GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “You're on edge, worried about something, someone,” I said.

  She licked her lips. “We both are, should be.”

  Images blinked in and out of my mind, but I couldn't compile them into any type of cohesive thought or storyline. Was I was missing a hundred pieces of the puzzle or one key element that would burst a hole through the dam holding back a flood of memories?

  A new waitress with kinky, blond hair walked up. “More coffee or hot chocolate? Early breakfast?”

  A spasm of energy jarred my body. I glanced out the spotty, stained window, staring at nothing but watching everything flash before my eyes. Two of us nestled on a plaid couch while a fire crackled nearby, silly pillow fights, fancy parties where every eye in the room ogled my lady, watching sappy romantic comedies, taking long walks where the palms of our hands never separated and neither did our lips, and romps under the stars while two ducks glided nearby. A million images. A million feelings. Sensuality. Affection. Respect. Empathy. Red-hot passion. A warm, settled heart.

  I reached my hand upward, my eyes now shut, hoping to touch the side of her perfect face, her magical curls, feel the back of her neck. I couldn't re-create the texture of her skin or curves of her body. Deep within, I could only recall the gaping hole in my heart.

  The love of my life. My Marisa.

  Chapter Six

  Three Weeks Ago

  I rolled a pinch of sea salt between my fingers then flicked the little nuggets on top of a large fillet of black cod, which had been soaking in a teriyaki marinade for the last two hours.

  Shifting to the right in my small kitchen, I sliced carrots and broccoli then added smaller pieces of diced onion. I dropped them in a bowl and added fresh seasonings I'd purchased at the open market last weekend. Mixing in organic olive oil, I used my hands to blend the oil and seasonings among the colorful vegetables. I molded aluminum foil and created a pouch, then slipped in my vegetable concoction. My stomach released a cacophony of growls that must have lasted thirty seconds.

  I crossed through my living room and glanced at the score on the flat-screen: 49ers 14, Cowboys 10 at the end of the third quarter. I'd made a lot of adjustments to my life in the last year and a half, but one change I would never make was my allegiance from the Cowboys to the 49ers. How could I betray the team I'd loved ever since I was old enough to hold a football? Yes, the Cowboys had struggled recently, and being a Dallas fan on the West Coast presented some social challenges—as if I didn't already have enough of those—but switching to the 49ers was like renouncing your citizenship just to get elected senator. Who did that? Not I.

  I unlatched one of three bay windows then crawled out onto a fourth-floor metal balcony that faced the street. The fact that it was shared by the neighboring apartment, and was actually a fire escape with connecting stairs up and down, didn't faze me. I'd grown to love my pad.

  Flames popped metal on the side of my miniature gas grill, and I turned to gaze down Powell Street toward the water. Couldn't make it out since the sun went down a couple of hours ago, but the yellow and white lights that outlined streets and buildings were both soothing and scintillating to me. Living in the city, in the heart of Chinatown, was a choice I'd made soon after I migrated west. The unique architecture, amazing hills, distinctive neighborhoods, and sheer energy infused life into my body and soul. I'd been brooding far too long, and this city had helped re-engage me in this thing called life. We were given one chance to make the most of it, and as I'd learned in the most painful way, you don't know when your number will be called. I hadn't completely moved on, but my thoughts about Marisa and my former life were usually positive, seldom attached to the bottom of a bottle of Maker's Mark.

  I brushed fingers through my hair and still felt sweat clinging to my sideburns. I'd just returned from a five-mile run, the kind that makes your legs burn, thigh muscles especially. My stomach released a couple of surging growls, and I patted my stomach. I'd probably never show off a six-pack or be asked to model in my Calvin Kleins, but my stomach was flat and tight. My entire core was solid, strong. No love handles hanging off my side. My shoulders and arms rippled with more muscle than any other time in my life. I'd actually had the guts and confidence to wear a sleeveless Dri-FIT shirt on my run. It wasn't about being cocky; it was more about looking in the mirror and feeling prideful for being me. With my new residence came a renewed sense of living the right kind of life. Friends, both online and offline, taught me how to cook. I was in the best shape of my life and felt like I was getting stronger every day—I just hoped that strength included my mental and emotional sides as well.

  Unfortunately, I'd yet to take any steps toward making true female friends, certainly not the kind of relationships that would lead to anything "serious." Yep, in that department, I'd have to still classify myself as puny and gutless. Except for that one night when I ran after the pretty blond girl at the bar in the Fairmont Hotel. The Natural had captured my attention unlike any woman since Marisa. I recalled her turquoise eyes, radiant skin, and mesmerizing features on her smallish frame. And ever since I'd held her tiny, blue-heeled shoe, I wondered where she was, if she was still suffering, and if she was in trouble like her voice had sounded: "You have it all wrong. It didn't....I wouldn't." Then she had disappeared faster than a rabbit being chased by a rabid coyote.

