Measure of a man, p.1
Measure of a Man, page 1
Measure of a Man
Bonnie Dee
Published 2007
ISBN 1-59578-333-4
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2007, Bonnie Dee. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
http://LSbooks.com
Email:
raven@LSbooks.com
Editor
Chrissie Henderson
Cover Artist
April Martinez
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Chapter One
“You got my money, pal?” Ian’s voice was light with only a suggested undercurrent of threat. He knew how to intimidate without breaking from his nice-guy image. “You know, if it was just me I’d cut you some slack, but it’s not up to me.” This wasn’t true, but tapping into a client’s fear of bigger sharks never hurt. He always alluded to someone higher on the food chain who might do much worse than rough a guy up for what he owed. It kept the losers in line.
“End of the week, I swear.” Ron Haskell’s face was red and sweating and Ian hadn’t even touched him yet. “I had the money ready for you, but then something came up, you know? I have to contact a few people and get it together again. I’ll pay you by Friday. Please, just give me a couple days extension!”
He sighed theatrically. “Ronnie, what am I gonna do? You’re putting me in a situation here.” Throwing an arm around Haskell’s shoulders, he squeezed tight and let his mind go, sending tendrils of thought coiling around the addict’s mind, sniffing out the truth. There was a whiff of something that smelled like money and he latched onto it, gripping the man’s shoulders even harder. “I get the feeling you’re not telling me the whole truth. Is that right, buddy?”
“No. I gave you all I got. Honest.”
Haskell’s shirt was damp beneath Ian’s arm, his body radiating heat like a furnace. Ian smelled the stink of fear, the quiver of a body in withdrawal and, inside his mind, heard the helpless squeal of a mouse in a trap. Haskell had no money at the moment, but knew where to get some.
With a last hug, he let the shaking junkie go. “All right. Friday for sure.” He pointed a finger at him and grinned. “Promise?”
“Yes. Yes, I promise.” Haskell looked like he might collapse, blubbering in gratitude.
Ian turned to walk out of the men’s room then at the last minute swung around, driving a fist into the man’s scrawny belly.
Doubling over with a gasp of expelled air, Haskell went down to his knees. He clutched his gut and choked for his next breath.
Ian casually pushed him over on his side with one foot and pulled off one of Haskell’s scuffed leather boots. Reaching inside, he extracted a wad of folded bills and counted out two hundred bucks, only a third of what the guy owed but better than nothing. He tossed the boot back at its owner, hitting him in the chest. “Don’t lie to me, man. That’s no way to do business.”
Haskell lay curled in a fetal position, coughing.
Ian stepped over the man’s prone body and went to the sink to wash his hands. Looking in the grimy, cracked mirror at his reflection, he ran a hand through his shaggy, brown hair, widened his brown eyes and lifted his eyebrows in feigned disbelief then practiced his disarming smile. Good, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who beat up other guys in men’s restrooms. He turned and walked out of the restroom, leaving Haskell sobbing for breath on the dirty floor.
In the smoke-hazed pub, he took a seat near the end of the bar and ordered whiskey, no ice, from the bartender. Leaning his elbows on the counter, he settled his ass on the stool to watch an inning of a baseball game before his next appointment.
Ian was home. He’d spent most of his life in dark, run-down dives like Manny’s. Upscale sports bars with a bank of big screen TVs and flavored martinis made him itchy. As he grabbed a handful of peanuts and tossed them in his mouth, he glimpsed Ron Haskell stumbling past on his way to the front door.
The game was on commercial break. Ian frowned in annoyance when Raymond Brody’s face, radiating paternal concern and caring, filled the screen.
“Are you tired of feeling alone?” the pseudo-spiritual leader intoned. There was an insert shot of an old woman gazing sadly out a window. “Are you drained by the speed and pressure of today’s world?” Another view of a city sidewalk, crowded with people. “Are you haunted by a pervading sense of worthlessness or self-doubt?” A series of shots flashed on the screen: a well-dressed businessman at his desk, head buried in his hands; a crying young mother holding a baby; an emaciated man hooked up to an IV in a hospital bed; a homeless woman walking down the street away from the camera.
Ian sipped his drink and stared at the TV, attention caught in spite of himself.
“Do you long for peace, simplicity, tranquility and a renewed sense of purpose in your life?”
“What a load of shit,” he muttered.
Manny came over, poured him another shot, and looked up at the TV, too.
The camera drifted over pastoral countryside, past a sign welcoming visitors and through wide-open gates. It angled over a green lawn with flowers and pathways to a white building nestled among the trees. Brody’s rich, warm voice continued, “The Center for Human Wellbeing located in the heartland of America is a retreat from the world where you can relax and renew your spirit.”
“Bullshit,” Ian repeated. “Retreats, DVDs, lessons, speaking engagements, this guy’s making money faster than the Treasury can crank it out. What a scam!”
Manny rapped his hand on the bar. “Shh, I wanna hear.”
