Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  ~ ~ ~

  Robert opened the shop at 10:00 a.m. and noted his apprentice hadn’t shown up yet. He was usually a few minutes late. It didn’t really irk Robert as much as he pretended, because for all his faults, Nick had an amazing eye for detail and an almost photographic memory. He was able to look at a watch he hadn’t seen for four years and recall instantly every particular of the transaction, the watch’s history, and the condition the last time he’d seen it.

  His security guard, Jerome, was on time as usual. Jerome had been with him eight years and had never missed a day of work. A heavyset man in his forties, he had three children all finishing high school—twin girls, and a son who’d just graduated and gotten a scholarship to Purdue University. Jerome never had the opportunity to go to college, and one of his goals was to ensure each of his children got the chance. It looked good for them.

  “Good morning, Mister G,” Jerome said. Same greeting every day—he’d switched from “Mister Gideon” at Robert’s request, but couldn’t bring himself to say “Robert” or “Bob.”

  “Good morning, Jerome. How’s the brood?”

  “Oh, never better, never better. How was your trip yesterday?” Jerome asked.

  “Uneventful. It’s good to be home.”

  Jerome took his seat by the front door, the same place he sat from 10:00 to 6:00, five days a week, year after year. He opened his latest book and settled down for another day of nothing. They’d never had an incident since the store had been open, but you had to have a security guard in New York if you were going to have serious inventory.

  Hence Jerome.

  Robert very much enjoyed the quiet time in his little empire. His watchmaker didn’t arrive until noon, Tuesdays and Fridays, to do repairs. Emilio was about a hundred years old, but still very skilled and appreciative of the pieces—not to mention knowledgeable of the older Pateks.

  The front door opened and Robert’s friend Stan Isaaks entered carrying two cups of coffee and a couple of bagels—a Friday morning ritual. Stan had a rare and collectible coin shop down a few blocks, now more of a retirement project than a legitimate business. Still, Stan knew a lot of people from having been on the street for forty-some years, knew everything there was to know about every type of coin, and had a reputation as one of the best.

  “Well, good morning—how’s the world traveler today?” Stan asked. “Good morning, Jerome.” He nodded to the guard, who smiled and nodded back.

  “Oh, please. A little trip to the airport, a few bad meals. I was back in no time.” Robert waved off the greeting.

  “What were you up to, anyway? You said you’d tell me once you did the deal. Can we assume it’s done now?” Stan was the curious type; Robert hardly ever traveled, so he was naturally intrigued.

  “I didn’t want to jinx it. But yes, it’s done.” They walked to the rear of the store and Robert gave him the blow-by-blow. When he finished, Stan appeared concerned.

  “Aren’t you afraid the money might be bogus? That’s a lot of gelt to be schlepping around.” Stan had a point.

  “I took it to a currency exchange place in the airport and they authenticated it. I’m not worried.”

  “Those idiots can’t tell the difference between a bag of chips and a banknote.”

  “They did the pen test, and it has the security strips. I’m comfortable,” Robert responded.

  “Ha! The pen? That’s quackery! You know what that’ll catch? Counterfeits printed on newspaper. In this day and age? Totally useless…” Stan was getting wound up. “The strip is convincing, but I’d still be worried. Let me take a few of the bills to my friend Saul to look at. He’s ex-Treasury, tops in the business.”

  “I really don’t think it’s necessary…”

  “Surely it can’t hurt to let him look?” Stan coaxed.

  “I guess not… Look, I don’t have the money here; it’s at the bank. I’ll pull a few bills on Monday and meet you at noon, okay?” The two of them squabbled over many small things—a dynamic the relationship had developed over the decades.

  “All right, then. So what’s on the agenda for the weekend?” Stan asked. They moved to other topics. At 10:20 the front door opened and Nick ambled in.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mr. G. Traffic. Whassup, Jerome.” Jerome glanced up from his book, nodded, and returned to reading.

