Scott watched Bill’s every movement while he doled out tasks and poked the folder with his index finger. Bill’s eyes locked on each member of the assembly when he addressed them. The gleaming marble floor reflected their every move. When the gathering finished, all but one dispersed in smaller groups. Office doors opened and closed in the distance, the buzz that flooded the lobby with their appearance now gone. The mundane click clicking of keyboards and chatter of faint voices somewhere beyond the reception desk was the only sound left.
With the others in Bill’s huddle gone, Thomas Andrews crossed the lobby to join Scott. He smiled but the smile hadn’t reached his eyes. His eyes held a look of relief.
“Wow, some meeting.”
“An excellent result for both sides, though,” Scott answered.
“No doubt about that.” Thomas led Scott away from the desk. “I’m glad I caught you before you took off. You can’t leave Detroit without seeing her.”
“I’m sure she’s a great ride,” Scott replied, his impatience unnoticed by Thomas.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear what Thomas had to say, he just wanted to get some sun. After spending months preparing this deal and the last two days locked in negotiations, Scott was ready for some relaxation.
“I’m serious, Scott,” Thomas continued. “The 69 Charger is in my opinion the best muscle car that Chrysler, or anyone else for that matter, has ever made.”
“The Charger is a great car, but most of our clients aren’t looking for old muscle cars. They all want flash. They see James Bond driving the newest Aston Martin, and they have to have it yesterday. At Cobra, we find a way to get it for them without waiting in line for a year or two.”
“All I’m asking is you see the car. Make a few calls. If you think you have a client interested, drive her to LA. See the country from the ground instead of thirty thousand feet. You said you were due some time off.”
Thomas, a tall man with dark blond hair and blue eyes, hadn’t made Junior VP of Graphic Design by taking no for an answer and he wasn’t going to start. Scott looked short standing next to him, but he could have been one of those guys; the men you see plastered all over the walls of hair salons, deep set dark eyes, chiseled features, flawless complexion, shiny dark hair. They were both handsome, athletic and looked like poster boys for Hugo Boss.
Scott stood listening to Thomas with something less than rapt enthusiasm. His focus repeatedly wandered to Sarah.
Sarah stopped typing and looked up. Scott sent a wink her way and she returned a flirtatious smile.
“What time does your flight leave?” Thomas asked.
“Just before 7:00 am.”
“Well, enjoy your afternoon. Tonight if you don’t have plans, we can meet for dinner, say sixish. It’s on me. I can pick you up in the Charger. We can cruise for a while after dinner. Show you what a cherry ride she is. You have to eat. Right?”
“Sounds good, Thomas. See you at six.”
“Awesome.”
After Thomas left, Scott returned his attention to Sarah.
“So, about lunch?”
“I can’t today. We have a staff meeting. Attendance is mandatory,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But I can meet for a drink after work if you want.”
“Can’t. I just told Thomas I’d meet him for dinner. Can you meet me for drinks after dinner?”
She slid a Post-it across the desk and whispered, “My cell number.”
Chapter Two
Growing next to the pasture fence on the westbound side of I-80, a large bush was the only green visible in any direction. It stood about seven feet tall and just as big around.
Seated crossed legged in the small patch of shade the bush provided, a young man sipped water from a flask. The small pointed leaves on the bush providing Roger Morris some shelter from the sun hung slightly limp, distressed and thirsting for rain. Roger wore khaki knee-length shorts and a white Aerosmith T-shirt. His short light red hair lay flat on his head. Roger left his home in Vermont three weeks ago, sometimes hiking and other times hitching across the country for the summer. On the ground in front of him lay a large blue backpack. The type of pack the sporting good stores sold to serious hikers, campers and rock climbers.
In July, the late afternoon sun blazed high above the horizon in the heartland. A small sign beside the highway read “York County”. The highway cutting through the Nebraska landscape looked like two lines painted on a sheet of plywood, angling slightly inward. In the distance the lines became one and terminated where the ground met the sky. As straight as the edge of a ruler the horizon stretched on in endless monotony. Above the line the sky was completely blue, any clouds that lingered after sunrise long burned off by the scorching rays. Below the line, an endless sea of yellow, sun dried pasture.