There was a barrage of quick camera shots of forest fires, monsoons, mudslides, floods and tornadoes. Brody’s spoke soothingly over the montage. “Isn’t it time you discovered the true meaning of your time spent in this world?” Once more the smiling face of the motivational speaker/guru/whatever the hell he was supposed to be filled the screen. “It’s not too late. Call the toll free number now for an informational brochure about the Center for Human Wellbeing. It could change your life.”
The phone number shone stark and black against a setting sun then the picture dissolved. The next advertisement, a promo for the latest horror movie, flashed on the screen.
“Bullshit!” Ian said one last time, tossing his second drink back.
“I don’t know.” Manny wiped the bar with a stained towel. “My wife got that DVD, Finding Faith in Yourself and she hasn’t been so happy in a long time. Maybe this guy’s onto something.”
“Whatever.” Ian waved away the bottle when Manny moved to pour him another. He needed to keep sharp for his meeting with Quinlan.
The movie promo ended and the Giants game resumed. Ian silenced his growling stomach with another handful of peanuts. Gazing at green grass and white uniformed players, he zoned out, reaching a Zen-like level of peace. He liked baseball. It was a pure world where the goal was simple and the rules clear.
The batter hit a triple and everyone in the bar yelled. For a moment they were united in the simple bond of shared excitement as their team scored. It was as close as Ian came to having friends. He half rose off his seat, shouting along with the others.
When he sat back down, a pair of arms slid around his waist and the smell of a woman’s too-strong perfume enveloped him. “Hey, babe,” a sultry voice purred.
Ian tried to place it. Sherry, Shanise, Cheryl, Shirley?
“Sharysse!” He erased his annoyed frown and replaced it with a smile before turning to face her. “Long time. How’ve you been?”
“Missing you,” she answered, sidling in close to Ian and gazing into his eyes. Hers were light blue, ringed with smudged, iridescent blue mascara. Her lush body was poured into a matching peacock blue dress. “I thought you’d call.”
He cocked his head to the side and lied with a smile. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I lost your number, but I’ve been thinking about you ever since. That night was really special.” He struggled to remember Sharysse in the sack.
“Really?” She leaned into his side, her warm body pressing against his, and he began to believe his own lie.
“Of course! It was amazing. I’ve never felt like that before.”
“Me too.” Her hand rested on his thigh, rubbing up and down its length, stiffening his cock. “But when you didn’t call, I thought … I mean, if you’d only given me your number, I could’ve called you.”
Ian never gave his number out to women. “I’m sorry, babe.” He leaned in close and pressed a kiss to Sharysse’s warm cheek. Her arms tightened their embrace around his waist. Her soft hair brushed his jaw as he briefly held her. It actually felt kind of nice and he considered taking it further, but he was out of time.
He gently extricated himself from her clinging arms. “Sherry, I’m sorry. I’ve got a meeting I need to get to. I’m already late.” Leaning down, he covered her soft, peach mouth with his, kissing her deeply enough to, hopefully, leave her speechless. When he pulled back, Sharysse blinked and gasped like a landed fish.
He traced a hand along her cheek. “Bye. Call you soon.
Stepping out of the smoky bar into a dark night illuminated by neon and streetlights, he walked down the sidewalk.
Peace. Tranquility. A sense of purpose. Brody’s seductive voice echoed in Ian’s mind on a repeating loop. He looked around at the hookers, hustlers and homeless he passed on the street in this seedy Reno neighborhood. “Bullshit,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders against the chill air and striding purposefully toward his meeting in the park.
* * * *
Ian arrived far too early but that was okay. It was always smarter to get there in advance, check out the place for an easy out if things went sour. He appreciated that Quinlan had chosen an open area by the dry, leaf-choked fountain, where he could see what was coming in all directions. Ian hated meeting people in alleys or abandoned buildings where anything might be hiding in the shadows.
The night was colder than he’d expected and he bounced on his heels a little, wishing he’d worn a jacket instead of just a T-shirt. His bare arms prickled with gooseflesh. Digging in his back pocket, he pulled out the last little square from a pack of Nicorette and popped it in his mouth. As his jaws worked the precious drops of nicotine out of the gum, he cursed his attempt to give up smoking. For a guy who operated primarily on impulse, it was amazing he’d been able to kick the habit. So far.
A dark figure approached from the east side of the park. Ian bounced a little harder in anticipation and his pulse sped up. Nothing was ever routine in his line of work. Things might take a nasty turn in the blink of an eye.
“Hey. What have you got for me?” Quinlan was a tall man with thick glasses and a crew cut. He looked and sounded too bookish and educated to be a bottom feeding, petty criminal, which explained why he was so good at his job.
Usually Ian had more to show, but tonight it was a handful of credit cards taken from wallets he’d lifted earlier that day. He drew them from his jeans pocket and fanned them out for Quinlan.
The man took the cards and studied them. “How old?”
“Few hours.”
“That’s old.” Quinlan looked up, pale blue eyes magnified by the glasses. “Not worth much.”
“Not my fault. You wouldn’t meet me any sooner.”
Quinlan shrugged. “Two hundred.”
Ian hesitated. He knew better than to complain since it wouldn’t do any good, and he didn’t want the danger of hanging onto the cards and using them. Besides, Ian had gotten several hundred in cash from the wallets, a pretty good haul. “All right.”