  Stan frowned. “You look like you were up all night, drinking and carrying on. You should be ashamed of yourself, you should.”

  “Hey, Stan. Nice to see you, too,” Nick responded and strolled into the back room.

  The two older men regarded each other and smiled.

  Kids these days. What were you going to do with them?

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess rode hard, anxious to get done so she could get home. She was twenty minutes ahead of schedule, with only two stops left. She hit the first one, collected her signature, and then winged her way down to Wall Street. She made a lot of deliveries there; even in the age of computers, most of the more important contracts were hand-couriered.

  She hopped off her bike, locked it, and ran into a building, nearly slamming into the security guard as she burst into the lobby.

  ”Delivery for Meridian Trading—Mr. Samuels,” she told him. He looked her over and nodded.

  Tess rode the elevator to the twentieth floor and stepped into the spacious, cool lobby, and approached the receptionist, a severely-beautiful Asian woman who regarded her neutrally.

  “Red Cap delivery for Gordon Samuels,” Tess said, handing her the sign-off tab with the bulky envelope.

  “You’re early. That’s good. Have a nice weekend,” the woman said, in a frigid tone. She handed the signed tab back to Tess and returned her attention to the computer screen.

  “Is there a restroom here I could use?” Tess asked.

  “I’m afraid not. You’ll have to go down to the lobby and ask the security guard if you can use the facilities there,” the woman responded frostily.

  Tess turned to go, and a male voice addressed her.

  “I think we can make an exception for the young lady, don’t you?” She turned to where a handsome man in gray suit pants and a pastel blue shirt appraised her.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Samuels, of course. I was just…” The receptionist was clearly flustered.

  Tess looked him over. No wedding ring. Tan, tall, a playful gleam in his eyes. She took her helmet and sunglasses off, and smiled at him. “Thank you. It’s really hot out there. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Not a problem. I know you’re probably baking.” He returned the smile.

  She gave him a second smile, a hint of tongue ring. “Thanks again.”

  Gordon pointed to an unmarked teak door. “That’s where all the magic happens.”

  He picked up the package she’d dropped off and walked back to his office, grinning to himself.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess made it to the apartment before Nick and showered, luxuriating in the steam and water.

  Nick got home at seven and they decided on Chinese for dinner. He was still beat from the night before, and wanted to hit the sack before they went out. He stumbled into the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and was out in two minutes.

  There was a big event at the Avalon club that night—all the messengers were going to go—and it was supposed to run late, so he’d need his rest. She let him sleep for an hour, and then crawled in bed next to him, naked. Her head went under the covers and she slowly worked him into a rigid state, noting when he woke that he didn’t seem to resent her ministrations. She straddled and mounted him, moving slowly at first, but increasing her pace to match her own building urgency. He pinched her nipples, causing her to cry out, but also heightening her arousal. She’d been horny all day, and this was a good way to kick off the evening. They climaxed together, and she scratched his chest unconsciously—drawing blood—and then lay still on top of him, sweating, spent.

  “Ow. You cut me up. How am I supposed to do my modeling shoot like this?” he tea
sed.

  “Sorry. I was fantasizing you were the newspaper guy and lost control of myself,” she responded. There was a three-hundred-pound Samoan man who sold newspapers and magazines out of a stand down the block, who greeted her every time she went by.

  “What’ll I tell the other girls?” he asked innocently.

  “Tell them you got the scratches when you were forcing yourself on a schoolboy. They won’t have a hard time buying it.” She rolled off him. “You wanna shower first, or me?”

  “Let’s do it together.” He was up, walking over to the bathroom.

  It was a tight fit. As the water warmed they kissed, comfortably, their passion for the moment spent.

  The Chinese restaurant was packed and they waited half an hour for a table. Service was slow, but the beer was cold, and the Kung-Pao was hot and spicy.

  It was New York on a Friday summer night—teeming with people, representatives of every fragment of humanity on parade. Tess loved the city, loved the diversity and the freedom, the sense of something always happening, and relished being a part of it.

