entrenched in the lives of all those others who thought they were powerful, that's all it ever was - whispers.
There had been so much money, so many enterprises, such a kingdom, that there had to be an heir - Sebastian Amos Bradshaw. He was a beautiful baby. Seldom cried. Started sleeping through the night early on to his parents' delight. He smiled often - that toothless baby grin that seduces the unsuspecting into the expecting. He was a beautiful boy.
He had been so bright too. In the third grade he had tested so well that the school had wanted to skip him ahead - to high school! She had consented to only jump ahead to the 6th grade. He promptly failed miserably - much to his father's chagrin.
She knew better. She had smiled at it. All his friends were in the 3rd grade. They let him rejoin his old classmates at the start of their fourth grade year. His grades and scores never once ticked above average from that point on. He would slip every once and a while and reveal that stunning brilliance when dealing with a teacher who was a bit too puffed up and proud. Or a martinet. He found ingenious ways to humiliate tyrants masquerading as teachers.
He took to poker like he had played in the womb. And maybe he had in a way. God knows his mother sat at a few tables while caring him. She did not really believe that he had inherited her ability to read people, to manipulate people - that just wasn't possible - was it? Deep, deep down, way past any kind of rational thought, she felt that she had bequeathed him this very gift - always be THE authority in whatever place you found yourself in.
The incident with Clay Diamond had shown her that he was almost exactly like her. Do anything, be anything, dare anything to win. Win or die. That was how she had lived her whole life. And she saw that he was going to play the game by her rules too. She let him keep that money. But she made him pay with what she did to Diamond. Lessons had to be taught.
This last thing though. Going after the Farfenelli money. She was content to let that mystery stay a mystery. No one else was looking for it. No one else would have been as much of a threat with that kind of power. But her son? Her son who hated her? Her son who played the game by her rules? That could be a dangerous situation.
And the people he had gathered to help him. The twins, the red haired girl, Farfenelli's daughter and that horror story of a half brother of his - he was gathering up too many pieces. He had to be stopped. Had to be stopped. And he had to be taught yet another lesson.
What better way than to force him to kill one of his own? Once he killed his brother the red hair girl or the twins or all three would have come after him. He would've had to put them all down. An abject lesson in what happens when you go up against Wetta Bradshaw.
Wetta is the one that no challenges. She always has an angle. She always has a plan. And her plans always end with somebody dead. Always.
Wetta Bradshaw sat and watched as the Pacific ocean grew dark and black. She sipped her cheap Scotch. And she refused to cry.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Friday, March 13, 2015
Chapter 17 - Only Because She Is
He woke up. His head thundered like the worst headache he had ever had. His vision... He was not sure... It felt like one of his eyes was not quite aligned with the other anymore. He started to blink his eyes and then realized he never again wanted to do anything quickly. The blink stopped with his eyes squeezed shut and he slowly exhaled. He had no idea how he had gotten here.
He had an idea of where here was. The smell. And the concrete. Too quiet though. But a prison. Too many years. To much time... doing time. Some sort of jail. A prison cell. Too quiet though. But a jail.
He opened his eyes again. Nothing hurt. His eyes seemed to be working together again. He sat up and looked around. He was on a cot. It was against the irregular stone wall of a, yes, a cell. A metal door was across from the cot. A table sat between the cot and the metal door. Never find a table in a prison cell. The lights were recessed and a bit dim. But he could still see the items on the table. A tape recorder and the pink razor the red head had given him. Jamie Suka sat up and spat on the floor.
He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand over his bald head. He walked over to the table and looked down at the tape recorder. "Who the hell uses a tape recorder?" he thought. The sentence, in his own mind, did not have the fake Russian accent draped across each word. No one heard.
He looked at it for a bit longer and ran a finger across the folded pink razor. Finally, his curiosity won. He pressed play. He heard his own voice raised in anger and disbelief.
"You shot her _______ son! You shot her ______ son? Are you out of your ________ mind?" It was his voice. Thick with the idea of a Russian accent and, strangely, the curse words removed, edited.
His brother was the next to speak from the tape, "Will you let him finish the story? Dammit Jamie!" His brother's voice was rising. It got quite high when he was excited. It had taken Jamie months to master that.
His voice again,"He killed our best chance to find the damn money! She got him to kill our best chance to find the money!"
The red head spoke from the recorder," He had his reasons Jamie."
"Yes! Yes! He had his reasons! She scared him. He acts like she is the scariest mother ________ in the whole damn world!"
"Only because she is," said the man with the gun.
The man with the gun smiled in Jamie's memory and then spoke up from the recorder,"She went to a great deal of effort to paint him as a threat to us. She laid it out carefully and even convincingly. She wanted me to go back and kill him for our sakes. She wanted it to happen."
"Yes! And you did it!"
"I met her son. He figured out that she had sent me. He agreed that she meant for me to kill him. He saw it as clearly as I did. He just didn't see that he had to die."
This time it was Joey's voice,"Why? Why did he have to die?"
"You've heard the stories. You have heard what she has been able to do. She can reach out and take anybody - ANYBODY. I bought us time. If I had met with her son and he walked out of that meeting, she would have known I was on to her. She might still think I am on to her. But the only way to buy us any time at all, was to shoot that man in the head."
His own voice again, " She played you! She let you walk in with a gun and you never took the shot!"