  The gauge on the grill showed three hundred fifty degrees. Leaving the balcony window open, I returned to the kitchen to gather the food I'd prepped. I took in the sweet aroma and recalled how Mr. Chao had provided me his secret ingredients for this dish. I guess his was the longest friendship I'd made since I moved to San Francisco. His restaurant, Chao Town, was just a few blocks and hills from my apartment. He had hand-scribbled the recipe, which resembled gibberish written by a fourth-grader, on the back of a crumpled receipt, using a pencil that looked like it had been carved out of a tree back in 1920. In a city surrounded by technology and innovation, Mr. Chao's archaic business methods were puzzling at best. He used a lone register, not hooked into any database, to capture customer information or financials, and didn't have a website, Facebook page, Twitter handle, Pinterest page, or any other time-sucking venture—those are his words, of course.

  I'd never learned his first name; no one dared ask. He essentially ran the place like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. I chuckled, recalling the exact moment he slammed the paper on my table and said, "You want to eat good food at home, you eat this. Take it, but don't fuck up recipe."

  Truly, though, Mr. Chao could see I was lost in so many ways, and a week after I'd met the sixty-something chef and entrepreneur, he offered for me to live in the spare apartment above his dilapidated restaurant. Similar to his business practices, the building was old and on the verge of collapsing. Unable to find a place that worked within my budget, I took him up on the offer. The sheetrock sagged above my mattress, which laid on a parquet linoleum floor. Occasionally, I'd have to deal with his employees barging in to grab packages of napkins, straws and other non-food products. A locked door meant nothing, since multiple people had a key. It came with the price of the rent—only four hundred a month. And that was as long as I could take it.

  My entire wardrobe smelled like Chinese food. Looking back, I think he knew it would spur me to find my own place. Smart man, that Mr. Chao. And crafty, in his own dictatorial manner.

  Fish and vegetables sizzled on the grill. Within ten minutes, I was scooping the food onto a simple white plate and—bypassing my lonely dining table—sat it on the rectangular, chocolate-wood table in front of a flat screen, magazines stacked on one side of the coffee table, remotes on the other. This had been my MO for every meal since I moved in.

  The piece of black cod, outlined with a hint of crust, hung off the edge of the plate. I raised my fork then realized I'd forgotten my drink of the night, locally brewed Liberty Ale from Anchor Brewing. Just then, Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" blasted out of my cell phone, which was on the kitchen bar counter. The song was a tie to the past, but
it represented one of the few memories that always brought a smile to my face: Marisa, Brandon, Carrie, and I belting out the song played during Red Sox games on one of our double dates. Good friends and a special sparkle in Marisa's eye.

  I drowned out the memory now and jogged three big steps to the phone.

  “Michael here.”

  “Mr. Doyle, this is Ji. Ji Ho. I've the information you requested.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I thought back to a week ago, when I witnessed the death of a man with a blade wedged in his back. Murdered. His girlfriend or wife, at first a picture of grace and natural beauty, then a devastated lady, even more frightened after she received the mysterious phone call, escaping the bloody scene.

  “We need to meet,” I said.

  “Step out on your balcony.” Ji's voice carried an accent but was even.

  I moved to the window then scooped my body through the opening. I glanced left then right. Stepping forward under the yellow hue of a nearby street light, I spotted a man shaped like a fireplug with black hair, wearing a black leather jacket. He raised his hand in greeting then spoke through the phone.

  “Would you mind if I came up?”

  Chapter Seven

  Today

  Smoke curled off a stack of blueberry pancakes, melted butter lathering down the sides. I drenched the fluffy mountain in maple syrup, and then I coated some tangled, crispy bacon with the addictive sugary topping.

  “Would you like me to calculate the fat grams you're consuming?” Andi pulled out a green-encased cell phone, most likely paying homage to her collegiate Mean Green roots.

  I held up a finger, unable to push words through the mound of food crammed in my mouth. I gulped down a mouthful of orange juice and enjoyed the tanginess as it lit up my taste buds.

  “I like pancakes.”

  “That's obvious.” She rolled her eyes then stabbed at a piece of pineapple from her plate and ate it.

  “That was the first conscious thought I had when I had no idea who I was. I like pancakes. Marisa used to make a wicked batch. Homemade, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Before ordering breakfast, Andi and I talked like the old friends we were, recalling the person I often referred to as my "wife for life," Marisa. We shared a few laughs, and at different times, each of us allowed a tear to escape our eyes. Andi had evolved, grown into a charming young woman, someone who could sense the emotion of the person she was speaking to—me, in this instance.