There was little to break the boredom of this near barren landscape. The fence poles that stood like sentinels on each side of the highway only accentuated the monotony. There were cattle in the distance. Most were lying down, lethargic from the heat. Cars sped along the interstate at seventy or eighty. It was easy to see how the dotted white line and relentless dull grey strip could be mesmerizing. Weary motorists would not even notice the speedometer climbing until the unwelcome flashing lights of a state trooper brought them out of their mind-numbing trance.
Roger took a sip of water from a flask, replaced the lid and put it in a side pocket of his pack, and then from a different pocket he removed a map of the lower forty-eight. A winding orange line highlighted his route. He put his finger on the line and slowly traced his progress. He had hoped to be at the Grand Canyon by now. Last Friday he had accepted an invitation from a dairy farmer to spend the weekend. Working in the barn, Roger learned more than he ever wanted to know about milk. He didn’t need to work his way across the country, he just wanted to see the dairy farm. The journey, not just the destination, was a big part of his planning, so he would get there when he got there, but the canyon remained the main attraction of this trip and he was anxious to see it.
Following the orange line to Vermont, his mood turned melancholy. He missed his family and friends. He allowed his mind to carry him back to the morning he left for this adventure. Millie Morris, Roger’s mother, worked out in the garden. Millie spent every morning from Memorial Day to Columbus Day, in the yard gardening. It was an odd shaped yard, almost triangular. Off in a corner separated from the main yard the pool looked almost lonely. A white fence surrounded the house and at its base, flowerbeds exploded in every color, like a scene from Munchkin Land.
Laughter from the house must have grabbed Millie’s attention from her garden. She looked up and waved at Roger now standing by the window. With a smile that wasn’t completely happy she put her gloves with her gardening tools in a basket at her feet and crossed the yard to the back door.
“Well, it’s about time you boys woke up.” Millie said walking into the kitchen. “I suppose you’re hungry.”
“Bacon and eggs sounds good, Ma,” Roger replied. He sat at the kitchen table with Ed the morning he left. Ed had been his best friend ever since he could remember.
When she turned to start their breakfast, Ed held his hand up for a high five. She watched their gesture through the corner of her eye, and her lips curled into a knowing smirk. Roger noticed his mother’s amusement and gave her a wink, causing that smirk to blossom into a giggle. They played the, “We’re just dumb boys” game so many times and they still thought she was clueless.
Roger was startled back to Nebraska when an eighteen-wheeler pulled onto the shoulder of the road in front of him, coming to a stop about fifty yards beyond. The breeze that made the heat tolerable moments before had died off leaving a white dust cloud to linger over the truck, giving it a preternatural eeriness.
He watched the truck, still shrouded in a halo of limestone powder. Cars had little effect on the cloud, but a large red transport hauling a load of cattle passed and the vortex from the big rig speeding by caused the airborne powder to
swirl.
A shadow appeared through the dust at the back of the trailer. It came directly toward him. It was a man, his image getting clearer with each step. When the driver emerged from the murk, Roger wondered what the man wanted. It had to be coincidence that this driver picked this spot to stop. Even if the guy could have seen him from the cab of the truck at highway-speed he would’ve needed a half mile to stop that rig.
When the man got to within ten feet of the bush he began to pull down his fly. Roger decided this was a good time to get up and continue hiking up the road.
The driver jumped and yelled, “Whoa Nellie, you scared the living shit outta me boy.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and continued. “Been needin’ to piss for about an hour now. Saw that bush from about a mile back an figured it’s as good a place as any.”
Roger just smiled. “Well, I was just about to leave anyway. I’ll never get to the Grand Canyon sitting here daydreaming.”
“You figure to walk to the canyon from here, kid?”