"I told you about the snipers..."
"NO! No! She told you about the snipers. She played to your vanity and you wallowed in it. You only had her word that there was a single gun out there and that is exactly what she held you at bay with - her word!"
There was silence from the recorder for a bit. A long bit. Finally the man with the gun said,"I bought us a little bit of time against the most dangerous person any of us have ever run across. We can't waste it."
"You bought us time against an old, withered ______ who knows how to intimidate cowards." And with that last pronouncement, the tape player clacked off at the end of its recording.
A speaker snapped and hissed and Jamie Suka looked up at a speaker in the ceiling.
"'An old, withered bitch,' am I? Some sort of con artist in your opinion Mr. Suka? Nothing to fear? Hmmm. We'll see."
"You are an interesting man, Mr. Suka. You like to kill people and yet you like to be funny too. That is why you kill the way you do. It is a part of your... 'act'. You fancy yourself a comedian but a very, very dark one. If it makes you feel anything at all, I appreciated your sense of humor. I am interested in what you think of mine."
"I know about your need to mirror your twin. Its why you have had to make yourself fat like him and talk like a cartoon's idea of a Russian. I wonder how deeply that need to be exactly the same runs. Let's see."
With that, the far wall lit up. It was not stone. It was glass. The glass was the wall to a matching cell. The lights were out. Jamie had only just taken his eyes away from the speaker, when the other room lighted.
Joey sat upright on the cot in the cell that mirrored the once Jamie found himself in. The same table and the same recorder on the table. The pink razor, or a copy, (which was the copy?), was on the floor. It was stained with blood. As was Joey's shirt and jacket. As was Joey's throat. He was quite dead.
Jamie Suka's scream was a thing of rage and murder and violent need.
The voice from the speaker laughed. "If you don't hurry, the rate of decomposition will be too great and you two will never look alike again." And laughter danced again from the speaker.
He had an idea of where here was. The smell. And the concrete. Too quiet though. But a prison. Too many years. To much time... doing time. Some sort of jail. A prison cell. Too quiet though. But a jail.
He opened his eyes again. Nothing hurt. His eyes seemed to be working together again. He sat up and looked around. He was on a cot. It was against the irregular stone wall of a, yes, a cell. A metal door was across from the cot. A table sat between the cot and the metal door. Never find a table in a prison cell. The lights were recessed and a bit dim. But he could still see the items on the table. A tape recorder and the pink razor the red head had given him. Jamie Suka sat up and spat on the floor.
He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand over his bald head. He walked over to the table and looked down at the tape recorder. "Who the hell uses a tape recorder?" he thought. The sentence, in his own mind, did not have the fake Russian accent draped across each word. No one heard.
He looked at it for a bit longer and ran a finger across the folded pink razor. Finally, his curiosity won. He pressed play. He heard his own voice raised in anger and disbelief.
"You shot her _______ son! You shot her ______ son? Are you out of your ________ mind?" It was his voice. Thick with the idea of a Russian accent and, strangely, the curse words removed, edited.
His brother was the next to speak from the tape, "Will you let him finish the story? Dammit Jamie!" His brother's voice was rising. It got quite high when he was excited. It had taken Jamie months to master that.
His voice again,"He killed our best chance to find the damn money! She got him to kill our best chance to find the money!"
The red head spoke from the recorder," He had his reasons Jamie."
"Yes! Yes! He had his reasons! She scared him. He acts like she is the scariest mother ________ in the whole damn world!"
"Only because she is," said the man with the gun.
The man with the gun smiled in Jamie's memory and then spoke up from the recorder,"She went to a great deal of effort to paint him as a threat to us. She laid it out carefully and even convincingly. She wanted me to go back and kill him for our sakes. She wanted it to happen."
"Yes! And you did it!"
"I met her son. He figured out that she had sent me. He agreed that she meant for me to kill him. He saw it as clearly as I did. He just didn't see that he had to die."
This time it was Joey's voice,"Why? Why did he have to die?"
"You've heard the stories. You have heard what she has been able to do. She can reach out and take anybody - ANYBODY. I bought us time. If I had met with her son and he walked out of that meeting, she would have known I was on to her. She might still think I am on to her. But the only way to buy us any time at all, was to shoot that man in the head."
His own voice again, " She played you! She let you walk in with a gun and you never took the shot!"
"I told you about the snipers..."
"NO! No! She told you about the snipers. She played to your vanity and you wallowed in it. You only had her word that there was a single gun out there and that is exactly what she held you at bay with - her word!"
There was silence from the recorder for a bit. A long bit. Finally the man with the gun said,"I bought us a little bit of time against the most dangerous person any of us have ever run across. We can't waste it."
"You bought us time against an old, withered ______ who knows how to intimidate cowards." And with that last pronouncement, the tape player clacked off at the end of its recording.
A speaker snapped and hissed and Jamie Suka looked up at a speaker in the ceiling.
"'An old, withered bitch,' am I? Some sort of con artist in your opinion Mr. Suka? Nothing to fear? Hmmm. We'll see."
"You are an interesting man, Mr. Suka. You like to kill people and yet you like to be funny too. That is why you kill the way you do. It is a part of your... 'act'. You fancy yourself a comedian but a very, very dark one. If it makes you feel anything at all, I appreciated your sense of humor. I am interested in what you think of mine."