  They decided to walk to the club after dinner, and she drew appreciative glances from passing males—even in New York, home to the most beautiful women on the planet, she was a knockout. She’d selected a very short silver sequined dress held up by spaghetti straps, and her “hooker shoes”—silver platforms with a good five inches of heel. She was almost six feet tall with them on, and enjoyed the way they set off her tanned legs and lean frame.

  The club was just getting rolling when they arrived; some of the other bike messengers were already there, lounging around the bar area. The music was so loud in the main room that the floor shook with each beat, and a wild light show pulsated in time with the robotic drone. Every conceivable outfit and hairstyle was on display, transvestites mingling with body builders hanging with junkies and musicians and models, everyone looking like they just stepped out of a music video or a fashion shoot.

  It was impossible to talk or hear without yelling, so Tess and Nick just watched the crowd. The room gradually grew packed; every now and then Tess would see one of the girls from the company and wave. They were all there—Pug and Sin City, Angel, Candy, Tab—the whole Red Cap chick crew.

  The company boasted a dozen female messengers and around fifty males. Tess knew most of the girls and about a dozen of the guys pretty well, and the rest were either too new or not in her circle. She enjoyed the whole counter-culture, outlaw lifestyle of the messengers. It was exciting, especially compared to going to college, majoring in computer science and becoming a programmer—there wasn’t a lot of adventure in coding a printer driver.

  Pug was whacked on something, probably X, and so was Sin City. Candy was high on coke, and drinking pretty hard. Tess contented herself with a Seven and Seven, and Nick was drinking Red Bull and Vodka. This wasn’t his scene at all—he favored live music, and this was urban house underground—so she gave him points for being a good sport.

  As the night wore on and the crowd got dense, the music created an anything-goes atmosphere. Tess was getting buzzed, and soon they were dancing in the middle of hundreds of other tranced-out partygoers. It felt good to let go, to be alive, and to feel the energy and the intoxication and the heat of the tribe, with the drums beating their primal sound into the night.

  They danced until one, then found themselves on the street, the bass shaking the building as they passed an alley to look for a cab. Tess impulsively pulled Nick into the narrow passage and kissed him passionately, her heat stoked by the booze and the throng. After a long moment she scanned the street and they inched further into the space, and resumed kissing using a dumpster for cover. They were both aroused and he grew more urgent. She pulled down his zipper and got on her knees, taking him into her mouth as he let out a low moan. He was already stiff, and her oral stroking quickly made him shiver with anticipation.

  She stood up and dropped her thong to her ankles, reversed herself, and guided him into her from behind, hard, rough, urging him on, moaning the filthiest things she could think of. He spanked her and grabbed her hair, bit her neck as they ground against each other. It was over in a few minutes—dirty and fast, the danger and unexpected quality of exhibitionism heightening the sex for them both.

  Finished and still glowing from her climax, Tess arranged herself, and they swayed back out of the alley, hailed a cab, and returned to her pad for the night.

  ~ ~ ~

  The killer watched the pair copulate from across the street in the shadows. His bloodlust was heightened by the coupling, and he toyed with the idea of killing them both while they were engaged. He dismissed it offhand as gratuitous, beneath him.

  But in spite of his affected detachment he was burning with fury at the unfairness, that everyone else had the life they wanted and he didn’t. He knew what he had to do, the only way to make it right: he needed to find a little slut that wanted it and work his magic on her. He had discovered after the first one that he was approaching a heightened state, a transcendence—what he required was more. And there were hundreds of pretties inside the club, no doubt drunk and high, so his job would be easy.

  He crossed the street and placed his small workbag behind the dumpster, and prepared to go in. He looked completely different than on the job, so he didn’t have to worry about being recognized unless he wanted to be. Glasses, hair slicked back—he was euro-trash out for fun. And tonight was his night.

