Blind Luck

by Reggie Stanford

BLIND LUCK

  _____________________________________

  A ROY JAMES NOVEL

  by

  Reggie Stanford

   

   

  Copyright © 2015 by Reggie Stanford

  Translated by Abel Nemeth

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  To my friends, Csilla, Ábel, Andrew and Thomas.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 1

  I was fucking exhausted by the time I got back to my apartment. My stomach made sure I wouldn’t forget to eat, as I had been neglecting it all day. I was far too tired to take the time to prepare anything, and I was more than likely to eat the ingredients raw, before they finished. The punch line was that after checking the fridge, it stood as empty as when I bought it so I didn’t even have any ingredients to eat. All it contained was a box of pizza, without any pizza, just a single slice. At my state, even the dried up cheese and hunks of meat, along with the stale crust were more appetizing than one finds the burgers in those fast food commercials. It’s funny how much your standards drop after spending twelve hours on your ass in a hot office.

  I tossed the remaining slice onto a plate and loaded it into the microwave to nuke it for a minute. It was unlikely I could wait any longer anyway. There was a dull thudding which I at first thought was coming from the microwave. I quickly opened it, and took a bite of the pizza to make sure it was still edible. It was, but the thudding sound hadn’t died down. It sounded like when one of my younger neighbors has a party and the whole group clomps down the stair after pregaming in the apartments below mine, except this was a lot more rhythmic. A steady clop of boot against step. The stepping in the stairs continued past what was the first floor. A group. No. A team. Police? FBI? Someone is definitely having themselves a shitty night tonight.

  I returned my focus to my pizza and took one bite after the next, enjoying the greasy deliciousness, but swallowing without even really tasting it. The steps were growing loud enough to make them hard to ignore. I stopped midbite when I heard them halt at the third floor. Maybe there was a party and they had to break it up. I started chewing again slowly, until it started again. But it wasn’t quieting down. Instead of going back down the stairs, they were continuing to the fourth floor. My flour. This was a bit of a problem for three reasons. I was the only one on this floor, there was no alternate exit I could take, and I still wasn’t done my pizza. I hoped they got a suicide call from the roof and were on their way to pull the guy back, but it was a rather slim chance.

  “Police! Open up! ” A gruff voice calls from beyond the door.

  Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

  My mind started racing through all of my possibilities. The one I most preferred, was that a place called “Pizza Police” had opened up, and were delivering a free pizza, but I gave that one only 1:6 odds. I couldn’t climb out the window and jump down to the street, my apartment is much too high for that. I didn’t have a back door of any sort, or a secret exit of any kind.

  Bam. Bam. Bam. The knocking on the door continued.

  “Police! Open the door!” The same voice yelled again.

  “I’m coming! For fuck’s sake, one minute.” I yelled back.

  They didn’t even wait for me to finish unlocking it, instead a battering ram knocked it clean off of its hinges. Great, now I have a door to fix too. This night is absolutely delightful. The men entered with well-practiced maneuvers. Trigger fingers itching, as they scanned all around the house even after two of them trained their guns on me. I recognized them. MP5 submachine guns. Reliable in urban combat, but not my first choice for trek through the jungle. These were housing 9 mm rounds, not my preferred size to have aimed at my face, however I figured requesting BB’s was out of the question.

  My guess had been correct. There were a total of four armed men in my apartment. I was knocked forward and a felt a knee on my back while my hands were cuffed. They had every angle covered as one would expect from good law enforcers.

  The fifth guy entered the room as well. I couldn’t tell at first if he was waiting for my detainment, or if he had simply taken his time on the stairs. He had a smug grin on his face and some casual clothes as if he had been undercover. He did have an air of authority over the other four men.

  When he spoke his voice had an edge of malice.

  “You are under arrest for murder in the first degree!” he said while he showed outwardly signs of emotion.

  This was on the 26th day of August, in 1981.

  * * * * *

  Six days earlier, on August twentieth, it was a Tuesday afternoon and the heat was unbearable. Just a typical hot summer day in Brooklyn. I was sitting at the office considering a trip to Alaska, or upgrading my ceiling fan and eventually settled for rolling up my sleeves. I was reading the sports section of the newspaper and I was thinking to myself how nothing ever changes for me. Sitting on my ass all day never had appealed to me, but it had recently become my life. I heard steps heading down the hall to my office, light but clicking with each step, like a woman in high heels. The narrow corridor amplified sounds like this. When my visitor arrived at the door, I only saw her silhouette, but she looked rather promising. Tall. Thin. She opened the door without knocking, and stormed straight to my desk. She was wearing sunglasses and smelled of perfume, with an aura of both femininity and confidence.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Roy James!” she said, not even bothering with a greeting.

  “Good afternoon. That is me. How can I be of service?” I asked.

  “My name is Talisha Kirkwood.”