"I know about your need to mirror your twin. Its why you have had to make yourself fat like him and talk like a cartoon's idea of a Russian. I wonder how deeply that need to be exactly the same runs. Let's see."
With that, the far wall lit up. It was not stone. It was glass. The glass was the wall to a matching cell. The lights were out. Jamie had only just taken his eyes away from the speaker, when the other room lighted.
Joey sat upright on the cot in the cell that mirrored the once Jamie found himself in. The same table and the same recorder on the table. The pink razor, or a copy, (which was the copy?), was on the floor. It was stained with blood. As was Joey's shirt and jacket. As was Joey's throat. He was quite dead.
Jamie Suka's scream was a thing of rage and murder and violent need.
The voice from the speaker laughed. "If you don't hurry, the rate of decomposition will be too great and you two will never look alike again." And laughter danced again from the speaker.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Chapter 16: White Sand and Blue Water
The beauty of the place to the eye was so simple. White sand. Sand like sugar had been poured out. Or maybe salt. Salt like around the rim of a glass the way the white sand ran around the edge of the coast. Crystal clear teal blue water adding to the illusion. But the heat could be oppressive. Only the breeze gave you any relief from it.
He stepped out of the small boat to feel the cool blue water rush through his beach shoes. He turned back to the older man who had rowed him over from the larger island and tipped him another 50. "Is that enough to keep you here until sundown?" The older man nodded his head vigorously.
The younger man lifted up his cap and ran his fingers through his hair and stared up at the sun. Even with his oh so expensive sunglasses the glare was amazing. He closed his eyes against it and let the last of his motion sickness wash away from his features in the heat.
He looked the tourist with his floral shirt and his white shorts and his rubbery beach shoes and sunglasses. He stood out among the locals but blended in with the outsiders who came here by the hundreds. Not that it would fool the man he was looking for.
He made his way straight to the little club just off the beach. The front wall was a series of garage doors all opened against the heat. Ceiling fans jousted with each other - each one spinning in time to its own rhythm. Every bottle of beer in front of every customer was sweating profusely - a testament to cold in the heart of a sinful heat.
A young black man was behind the bar and greeted him with English flowing with a Caribbean lilt. He smiled back and ordered a beer. The bottle was beheaded - expertly - and placed before him. He sipped it and sat quietly. He turned his back to the bar, rested his elbows on it, and smiled. The Cool Man knew this was someone's idea of heaven.
Just not Ginger's. He would hate the heat and the smells. He would have preferred air conditioning and an excuse to wear a coat and tie. This place, this paradise, would be hell for Ginger.
Ginger walked in from the rear of the bar, away from the garage door wall that faced the beach. The years had not been kind. His skin was loose and wrinkled and his head was completely bald.
There was no coat and of course no tie. His khaki shorts and blue t-shirt would have been all wrong for the Ginger he remembered. But they suited this man just fine. His shoulders were slumped in a way that Ginger's never were. This really could have been a completely different person.
He ambled behind the bar, reached into the cooler and took out a beer. The younger man seemed surprised - like this never happened. The man who used to be Ginger pulled the opener from the back pocket of the younger bar tender, decapitated his beer, and took a long, long pull from it. He looked down at the bottle of beer in his hand with a wistfulness that gave the impression that it was the first he had had in too many years.
He smiled at the cool man. "How the hell have you been boy?"
The other bar tender's mouth dropped open at the sound of Ginger's English accent. He had never heard Vincent speak with anything other than a South Georgia drawl. And he had never seen Vincent drink an ounce of alcohol.
The cool man smiled a toothy grin at him. "How long has it been since you had an icy cold beer?"
"Since the day I ran from your mother. I like living more than drinking and there was no way in hell I was going to be impaired if she was looking for me."
The cool man stood a little straighter. "Ginger, she didn't send me and I am not going to tell her I found you."
Ginger laughed long and hard at that. "Boy, if you found me, it just means that she decided some where along the line to let me live. You may be good kid. Hell, you ARE good. But she is the best there is." He watched the younger man start to say something and then let it go.
Ginger sipped his beer again. "You coming here - its given me a little bit of ME back. I think maybe, as long as I stay here, in a place I hate, maybe I can relax a bit. Speak with my own voice. Have a pint once and again. Grow my hair back out. Be just a bit more me."
The younger man just stared at him. Ginger's fear of his mother was only matched by his reverence for her. "Ginger, you honestly think she's figured out where you are, decided its enough of a hell for you, that it is a suitable punishment for you? You really think she is that devious? That calculating?" The cool man said it with a laugh just out of his voice.
Ginger grew more serious in response. "Boy, it is the only thing that explains why I have lived this long."
The cool man shook his head at the man who had been like a father to him. Ginger smiled at him. "You know boy, for someone so smart, you..."the words seemed to leave him. "Your mother is a blind spot for you. You never have given her enough credit. Even going back to that business with Clay Diamond. She had it all worked out before you ever walked in and you never saw it."
"Not all of it," the younger man said with a wink.
"Just because she let you keep the money?" Ginger watched as the boy's face shrank into itself. "She knew that Diamond was your straw man. And she made him pay for it. What? You think that mugging was a mugging? Really? See? Blind spot."