“Sometimes I walk, sometimes I hitch.”
“Well, yer welcome to ride along with me a ways if ya like. I’m gonna stretch my legs a bit but if ya wanna ride, I could use some conversation.”
“Sounds good,” Roger replied, and then he looked out to the road and watched a red Grand Prix zip by while the trucker urinated behind the bush.
“Name’s Pete,” the man said emerging from behind the bush holding out a hand to Roger. He faced Roger with his arm extended and offered a smile that was both friendly and disarming.
Roger didn’t want to be rude but shaking Pete’s hand after what he had just shaken was out of the question. While reaching down for his pack he told Pete his name and thanked him for the ride.
Pete laughed a bit looking at his outstretched hand. In a southern drawl he said, “Can’t say as I blame ya there. I wouldn’t shake my hand right now either.” He reached into his pocket, took out a small plastic bottle and squeezed some waterless hand cleanser into his palm. He rubbed his hands together vigorously, as if he were standing at the sink of the men’s room. “Great invention these,” he added, holding up the bottle for Roger to see. “Ya never know, with all them stories on the news about SARS and swine flu and bird flu, I always got one of these.” He put the small container back in his pocket, “Birds and pigs, damn and shit, eh kid? Who’da thought we’d be catching flu-bugs from critters?”
Pete motioned toward his truck. “Been sittin’ in that thing for six hours. My ass is about to go numb.”
They both laughed and Roger extended his hand, “Roger Morris. Where are you headed?”
“Salt Lake City. Gotta load of Pringles on board.”
Roger looked over at the truck. The dust cloud had moved out over the field. The man with the mustache that adorned every can of Pringles looked back at him. Only this Mr. Pringle was bigger than a horse.
Pete wandered around in the grass, “This heat is something eh, Rog?”
“Sure is.”
“I tell ya, son, when this run’s over I am gonna take a few days and sit in my chair with the AC blowin’ right on me.” Pete looked at his new companion, staring at the western horizon with a forlorn expression. “That canyon ain’t goin’ no place, Rog. You’ll be there soon enough.”
“It’s not that. I like to look at the land. It’s so different from Vermont. Have you been to Vermont, Pete?”
“I’ve been to every state in the nation. Except Hawaii. If I can’t drive somewhere, then I ain’t goin’. You never catch me in one of those planes, no sir.”
The older man talked constantly. When he wasn’t talking about himself he pumped Roger for personal information. Roger tried not to be too forthcoming. He had spent enough time in chat rooms on his computer to be cautious about giving too much detail, but Pete had a way of putting him at ease.
Chapter Three
Outside, the din of the city came as a welcome change to the numbing silence of the office tower. The heat however was stifling. Scott struggled with his computer and briefcase while trying to remove his jacket. He slung the garment over his shoulder. His mood soared. He took a deep breath of the stale, Motor City air. Not even the midday Detroit smog could diminish his euphoria. His accomplishment would be unparalleled at Cobra Exotics. Add to that, he could finally take a week or two to relax. Relax and bask in the pleasure of that knowledge.
His eyes followed a blonde wearing tight shorts until she disappeared from sight, then he turned and walked directly into someone. He gave a halfhearted apology, not bothering to see whom he had bumped into, not until the odor registered in his brain. It was the scent of decay, of mold or old newspapers decomposing in a wet basement. It was stink, to an infinite degree.
He looked at the dirtiest human he had ever seen. The man wore soiled jeans that were more charcoal gray than blue, and a gray overcoat. The overcoat in the heat of midsummer looked out of place. His greasy hair hung over his ears and had definitely not seen a comb in ages. His unshaven face had deep creases, hollow cheeks and jaundiced looking eyes.
The bum held out his grimy hand, “Spare some change?”
Scott sidestepped the vagrant without acknowledging him and made to stride by. His progress halted when a hand firmly grasped his arm just above the elbow. His anger boiled over as he spun around and met the piercing stare of the panhandler.