Quinlan pocketed the credit cards and pulled out a money clip from an inside pocket of his brown, corduroy jacket.
“Would you be interested in X-boxes? I might be coming into a small shipment if things work out right.”
Quinlan shrugged and handed Ian a stack of twenties. “Maybe. Call me after you get them.”
Ian nodded and pocketed the money.
On the left periphery of his vision, something moved through the park. He lifted his head and his senses opened. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the figure racing through the trees, coming in his direction. When he turned back toward Quinlan, the fence was already moving quickly away in the direction from which he’d come like a giraffe loping away from an incoming cheetah.
Ian’s gaze swung back toward the runner, drawing closer, dodging around trees and bushes, zigzagging through the park rather than following one of the paved paths. The small figure was a woman. Chasing fast on her heels was the shadowy silhouette of a man. The pursuer appeared to be holding a gun, but wasn’t shooting … yet.
Following Quinlan’s example, Ian turned to fade away.
“Help me!” Help me! The feminine voice came simultaneously from behind him and from inside his head. The word-thought was accompanied by a rush of fear-fueled adrenaline, which also originated from outside of himself.
Despite every instinct of self-preservation screaming at him to disappear, he looked back.
The woman was only a few yards away, barreling toward him. She had something clutched to her chest so only one arm pumped along with her running legs. She hurtled straight at him, so close now he could hear her breath gasp raggedly in and out of her chest. Then she was upon him.
Without thought, he grabbed her arm and ran alongside her. His long legs and firm grip on her wrist propelled them both along. He practically dragged the woman with him. Her breath was failing and her energy flagging.
Ian glanced over his shoulder long enough to see the pursuer drawing steadily closer, and as he faced forward again he heard the sharp report of a gun. The bullet didn’t bite into his body, but the shot encouraged a burst of speed. He jerked the woman along, his fingers digging into her flesh and his mind encouraging her. Come on! Run!
He knew the layout of the park like it was his own home. He’d slept there for a while when he first came to the city before he got his various businesses up and running and could afford to rent a place. Darting right, he pulled the woman down a steep incline into a wilder part of the park, where undergrowth had not been cleared and no paths were laid out. The park became woods. Low growing brambles snagged their legs and branches whipped their faces as they dodged small saplings.
Behind them, their pursuer crashed through the underbrush like a rampaging bear, which, Ian supposed, made them the frightened rabbits.
The slope was uneven. They stumbled and slid down the hill, impeded by rocks and fallen branches hidden in the dark. Then the woman lost her balance and went down hard on her knees, almost jerking Ian off his feet. He pulled her back up, continuing to tug her behind him with all his strength.
At the bottom of the incline, the land leveled out. Ian cut a hard left, racing for the sanctuary he had in mind. The place would either be their salvation or a trap, depending on whether their pursuer found them. The fact the man wasn’t shooting at them indicated they were no longer in his sight. Although he might shoot to maim, it seemed the hunter wanted the woman alive so he wouldn’t fire blindly into the woods.
Up ahead, loomed a ghostly white shape, the birch tree marking the entrance to Ian’s secret den. He hadn’t been here in a few years, but the area wasn’t so overgrown he didn’t recognize it. “Down. Crawl,” he commanded.
The woman obeyed him before the words even left his lips.
Both of them dropped to their hands and knees and crawled through the dense vegetation. The ferns and brambles shielded the opening of a natural cave in the side of the hill. It was a mere pit in the wall, only a yard or two deep, but big enough to fit a bedroll when the need arose.
Ian scrambled into the nest of dried leaves and dirt, beneath the sheltering roots of the tree above and pulled the woman in close to him. His arms wrapped around her, his chest pressed to her back. Feeling the rise and fall of her chest, he wanted to silence her loud, gasping breaths to keep her from betraying their location. No sooner had the thought entered his mind than the woman followed the mental suggestion. With a last shuddering inhale, she calmed her breath, letting it whisper silently out her nose.
They lay listening for sounds of pursuit, but the world outside the little cave was quiet. Ian realized the man was listening for them, holding still until he could locate them scrambling through the woods. For a moment, he flashed back to Jack, one of his mother’s many “dates.” He remembered hiding in the space under his bed, pressed against the wall, holding his breath, waiting to be dragged out and whaled on, but praying tonight he’d be overlooked as the drunk man roared around the apartment. He shuddered at the memory.
A stroke of the woman’s fingers on his arm calmed him. It was as if she knew and understood his fears.
He squeezed her a little tighter and waited.
Beyond the drooping branches and weeds that screened the den, footsteps scuffled through the underbrush. The pursuing man stopped right outside the hiding place. There was a muffled curse then the man’s voice cut through the quiet night, obviously speaking into a cell phone. “I lost her… She couldn’t have gone far. She’s with some guy now. I don’t know… Yeah. Tell the boss I’m working on it. Cover for me… All right. Meet you there.” After a moment’s silence, the man whispered, “Shit,” then his footsteps crunched away through fallen leaves.