They found a table after that. More beers were ordered and an early dinner too. They sat and talked about the old days and cards and money and the family business. Ginger let the boy have this moment. He let it play out like it really was just two old friends talking about the good old days. Finally, he sat his last beer down and asked, "Why did you come to find me, boy?"
"I need help. I think I know how to be free of her. I have an angle. More money than even she could hope to fight. I just have to get to it. For that, I need muscle. I need someone who isn't afraid to put a hole in somebody's head at a moment's notice. I need someone I can trust and who has resources of their own."
Ginger held his hands up. "Son, I don't have all the contacts I had ten years ago. And even I ain't ballsy enough to go up against your mother."
"Ginger, I know that. I respect that. I wasn't talking about you. I just need your advice. How do I track down my brother?"
Monday, March 2, 2015
Chapter 15: Deathly Quiet
The cool man got out of the back of the black Lincoln and turned back to offer his hand to his wife. She took his hand and slid her right leg across the seat and out the door until the improbably long heel of her shoe crunched down into the remnants of ice from one of the last cold nights of the year. He smiled as she came up out the car with just the vague outline of a memory of a circus performer on stilts. She squeezed his hand - hard. "One comment about about a trapeze artist or a lion tamer and you will sleep alone tonight," she threatened.
"Dum da dum da da DUM dum da da," me mumbled musically under his breath followed by an all together too loud for the time of night, "Yowwwch," as he shook his fingers free of her squeezing hand.
They laughed together and he tried to kiss her as the night doorman opened the warmth of their building before them. He finally managed to land the kiss she had worked so hard to pretend she did not want, but it took him until the elevator was almost to their floor. The doors opened and they walked to their apartment door arm in arm with his fingers now tangled in the straps of the shoes with the too high heels as she walked barefoot with her head on his shoulder.
They found themselves in their bedroom and peeling out of their clothes. Not in the rushed way of that first time. Not in the hungry way of that time in the cabin in the Poconos. But in that languid way - that casual way that had become comfortable and familiar. She turned in her nakedness and the light from the lamp showed the goose flesh across the top of her left shoulder as it was just a bit too cold for her. She slid his old Lone Star Beer t-shirt over her head and as she reached up to pull her hair free of its collar, the shirt teased up a view of the curve of her bottom where her legs made peace with the rest of her body.
That view, that glimpse had been enough. The night, the dinner, the play, the flirting in the car, the stolen kiss in the elevator - they had all hinted. But they were not a couple new to being in love. The hints now, were just that, hints. They could be ignored or overlooked or even missed. But not this time.
She turned to look at him and his face spelled it all out in vulgarity and passion. She forgot what she was going to say and simply inhaled, deeply. He was across the room - deliberately - smoothly - gracefully and one arm was around her waist and the other hand gripping her hair before that inhaled breath had ever cleared her lips.
Later.
The t-shirt was on the floor near the closet door and she was sleeping in the middle of the bed with a slight snore rustling the air. He sat in a chair across from the bed still naked with an empty rock glass in his hand. He was smiling. He would periodically realize he was smiling and make himself stop. And then later, realize again, he was smiling.
He wanted more Scotch. He opened a drawer in the dresser next to the chair and pulled out a pair of sleep pants. He pulled them on, not bothering to tie them and picked up his empty glass from the arm of the chair and walked back down the hall to the den. He walked straight to the bar where the bottle of Scotch sat. The bottle was open with its cork laying on its side by the bottle. He sat his glass down, poured two fingers, replaced the cork in the bottle and then returned the bottle to its peers on the shelf behind the bar.
He sipped his Scotch and savored the other man's patience. He never left a bottle of Scotch uncorked.
He walked around the bar and looked out the windows of his apartment with star light not revealing a thing. He leaned back and propped his elbows against the bar. He let the silence stretch out and again felt an appreciation for how the man was attempting to sow fear. He was quite honestly impressed.
He stood up straight. Sipped his Scotch and sighed. "You've met my mother," he said in a conversational tone.
"Let me guess," he continued. "She told you there was no money or maybe, just that I had no way of tracking it down. She told you that besides the love of my father, the two of you had another thing in common - my hatred. She told you that I meant to ruin you and eventually her too. But that I am a particularly twisted bit of evil and that I could not do you the damage I felt you deserved until you trusted me. Until you counted on me. Until you loved me."
"She told you some version of the story of Clay Diamond and how she pays for his care to this day. She makes me out to be a monster. but not someone you should be afraid of. You should feel insulted. The idea that I could play you the way I have played a hundred other suckers over the years - insulting. A fatal bit of disrespect."
"Here's something for you though. Our father has been dead for years and people still call her the 'Judge's wife.' She still runs a multi-million dollar outfit from Houston - Houston of all places! She keeps the Mexicans and the Russians and the Italians and the Colombians and the Chechins - the bat crap crazy Chechins! - in line."
"And the whole damn time she lives in a little house just outside Crosby! No gated community or armed guards patrolling around. Just a little house in the middle of small town nowhere - and the absolute certainty of EVERYONE involved that there is not a single solitary angle that she has not seen. Not a single action you can take that she is not prepared to blow up right in the face of the person you love most!"
He wiped his mouth. Took a sip of his drink. Realized he was breathing deeply. How loud had he gotten? He paused to listen. He calmed himself as he could only hear the sound of his heart thumping in his ears. In seconds, he was the cool man again.