“You were there, I saw you run,” the hobo said.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Scott muttered jerking his arm free. His anger had abated, replaced by fear. He didn’t know why he feared this man. He had no idea what the man meant by his accusation. Nevertheless, Scott saw something in those eyes that scared him.
“You didn’t see her face,” the bum said, his wide-eyed gaze drilling through the younger man standing before him. “I still see her face.”
“Just fuck off,” Scott croaked.
“Okie-dokie,” the bum replied. He cocked his finger like a gun and clicked his tongue while pulling an imaginary trigger. Without another word or even a second look, the bum walked away and in moments faded into the pedestrian throng.
Scott brushed the sleeve of his shirt where the filthy hand had been as though he could simply whisk the whole encounter away. The man’s face, those eyes were burned into the backs of Scott’s eyes and he squeezed them shut in an attempt to banish the image. He couldn’t fathom a soul beneath that repulsive exterior. He didn’t really consider him a person. It was a thing, just street vermin. They should exterminate it with the rest of the creatures prowling the streets and alleys. A few steps along the sidewalk in the opposite direction, he stopped to look back over his shoulder. Scott felt the need to make sure the bum was gone.
He resumed his walk and put the incident out of his mind. This was the beginning of his vacation and he wasn’t going to let one unpleasant altercation ruin his day. The only thing he needed to concern himself with was what to do next.
It was much too early in the day to go sit in a hotel room. He couldn’t imagine himself watching Oprah, or Ellen, or Jerry Springer. He had no idea what people watched at this time of day. If he were in LA, he would be in the office, or meeting with a client. He wouldn’t be watching TV. Before he got to the end of the block his shirt clung to his skin, damp with perspiration. Sweat beaded his face and stung his eyes. He needed to get out of the suit.
In his room, Scott immediately set up his laptop, then changed into shorts and a golf shirt while his computer booted. He sent emails to the office indicating the deal went much better than expected. After checking his voice-mail messages, he hit the street again.
He had lunch on the patio of Antonio’s Pasta House, a place plucked right out of a World War II movie. It had small circular tables with red and white checkered tablecloths on the sidewalk in front. The waitress wore a knee-length skirt and a white apron, her long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She wasn’t pretty, but with the right makeup and lighting he thought she could look okay.
Relaxin
g with a glass of iced tea after lunch, he recognized the same foul smelling bum he’d bumped into earlier, now standing across the street. When the man saw Scott look at him, a yellow smile riddled with gaps noticeable across the fifty-yard separation added to his unsightly appearance. The bum again pointed his finger like a gun, winked, then trundled up the sidewalk and out of sight.
Nevada Bob’s was Scott’s next stop. He hadn’t planned to shop for golf equipment, but his eyes lit up when he walked by and he couldn’t resist going in. To reward himself for finalizing the deal of the decade for Cobra Exotics and to cap off the whole trip, he decided to treat himself to a new set of golf clubs. He spent about an hour hitting balls into a net. He tried every brand of clubs in the store. In the end, he went with the King Cobras of course.
He had been in his room just long enough to shower and dress, when the phone rang. The clock radio by the bed showed five fifty-one. He couldn’t help being amused by Thomas’ punctuality.
He picked up after the second ring. “Hello!”
A woman replied, “Mr. Randall, this is the front desk, you have a visitor in the lobby.”
“Tell him I’ll be right down.”
He made one last check in the mirror. He pulled a loose thread from his pressed taupe Dockers and brushed the sleeves of his navy-blue golf shirt as if to remove lint. Satisfied with his appearance he left the room.
In the lobby, he immediately spotted Sarah.
“Hi Scott.”
She still wore the pinstriped suit she had on at the office. The way he ogled her it was obvious he noticed the camisole she wore under the jacket earlier was no longer there. Her heels made her about the same height as Scott. Not that he noticed. He focused on the fabric of the jacket. The way it formed to her breasts.
“Well this is a pleasant surprise. Will you be joining us for dinner?”
The Beast of Brenton Woods Page 16