a live grenade cooking to blow up at any time. Retirement lurking within earshot crooned its Siren's song to me. But how did I get there with no money or valid passport? I fantasized to zoom off on a 747, lounge sun tanning on a private beach in México, and then at twilight broil T-bone steaks over a driftwood fire. I torched a Blue Castle , and the tobacco smoke brushed the taste of burnt cork on my tongue. I cranked down the coupé's window and spewed the smoke from my pursed lips. Smoking was a risky vice to indulge at 54 since I hoped for a lot of living still in front of me.
E squire was the hulk standing outside of his auto upholstery shop when I scuffled into the parking lot. He'd changed into beige chinos and a zip-up windbreaker as well as applied mousse to spike his short, jet hair. My chuckle came. If I got a flat tire, who needed a bumper jack? He grabbed the door latch, thumped down into the shotgun seat, and the coupé's leaf springs moaned to the ground.
"Did I see you laughing at me, sweetheart?"
"Just a funny thought I had." I sped up the side lane. "If I run over a tack or nail and the tire blows out, I'll skip dragging out the bumper jack. You can lift up the coupé while I swap out the tires."
"Piece of cake. I dusted off the bench and got out the Olympic iron weights and bar. My weightlifting regimen is back on."
"Doctor's orders?"
"No, you're our only hypochondriac. My muscles are going flaccid, so I'm toning them up."
"I bumped into Arky at the Afghan bodega."
"He's the little worm, isn't he?"
"Right. He said Mr. Ogg is now after me. Here’s my take. What if Mr. Ogg decided Gwen was an albatross that he no longer wanted hanging around his neck? It was a cinch to get rid of her. He just set up her murder plot where I was made the flunky fall guy."
"Why did he pick you of all people?"
Because murder is my occupation , I thought. "Because I'm expendable, at least in his eyes."
"What is it you really do for Mr. Ogg?"
"Oh, a little of this and a little of that. Come on, you know I won't talk about that stuff."
He quirked his lips. "After you're free of this trouble, sweetheart, my advice is to quit Mr. Ogg's outfit and wangle a regular nine-to-five like the rest of us work."
"I'm a 54-year-old black man caught in an economic downturn. What job do you suggest I apply for? Paper or plastic? You want fries with that? Cash or charge?"
"I'm short a trimmer at the shop."
"Do you offer any OJT for your new trimmer? My knowledge of upholstery is that it feels good to sit my ass on it."
"You must have some skills. Do you use hand tools in your current job?"
"In a manner of speaking, yeah, I do."
"Do you interact with the public?"
"Not with any positive outcome."
"You'd still excel as a trimmer because I'd teach you the inside trade secrets."
"Let me think on it."
"Okay, but I'll expect an answer from you, sweetheart, and no waffling either."
"I give you my word, and that's gold."
"Fool's gold," I overheard the doubting Esquire murmur under his breath.
Chapter 8
M y inaugural job as a pro in the only trade I ever plied took place on an oak-lined avenue over in New Yvor City . It's a ritzy-titzy Virginia suburb (not to be confused with my neighboring Old Yvor City ) of Washington , D.C. where all the "Mr. Big Ikes hang their hats." Later Mr. Ogg would also crow he'd picked up a vibe—"my nerves of frozen steel"—in the big kid who was mowing his lawn vast as a 9-hole golf course.
My mother, Amanda, had befriended his Filipina maid, Juana, who knew he wanted some yard work done. That's how I came to be cutting his grass. His faith in me felt flattering, especially after he quoted me a hefty fee if I got rid of "a pest" for him. The pest was "a recalcitrant business associate" who resided in New Yvor City , and she just wouldn't listen to reason, and she'd exhausted his patience.
I'd no questions except the burning one: when did I get paid? Even at 18, I heard the ka-ching chime
E squire was the hulk standing outside of his auto upholstery shop when I scuffled into the parking lot. He'd changed into beige chinos and a zip-up windbreaker as well as applied mousse to spike his short, jet hair. My chuckle came. If I got a flat tire, who needed a bumper jack? He grabbed the door latch, thumped down into the shotgun seat, and the coupé's leaf springs moaned to the ground.
"Did I see you laughing at me, sweetheart?"
"Just a funny thought I had." I sped up the side lane. "If I run over a tack or nail and the tire blows out, I'll skip dragging out the bumper jack. You can lift up the coupé while I swap out the tires."
"Piece of cake. I dusted off the bench and got out the Olympic iron weights and bar. My weightlifting regimen is back on."
"Doctor's orders?"
"No, you're our only hypochondriac. My muscles are going flaccid, so I'm toning them up."
"I bumped into Arky at the Afghan bodega."
"He's the little worm, isn't he?"
"Right. He said Mr. Ogg is now after me. Here’s my take. What if Mr. Ogg decided Gwen was an albatross that he no longer wanted hanging around his neck? It was a cinch to get rid of her. He just set up her murder plot where I was made the flunky fall guy."
"Why did he pick you of all people?"
Because murder is my occupation , I thought. "Because I'm expendable, at least in his eyes."
"What is it you really do for Mr. Ogg?"
"Oh, a little of this and a little of that. Come on, you know I won't talk about that stuff."
He quirked his lips. "After you're free of this trouble, sweetheart, my advice is to quit Mr. Ogg's outfit and wangle a regular nine-to-five like the rest of us work."
"I'm a 54-year-old black man caught in an economic downturn. What job do you suggest I apply for? Paper or plastic? You want fries with that? Cash or charge?"
"I'm short a trimmer at the shop."
"Do you offer any OJT for your new trimmer? My knowledge of upholstery is that it feels good to sit my ass on it."
"You must have some skills. Do you use hand tools in your current job?"
"In a manner of speaking, yeah, I do."
"Do you interact with the public?"
"Not with any positive outcome."
"You'd still excel as a trimmer because I'd teach you the inside trade secrets."
"Let me think on it."
"Okay, but I'll expect an answer from you, sweetheart, and no waffling either."
"I give you my word, and that's gold."
"Fool's gold," I overheard the doubting Esquire murmur under his breath.
Chapter 8
M y inaugural job as a pro in the only trade I ever plied took place on an oak-lined avenue over in New Yvor City . It's a ritzy-titzy Virginia suburb (not to be confused with my neighboring Old Yvor City ) of Washington , D.C. where all the "Mr. Big Ikes hang their hats." Later Mr. Ogg would also crow he'd picked up a vibe—"my nerves of frozen steel"—in the big kid who was mowing his lawn vast as a 9-hole golf course.
My mother, Amanda, had befriended his Filipina maid, Juana, who knew he wanted some yard work done. That's how I came to be cutting his grass. His faith in me felt flattering, especially after he quoted me a hefty fee if I got rid of "a pest" for him. The pest was "a recalcitrant business associate" who resided in New Yvor City , and she just wouldn't listen to reason, and she'd exhausted his patience.
I'd no questions except the burning one: when did I get paid? Even at 18, I heard the ka-ching chime
Similar Books
The Nefaliem's Duty (Ordinal Novella, 1)
Kelvia-Lee Johnson
Return of the Wolf Man
Jeff Rovin
The Arm
Jeff Passan
Last Things
C. P. Snow
Chance Of Rain
Laurel Veil
Murder in Foggy Bottom
Margaret Truman
Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style
Ryder Stacy
Twisted Winter
Catherine Butler
Ghost Stories
Franklin W. Dixon
Life of Evel: Evel Knievel
Stuart Barker