It got deathly quiet. He could just make out the sound of the not quite snoring coming from the bedroom. He brought the glass to his nose. The vanilla was just coming to ascendancy.
"She does not take an action she does not need to take. If she can get a Russian to take out a Mexican so the Chechins think twice about her bit of the drug trade..."
He sipped his drink again. He shook his head. "She sent you here to kill me. You might not have even known that you were going to kill me when you got here, but she sent you here to kill me. Or she might have hoped I was better at the violence than she ever trained me to be. Maybe she thought I would kill you. I get that part. And that is what made me walk in here seeing that bottle on the bar. I know that its just possible that she wants me to kill you and I will not give her that satisfaction. But then again," and he laughed at this,"she could have been counting on that little bit of defiance on my part to be just the opening you needed to do the job."
The other man, the unseen man, the man with the gun laughed at this.
The cool man's eyes widened at the sound but soon joined in the joke. He could not tell where the laughter was coming from anyway. And he saw the humor. The man with the gun really did NOT need his help if he meant to kill him.
"How did you know I met with your mother?"
The cool man sipped his Scotch. He did not smile. He would not let himself smile. He was giddy with life - with victory. But he would not smile. He was actually going to live through this night.
"My mother is the only other person I know who truly appreciates how under rated that particular brand of Scotch really is. She loves the way the vanilla comes out so late in the experience."
The man with the gun nodded his head from the darkness knowing the gesture was for him alone. With that, he smiled. It was a lonely smile. A resigned smile. The road ahead was going to be so much harder than he had ever thought it would be.
And then he shot the cool man in the head.
"Dum da dum da da DUM dum da da," me mumbled musically under his breath followed by an all together too loud for the time of night, "Yowwwch," as he shook his fingers free of her squeezing hand.
They laughed together and he tried to kiss her as the night doorman opened the warmth of their building before them. He finally managed to land the kiss she had worked so hard to pretend she did not want, but it took him until the elevator was almost to their floor. The doors opened and they walked to their apartment door arm in arm with his fingers now tangled in the straps of the shoes with the too high heels as she walked barefoot with her head on his shoulder.
They found themselves in their bedroom and peeling out of their clothes. Not in the rushed way of that first time. Not in the hungry way of that time in the cabin in the Poconos. But in that languid way - that casual way that had become comfortable and familiar. She turned in her nakedness and the light from the lamp showed the goose flesh across the top of her left shoulder as it was just a bit too cold for her. She slid his old Lone Star Beer t-shirt over her head and as she reached up to pull her hair free of its collar, the shirt teased up a view of the curve of her bottom where her legs made peace with the rest of her body.
That view, that glimpse had been enough. The night, the dinner, the play, the flirting in the car, the stolen kiss in the elevator - they had all hinted. But they were not a couple new to being in love. The hints now, were just that, hints. They could be ignored or overlooked or even missed. But not this time.
She turned to look at him and his face spelled it all out in vulgarity and passion. She forgot what she was going to say and simply inhaled, deeply. He was across the room - deliberately - smoothly - gracefully and one arm was around her waist and the other hand gripping her hair before that inhaled breath had ever cleared her lips.
Later.
The t-shirt was on the floor near the closet door and she was sleeping in the middle of the bed with a slight snore rustling the air. He sat in a chair across from the bed still naked with an empty rock glass in his hand. He was smiling. He would periodically realize he was smiling and make himself stop. And then later, realize again, he was smiling.
He wanted more Scotch. He opened a drawer in the dresser next to the chair and pulled out a pair of sleep pants. He pulled them on, not bothering to tie them and picked up his empty glass from the arm of the chair and walked back down the hall to the den. He walked straight to the bar where the bottle of Scotch sat. The bottle was open with its cork laying on its side by the bottle. He sat his glass down, poured two fingers, replaced the cork in the bottle and then returned the bottle to its peers on the shelf behind the bar.
He sipped his Scotch and savored the other man's patience. He never left a bottle of Scotch uncorked.
He walked around the bar and looked out the windows of his apartment with star light not revealing a thing. He leaned back and propped his elbows against the bar. He let the silence stretch out and again felt an appreciation for how the man was attempting to sow fear. He was quite honestly impressed.
He stood up straight. Sipped his Scotch and sighed. "You've met my mother," he said in a conversational tone.
"Let me guess," he continued. "She told you there was no money or maybe, just that I had no way of tracking it down. She told you that besides the love of my father, the two of you had another thing in common - my hatred. She told you that I meant to ruin you and eventually her too. But that I am a particularly twisted bit of evil and that I could not do you the damage I felt you deserved until you trusted me. Until you counted on me. Until you loved me."
"She told you some version of the story of Clay Diamond and how she pays for his care to this day. She makes me out to be a monster. but not someone you should be afraid of. You should feel insulted. The idea that I could play you the way I have played a hundred other suckers over the years - insulting. A fatal bit of disrespect."
"Here's something for you though. Our father has been dead for years and people still call her the 'Judge's wife.' She still runs a multi-million dollar outfit from Houston - Houston of all places! She keeps the Mexicans and the Russians and the Italians and the Colombians and the Chechins - the bat crap crazy Chechins! - in line."