  I immediately began making observations of her finer details. Long wavy blonde hair falling to her shoulders, her white dress had clearly been fitted for her form and ran to about mid-thigh length. She was tall for a woman, about 6 ft. She looked like something off of the cover of a fashion magazine. I wasn’t too easily impressed but this woman had a unique effect on me. There was something else in her aura, something inexplicable unlike confidence or femininity. She was radiant. Electric beams shot out of her pores, charging the entire room. She was the type of woman who picks her prey, makes them her toy until they are too tired to run anymore, and leaves them there, struggling to get back up for the rest of their life. I closed my mouth, which I now realized had opened in awe, and became the black James Bond.

  “I’m so glad to have found you!” she continued, and offered her hand.

  I shook it. Her skin was so soft; she must have spent half a fortune just on skin care and cosmetics. By her side she had a handbag just big enough to carry a tube of lipstick, a bottle of perfume, or a .38 caliber snub-nose. You can never tell with those. She let out a long sigh.

  “I don’t even know where to start.” she said, there was a slight wavering in her voice.

  “Let’s start all the way at the beginning and we’ll see if I can help you.”

  For some reason this line, no matter how cliché always helped ease their minds. I tried to look into her eyes, but she still hadn’t taken off her sunglasses, even though my office was somewhat darkened.

  “Exactly what is it you do, Mr. James?” she asked me.

  I answered her question with
one of my own.

  “How did you find me? I doubt Yellow Pages would have spat anything out about me, especially if you searched by name. Clearly you know the type of business I conduct, I expertise in pest removal, but have a large repertoire. What is it exactly that you need from me? In the worst case, I may know someone who does what you are looking for.”

  “Actually, you were recommended to me.” she said curtly.

  “Then I accept the job.” I said without breaking eye contact, or while looking where I assumed her eyes were behind those sunglasses.

  Her face changed to an expression of surprise.

  “B-but you don’t even know what the job is yet!”

  “Well, it’s rather easy to guess. You got my name from someone, therefore you know what it is I do.” I explained. “You never took off those less than trendy sunglasses, so I assume you’re hiding something. A black eye? Someone beat you. And since you are still wearing a wedding ring, my first guess would be that it’s your husband. Was this the first time?”

  She went pale. Even through her sunglasses I could see her shock. She then tried to hide the ring sitting on her finger.

  “No. The second.” she said after a brief pause.

  “I’ll go talk to him.”

  I had done this at least a hundred times by now. It was pretty generic in this field of work. The difficult part is making it stop. If I openly confront ‘asshole’ then it usually embarrasses or angers him and when he gets home who does he take it out on? The wife. However, if I make it a freak accident in public, then there is no clear message indicating that this is a consequence of beating his wife and I won’t get through to him. Ideally, the woman leaves ‘asshole’ and starts a new life somewhere else, but this is practically unheard of. I have heard almost every single excuse for this and I could go on for days listing these reasons. I try explaining these to Talisha, but her mind has been made up. She wants me to talk to her husband.

  No one has the right to hit me. This has been my motto for as long as I can remember.

  If it were up to me, I would simply never allow anyone to hit an unarmed woman.

  “Thank you.” she says, and stands up.

  “It’s what I do.” I reply. She leaves via the door, without as much as a goodbye. The blonde Amazon Queen is gone as fast as she had arrived but I had a feeling that we will be meeting again under all sorts of circumstances.

 

  * * * * *

  Wednesday morning, I got to work as soon as I got into the office. I cleaned off my desk to make room. It was filled with bills and “last calls.” I really didn’t have a choice in accepting the job or not. I had actually been running dangerously close to negative in my bank account. At the bottom of the stack I found an old friend, a pack of Camels left only half empty. I lit one up, and opened my top desk drawer to take my car keys. Then from the bottom drawer I took out my gun. A simple 9mm Glock 17 from Austrian production. It had quite a few plastic components, but this was to make it lighter, and it was rather durable. This was one reason I liked it so much. The other being that it could not be traced. It had disappeared from one of the Austrian army’s bases and was smuggled into the states, into my possession.

  I strapped the gun around my waist.

  I picked up and inspected the picture which Talisha left for me yesterday. The asshole stared back into my eyes, and I hated him for laying a hand on such a pretty face. He wasn’t just a “target” or “face.” He was a criminal who was getting some sort of repercussion for his crimes.

  I walked out into the parking lot, and found my car. It’s a silver 1966 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. It was almost blinding in this morning sun. I made myself comfortable in the familiar leather seats, and started the engine. It roared to life and gave off a low purr that I knew all too well. I pulled out of the lot, down McDonald Ave and turned onto 80th. Talisha told me yesterday that he liked to play some holes on a local golf every morning.