  He prowled the floor looking for the right one. Entering the bar area, he did a quick scan, saw a girl who was clearly high, leaning against the wall—not beautiful, but great hair. That would do. He ordered a beer and watched her for a few minutes, confirming she was alone.

  She was.

  He approached her and began the process: find a girl, chat her up, buy a drink, slip something into it, and then get out while it was starting to hit her. It would usually take less than half an hour. Tonight, because she was already impaired, it only took twenty minutes before she was in real trouble. He solicitously offered to help her to a cab. There were a lot of people leaving the club as it neared two o’clock, so one more pair of drunken revelers staggering out didn’t raise even a flicker of interest.

  Later, at his apartment, music emanated from his little bookshelf stereo system, the volume moderated so as not to disturb the neighbors.

  It was an old song by the Human League, on repeat. “Don’t You Want Me,” played again and again as he danced around his darkened living room in his garb, barefoot, exaggerated makeup on his face. Candles flickered in strategic locations around the room; he’d set them on aluminum foil to maximize their reflections, and their unsteady flames made for an eerie glow. The air was heavy with sandalwood incense, and he was feeling the first effects of the ecstasy he’d taken upon arriving home, chemical euphoria flooding his senses.

  He was wearing a dress and was moving in front of a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Eyes closed, head back, swaying to the song. He stood in the center of a pentagram made of tiny black river rocks, the latest girl’s hair on his head, the scalp carefully rinsed in the kitchen, and then blow-dried. In his brassiere were her breasts, carefully packaged in ziplock bags so as not to stain the outfit.

  He hummed along to the song, singing the chorus each time it came around in a quiet falsetto, vaguely off-pitch. He was spinning now, round and round, his arms raised above his head, palms outstretched. He was getting closer and closer to being whole; it was imminent, he could feel it. He vaguely wondered how many more it would take.

  From the little dining room table, two pairs of eyes sat on a tray, watching him dance and spin.

  Chapter 7

  Stan Isaaks was having a good Saturday, looking over some Civil War-era Coronet Head twenty-dollar Double Eagle gold coins one of his contacts had sent his way. They were in flawless condition and he suspected they were part of the stash from the Republic salvage operation. The Republic was a 210-foot steamer that had sunk in 1865 in a hurricane a h
undred miles off Savannah, as it was shipping funds to New Orleans from New York for post-Civil War reconstruction.

  He’d seen too few of these, and fewer still in this condition—at least MS-65. Six coins, mint condition, 1865 date, a capital D instead of the word “dollar” on the back. Truly breathtaking. To see six in the same place was a treat. His contact needed them authenticated before they went to auction; wanted documentation of legitimacy, as well as condition, by the best in the business, and Stan was the best.

  He wondered what it would take to get one for his private collection, then dismissed the idea. He had roomfuls of rare coins, and while he could appreciate the beauty and the value of these pieces, they weren’t really what got his juices flowing; he favored older Greek and Roman examples.

  His line rang and he reluctantly put the coin down and reached for it.

  “Stan Isaaks.”

  “Stan, you old horse thief! How are you this fine Saturday?” The voice was unmistakable: Saul Balinsky, his longtime friend and esteemed paper currency expert.

  “Can’t complain, can’t complain a bit. And you?” Stan asked solicitously.

  “Ack, you know, you get older, things start to fall apart, then they fall off. By the grace of God I’m still here.” Saul was in perfect health, if obese, and would undoubtedly live to be a hundred.

  “I know only too well. Listen, Saul, your ears must have been ringing—I was going to call you this weekend. I have a favor to ask. A friend’s come into a large number of hundred-dollar bills, and I’m suspicious about their legitimacy. They originated in the Far East and my gut’s saying something’s off. I promised I’d look into it,” Stan explained.

  “Far East, huh? I’ve never heard of any problems coming from there, other than some low-grade forgeries that would be caught in seconds. Have you seen the bills?” Saul was intrigued. It was his passion to suspect everything; he’d been forced out of the Treasury Department into retirement and labeled “eccentric” because of his paranoia.