"And the whole damn time she lives in a little house just outside Crosby! No gated community or armed guards patrolling around. Just a little house in the middle of small town nowhere - and the absolute certainty of EVERYONE involved that there is not a single solitary angle that she has not seen. Not a single action you can take that she is not prepared to blow up right in the face of the person you love most!"
He wiped his mouth. Took a sip of his drink. Realized he was breathing deeply. How loud had he gotten? He paused to listen. He calmed himself as he could only hear the sound of his heart thumping in his ears. In seconds, he was the cool man again.
It got deathly quiet. He could just make out the sound of the not quite snoring coming from the bedroom. He brought the glass to his nose. The vanilla was just coming to ascendancy.
"She does not take an action she does not need to take. If she can get a Russian to take out a Mexican so the Chechins think twice about her bit of the drug trade..."
He sipped his drink again. He shook his head. "She sent you here to kill me. You might not have even known that you were going to kill me when you got here, but she sent you here to kill me. Or she might have hoped I was better at the violence than she ever trained me to be. Maybe she thought I would kill you. I get that part. And that is what made me walk in here seeing that bottle on the bar. I know that its just possible that she wants me to kill you and I will not give her that satisfaction. But then again," and he laughed at this,"she could have been counting on that little bit of defiance on my part to be just the opening you needed to do the job."
The other man, the unseen man, the man with the gun laughed at this.
The cool man's eyes widened at the sound but soon joined in the joke. He could not tell where the laughter was coming from anyway. And he saw the humor. The man with the gun really did NOT need his help if he meant to kill him.
"How did you know I met with your mother?"
The cool man sipped his Scotch. He did not smile. He would not let himself smile. He was giddy with life - with victory. But he would not smile. He was actually going to live through this night.
"My mother is the only other person I know who truly appreciates how under rated that particular brand of Scotch really is. She loves the way the vanilla comes out so late in the experience."
The man with the gun nodded his head from the darkness knowing the gesture was for him alone. With that, he smiled. It was a lonely smile. A resigned smile. The road ahead was going to be so much harder than he had ever thought it would be.
And then he shot the cool man in the head.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Chapter 14: A Stunning View
He walked into the room and his attention was immediately taken by the windows. Not the view. The view was stunning. New York at sunset and so far above the rest of the world with just a few other towers visible as he looked out those giant windows. It was stunning. Would have been. If he had noticed.
But the windows. They stretched from the floor to the ceiling, They formed the outer wall and invited the whole of the horizon into the room. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A trickle of sweat ran down the small of his back under his sports coat and around the gun nestled there. He was suddenly conscious of how far his hands were from that gun. And he was wary of moving his hands any where near it.
That was when she came out from behind the bar. She cast a gaze to the windows as she crossed the room and offered him a Scotch. She smiled. "So nice to finally see you again, young man. Amazing view isn't it? The sun coming in can be a bit blinding from this angle, but the colors on the horizon are amazing."
He took the Scotch from her and turned his eyes to her. The years had been kind. She still held her figure. He noticed newer, deeper lines around her eyes and lips and the grey creeping into her hair. Still, no one would have thought for a moment that she was two decades older than him.
This was no good. He was actually daunted. He was on his heels. Time to fix that. "I was wondering why your boys let me keep my gun and then I saw those windows. Just how many sights are trained on my anyways?"
"Very good. Very scrappy. I have always liked that about you. A bit direct. But then, that tends to help in your line of work. The only chance you had to take control of this encounter was a blunt statement of the facts to unnerve me. And you came to that conclusion very quickly. That's good."
They smiled at each other. She gestured to the sofa and they each sat down looking out at the orange and purple and grey and red as their small piece of the world turned its back on the sun.
He sipped the Scotch. And sat.
She brought her drink to her nose, inhaled, and smiled again. "The vanilla is just coming out. I think I love the smell at this point even more than the taste itself."
He looked at her. He sipped. And sat.
She laughed. And sipped her drink. And sat.
"Six," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I know. Not all my decision. Some of my people are a little over protective. I had to be loud," she paused and smiled - he could tell it had been some time since she had had to be loud to get her way, "I had to be loud to convince them to let you keep your gun. My concession was more than one sniper out there," she nodded to the windows again.
He inhaled deeply. Sipped the drink in his left hand and slowly opened his right and let it rest on the arm of the sofa. The movement of his right hand was not lost on her. He swallowed deeply, cleared his throat. "Six?" he said. "Six is actually kind of flattering."
"Exactly. I was urged to use 3 but decided, if I was going to have to use more than one, I should be extravagant. I think it serves to convey several messages."
He laughed. It was not theater. It was a genuine laugh. He ran his right hand through his hair and then looked at it, realizing how quickly he had moved it. And laughed again. "You let me walk in here, with you, all alone, and me with a gun no less. You aren't scared of me. But you put me up on this stage facing the sun with six snipers staring at me. You respect what I can do. This meeting was expensive. And I ain't even talking about the Scotch."
"It is an important meeting. Our lives depend on how this meeting goes."
She sipped her Scotch.
But the windows. They stretched from the floor to the ceiling, They formed the outer wall and invited the whole of the horizon into the room. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A trickle of sweat ran down the small of his back under his sports coat and around the gun nestled there. He was suddenly conscious of how far his hands were from that gun. And he was wary of moving his hands any where near it.