  Every job starts with diligent firsthand research. This makes my job simpler, safer, and helps avoid unnecessary surprises. You never know who you’ll run into during the execution of a plan so always know four ways in, and five ways out. I figured I would observe a day or two in the life of Mr. Kirkwood. Men like him, who were successful, and did not deal in illegal substances typically lead day to day lives, and were either spontaneous enough that no amount of research would get you ready, or every single day was the same for them. I parked on the road alongside the golf course, and left towards the entrance. These were some beautiful greens, I had never bothered taking up golf, but maybe after this job I’ll come back and learn. It resembled a carpet made of green material. Maintaining a field like this must take daily care and watering.

  I got myself a golf cart, and went to find my guy. I felt out of place on a golf course, driving in a golf cart. This is for men of a different caliber, and I could never be this person. However, I reveled in the feeling while it lasted. I almost felt rich, even elite for a minute until I remembered my reason for being here.

  I was scanning the players. Some were alone, some were in pairs and other in full teams with an audience. There seemed to be some sort of unspoken dress code, with white preppy pants and a collared golf shirt. I tried to look at everyone but I made sure I kept my distance. If you can distinguish their faces then they can see yours too. It wasn’t time for a confrontation yet.

  I looked at a dozen different people before I found my guy. He was wearing like blue trousers that had been ironed too crisp, and a matching shirt. A poor family could easily live off of the price of the clothes for a month. I took the picture out of my pocket just to be certain it was the right guy. The resemblance to the picture of Patrick Kirkwood that Talisha gave me, was clear. The successful business man by day, and violent dickbag at night.

  He also wasn’t alone. He was with someone else: a woman. The two of them seemed less occupied with the golf and more so with each other. She was shorter than Talisha, and had black hair. Her hair was straight, and she wore it in a ponytail under her visor. She seemed nice at first glance.

  I like to keep a straight head and assumed nothing until he kissed her. In my mind, she could have been his colleague, secretary out for a rewarding day of golf, family, or even an old friend. But when he kissed her, I knew for certain that this was much more than that. He was cheating on Talisha. It made me wonder; why would someone cheat on a beautiful woman like Talisha with someone not nearly as attractive? What does she know, or what can she do that others can’t? There were tons of other questions like this in my head that I knew I would never get answers for. It’s none of my business. This is a world I am not a part of. I merely sit on the sidelines and watch, as I’m not even near their league. They say having money and power changes people. Why? I don’t know. Patrick could just simply be a greedy bastard. One wasn’t enough, he probably had not just two, but five or six. Him having this power could make him believe that he can do anything, or that nobody can stop him. He is not bound by social conforms with a bank account that big. He can have as many lovers as he wants. Who cares about guilt when you’re rich.

  I didn’t plan on doing anything more today. I wasn’t even going to talk to Patrick until tomorrow. I took the golf cart back to the lodge. I found a payphone as soon as I could. The phone rang a few times before someone picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Kirkwood?”

  “Yes? This is her,” came a slow response. “Who am I talking to?”

  “It’s Roy James. I have some news.”

  “Okay. I will go in to the office.”

  “Actually I’d prefer if you could go to the intersection at 4th and Court Street. I’m in the mood for coffee. Is half an hour enough time for you?”

  “Ok, I’ll see you there.”

  I left the phone booth and got back into my car. I checked my hair in the rearview mirror and fixed the loose strands. I took my sunglasses out of the glove box a
nd put them on. I made sure my shirt wasn’t a total mess, started the car, and put in gear to leave the lot.

  I arrived at the corner faster than I predicted so I took a booth where I could see when she arrived. It was an old habit of mine to never sit with my back to the door. A thin young waitress came to my table, her nametag read “Suzy” in bolded letters.

  “Hey, are you ready to order?” she asked.

  “Just a coffee thanks. Black” I told her.

  She came back a minute later with a steaming pot of coffee. I smiled at her as she filled my cup, but she didn’t smile back.

  Just as I was raising the cup to my lips, Talisha walked in. She looked amazing. Her hair was straightened, and in a ponytail in the back. It made her look younger. She looked like she was trying to look professional, but a woman like her will always seem a little wild, like she’s teasing you. She looked around until she found me and then came over to join me. She pulled out the chair before I could stand up and do it for her, and took a seat across from me. She took off her sunglasses and put them on the table folded in front of her. The bruise was nowhere to be seen.

  Suzy returned to take her order too. Talisha waited for her coffee before she even acknowledged me.

  “Did you talk to him?” She asked with a hint of excitement.

  “Not yet.” I said coldly. She gave me a stern look. “Don’t worry, everything has a time and place. Today just wasn’t it.”

  “Then what kind of news could you possibly have to share?” she seemed almost offended by what I had told her.

  “I went to the country club where you said your husband plays. It’s a nice place,” I started.

  “Yeah so? I highly doubt that’s why you wanted me here, to tell me that.” Her Amazonian persona was not hiding as it was when she showed up in my office.

  “Your husband is seeing someone else.” I could only say it bluntly

  Silence. I didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know how to respond. Her face was unnaturally straight, I thought she would show some anger.