That was when she came out from behind the bar. She cast a gaze to the windows as she crossed the room and offered him a Scotch. She smiled. "So nice to finally see you again, young man. Amazing view isn't it? The sun coming in can be a bit blinding from this angle, but the colors on the horizon are amazing."
He took the Scotch from her and turned his eyes to her. The years had been kind. She still held her figure. He noticed newer, deeper lines around her eyes and lips and the grey creeping into her hair. Still, no one would have thought for a moment that she was two decades older than him.
This was no good. He was actually daunted. He was on his heels. Time to fix that. "I was wondering why your boys let me keep my gun and then I saw those windows. Just how many sights are trained on my anyways?"
"Very good. Very scrappy. I have always liked that about you. A bit direct. But then, that tends to help in your line of work. The only chance you had to take control of this encounter was a blunt statement of the facts to unnerve me. And you came to that conclusion very quickly. That's good."
They smiled at each other. She gestured to the sofa and they each sat down looking out at the orange and purple and grey and red as their small piece of the world turned its back on the sun.
He sipped the Scotch. And sat.
She brought her drink to her nose, inhaled, and smiled again. "The vanilla is just coming out. I think I love the smell at this point even more than the taste itself."
He looked at her. He sipped. And sat.
She laughed. And sipped her drink. And sat.
"Six," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I know. Not all my decision. Some of my people are a little over protective. I had to be loud," she paused and smiled - he could tell it had been some time since she had had to be loud to get her way, "I had to be loud to convince them to let you keep your gun. My concession was more than one sniper out there," she nodded to the windows again.
He inhaled deeply. Sipped the drink in his left hand and slowly opened his right and let it rest on the arm of the sofa. The movement of his right hand was not lost on her. He swallowed deeply, cleared his throat. "Six?" he said. "Six is actually kind of flattering."
"Exactly. I was urged to use 3 but decided, if I was going to have to use more than one, I should be extravagant. I think it serves to convey several messages."
He laughed. It was not theater. It was a genuine laugh. He ran his right hand through his hair and then looked at it, realizing how quickly he had moved it. And laughed again. "You let me walk in here, with you, all alone, and me with a gun no less. You aren't scared of me. But you put me up on this stage facing the sun with six snipers staring at me. You respect what I can do. This meeting was expensive. And I ain't even talking about the Scotch."
"It is an important meeting. Our lives depend on how this meeting goes."
She sipped her Scotch.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Chapter 13 - Talking with D
The cool man walked into the room and pushed the door smoothly and slowly closed behind him. The curtains were open and the window was full of orange and pinks and purples as the sun slid behind the world. The lights were off but the shape in the bed could be seen clearly enough. An old man sat inclined to a sitting position. "Well, D. Bet you didn't think you'd be seeing me again. I didn't expect to come again. But here I am."
"What brings you back? You just like seeing me this way?" The shadows from the fleeing sun and the advancing night kept the older man's face in shadow.
"No. No. You like this... It just makes me sad. Its why I don't come to see you more often. I would prefer to remember you in your prime. When you were a force to be reckoned with."
"Back before you ruined me you mean."
"Now that's harsh, D. I didn't do this to you. My mama did. Or Ginger, on her orders. Or the people he hired on her orders. Any of those folks are easier to blame than me - when you think about it."
"Thinking ain't so easy for me now. Easy to blame you though. You set it all to play."
The cool man sat down in the chair at the foot of the bed and he leaned back against the not quite soft enough cushions you only found in hospitals or old folks homes. The shadows now hid his face too. He smiled. "But we had our moment though, didn't we? We took every dime they had that night at my Mama's table. EVERY dime. And thanks to it looking like you won it all off of me, my mama never got around to making me give any of the cash back. That was my seed money, D. That was the big lump of cash that I have just kept growing. That was my first step out from under Mama's thumb. I owe you for that Diamond. I really do."
"Hahahahahahahaha. Your mama had to have figured something out or I wouldn't be sitting here like this. Drooling on myself."
"Yeah. Took her a while though. Don't get me wrong. She probably figured out that I had used you as a Judas goat. The minute Ginger told her that you had busted me - that must have smelled funny to her. And she probably appreciated how ballsy a play it had been. That would have tickled her. For a while. Buuuutttt...."
The cool man crossed his legs and shook his head. "But she must have started wondering. 'how could the boy have been sure Diamond would keep his part of the bargain,' That's like her. Even when everything is said and done, she has to know. How did this all fit together? How did a teenage boy get a grown man to play his part? How did a teenage boy get a grown man to give him an incredibly large sum of money? Unfortunately for you, she figured it out. Sorry for that."
"You ain't sorry for nothing. Not one little bit of it. Part of you wanted this to happen to me. Part of you hated yourself for what YOU did to get away from her." Drool dripped from the older man's chin.
The cool man smiled. "We do this every time I come here. Not why I came though," He watched the drool pool on the breast of the old man's pajama top. He made no move to wipe it up.
"The reason I am here is that its moving fast now. Real fast. Almost too fast. I found the Farfenelli girl. Married her. I know. But I think I actually love her."
"Found my brother. He is just as scary as I think Mama ever wanted him to be. Makes me nervous and I don't get nervous. But here is a wrinkle - he has found the twins. The Rusoff twins. They don't seem to know a thing about the money but... Its an unknown and they are incredibly intimidating too. My brother with those two working together would give my mother and Ginger pause. And then you throw in that red head that works for them. I can't tell if she is sleeping with my brother or just wants to be sleeping with him, but she makes the Rusoff twins... nervous, maybe. I don't think anything scares them exactly."
"A couple of more pieces have to be set up jussst right, and then... the dominoes will all fall. It is working out better than I could have hoped. And that is making me... nervous."
"So you come here to see me. Why? It is not like I am going to offer you any advice you haven't thought of already."
The cool man laughed. A little too loudly. A nurse walked in. "Sir, I'm sorry, but visiting hours ended a couple of hours ago."
"Oh, I know. I just like sitting here and keeping him company. Could I stay just a little while longer?"
The nurse looked at him in his nice suit and his perfectly tied tie. The laughter here of all places had offended her - it was so disrespectful. But he was a handsome man and as he leaned forward in the chair the last bit of orange sunlight caught the earnestness of his eyes. She was about to let him stay until she turned around and saw the drool on the patient's chin and chest. Who sits there laughing while a brain damaged old man drools on himself? "No sir. I am afraid you will need to leave."
The cool man stood and smiled at the nurse and nodded his goodbye to her. In his head he said, "So long D. It was good seeing you again."
"Go to hell," he imagined the silent old man saying.
End Chapter Thirteen
"What brings you back? You just like seeing me this way?" The shadows from the fleeing sun and the advancing night kept the older man's face in shadow.
"No. No. You like this... It just makes me sad. Its why I don't come to see you more often. I would prefer to remember you in your prime. When you were a force to be reckoned with."
"Back before you ruined me you mean."
"Now that's harsh, D. I didn't do this to you. My mama did. Or Ginger, on her orders. Or the people he hired on her orders. Any of those folks are easier to blame than me - when you think about it."
"Thinking ain't so easy for me now. Easy to blame you though. You set it all to play."
The cool man sat down in the chair at the foot of the bed and he leaned back against the not quite soft enough cushions you only found in hospitals or old folks homes. The shadows now hid his face too. He smiled. "But we had our moment though, didn't we? We took every dime they had that night at my Mama's table. EVERY dime. And thanks to it looking like you won it all off of me, my mama never got around to making me give any of the cash back. That was my seed money, D. That was the big lump of cash that I have just kept growing. That was my first step out from under Mama's thumb. I owe you for that Diamond. I really do."
"Hahahahahahahaha. Your mama had to have figured something out or I wouldn't be sitting here like this. Drooling on myself."
"Yeah. Took her a while though. Don't get me wrong. She probably figured out that I had used you as a Judas goat. The minute Ginger told her that you had busted me - that must have smelled funny to her. And she probably appreciated how ballsy a play it had been. That would have tickled her. For a while. Buuuutttt...."
The cool man crossed his legs and shook his head. "But she must have started wondering. 'how could the boy have been sure Diamond would keep his part of the bargain,' That's like her. Even when everything is said and done, she has to know. How did this all fit together? How did a teenage boy get a grown man to play his part? How did a teenage boy get a grown man to give him an incredibly large sum of money? Unfortunately for you, she figured it out. Sorry for that."
"You ain't sorry for nothing. Not one little bit of it. Part of you wanted this to happen to me. Part of you hated yourself for what YOU did to get away from her." Drool dripped from the older man's chin.
The cool man smiled. "We do this every time I come here. Not why I came though," He watched the drool pool on the breast of the old man's pajama top. He made no move to wipe it up.
"The reason I am here is that its moving fast now. Real fast. Almost too fast. I found the Farfenelli girl. Married her. I know. But I think I actually love her."
"Found my brother. He is just as scary as I think Mama ever wanted him to be. Makes me nervous and I don't get nervous. But here is a wrinkle - he has found the twins. The Rusoff twins. They don't seem to know a thing about the money but... Its an unknown and they are incredibly intimidating too. My brother with those two working together would give my mother and Ginger pause. And then you throw in that red head that works for them. I can't tell if she is sleeping with my brother or just wants to be sleeping with him, but she makes the Rusoff twins... nervous, maybe. I don't think anything scares them exactly."
"A couple of more pieces have to be set up jussst right, and then... the dominoes will all fall. It is working out better than I could have hoped. And that is making me... nervous."
"So you come here to see me. Why? It is not like I am going to offer you any advice you haven't thought of already."
The cool man laughed. A little too loudly. A nurse walked in. "Sir, I'm sorry, but visiting hours ended a couple of hours ago."
"Oh, I know. I just like sitting here and keeping him company. Could I stay just a little while longer?"
The nurse looked at him in his nice suit and his perfectly tied tie. The laughter here of all places had offended her - it was so disrespectful. But he was a handsome man and as he leaned forward in the chair the last bit of orange sunlight caught the earnestness of his eyes. She was about to let him stay until she turned around and saw the drool on the patient's chin and chest. Who sits there laughing while a brain damaged old man drools on himself? "No sir. I am afraid you will need to leave."
The cool man stood and smiled at the nurse and nodded his goodbye to her. In his head he said, "So long D. It was good seeing you again."
"Go to hell," he imagined the silent old man saying.
End Chapter Thirteen
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