  The hazy glow of the morning sun peeked above a nearby brick building, illuminating hundreds of smudges on the restaurant's dirty windows. The Asian couple was long gone, but the student indulged in our breakfast brigade. His plate of food, like Andi's, was much healthier than what I was consuming.

  I scarfed down all five of my pancakes and swirled my last piece of bacon in a pool of syrup, savoring the final mouthwatering bite. Realizing I was coated in goo, I held up both hands.

  “Had many civil meals recently?” Andi asked with an obvious smirk.

  I moved my hands closer, like a surgeon waiting for my nurse to slip on surgical gloves.

  “I know, you like pancakes. I get it. You were a hungry boy. Now let's make sure you clean yourself up.”

  She dipped her napkin in water then took my hand and cleaned each finger. It felt soothing, like a hand massage. My pulse slowed to a manageable pace, and my eyes finally felt the weight of a night with no sleep and way too much drama.

  “Tired, I bet. After everything you've been through.” Andi motioned toward the corner of her mouth.

  I grabbed the wet napkin and circled my sticky mouth.

  “Happy?” I asked with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

  “Just making sure you're okay to be in public.” Andi shot me a playful wink.

  My body slouched against the booth seat, and I released a fat-and-happy breath. “Now that I'm seemingly lucid, well fed, and my myriad of pain points are sufficiently controlled for the time being, let's hear the story.”

  She tilted her neck. “I thought your memory was back. Completely.”

  “Hard to say. Some things I'm not sure about. Other thoughts, images, I can't believe they're true. Like why did you tackle me again?”

  “Earlier in the night, we'd agreed to meet at Mount Sutro if we got separated,” she said.

  I just nodded.

  “I thought I was being followed. Actually, I'm sure of it. I'd lost them when I first took off from the wharf—”

  “Fisherman's Wharf?” I was mastering the obvious question, but saying it out loud allowed me to create a picture, although I couldn't tell if it was fiction or real life.

  “What other wharf is there in San Francisco?” Her smallish chest expanded as she took in an exasperated breath. I tried not to notice. “Mount Sutro was creepy. All sorts of sounds, things rustling around. I got a little antsy. Then, out of nowhere, I could have sworn something just leaped at me. I tripped on a stump then regained my balance and just started haulin' ass, moving so fast I couldn't see where I was going. I popped through an opening, saw you, and couldn't stop myself. And, frankly, I didn't want to. I knew you'd break my fall. Although I didn't know there was a hill. And who would have thought we'd land right next to Larry's home.“

  “Whoulda thought?” I touched the bridge of my nose and felt a surge of pain invade my entire face as I remembered Larry's enormous fist. It felt like Popeye had uncorked one of his infamous shots that sent Pluto sailing. I had been Pluto, flying into the world of the unconscious.

  The waitress stopped by, and since I had no money, credit cards or anything, Andi put down a twenty. We slid out of the booth and walked outside. Another crisp morning with puffy, white clouds racing across the blue backdrop, nestled so close to the ground it seemed like you could reach up and touch them. I sought warmth, so I instinctively headed toward a patch of sun. I got there and turned my battered face directly into the rays of heat.

  Andi approached me, but didn't say anything. Man, she had changed since we'd worked together. I took in four deep breaths.

  “Wondering what I'm doing?” I asked without opening my eyes.

  “Finding peace, I can see. We all have our own way. At least we should.”

  I turned just slightly in her direction. Yes, she did have a strong sense of self. What life was really about. What it took to survive. What it took to thrive.

  She patted my back, and we ambled down Taylor Street, walking stride for stride with each other. She had both hands buried in her plum-colored North Face jacket, the collar turned up and touching the bottom of her earlobes, minus earrings. Her hair was a mess, but it wasn't bad looking. It was fun.

  A block later, I was ready for the first half of the story.

  “Back at the wharf, how did I get knocked out? What made us create the plan to meet up at Mount Sutro?”

  She touched my arm. “You thought we were being followed ever since we left the Fairmount.”

  “Excuse me?” My mischievous mind allowed words to escape without a filter. Were we actually...

  I couldn't think it.

  “What? Are you crazy?” She lightly punched my left arm. “You were staying at my place in the hotel the last two nights because we thought your place was being watched.“

  “Okay...” I was eager to hear the entire story, but I couldn't let go of tonight, or rather, last night. “The wharf?“

  “We wandered down there, looking for a bite to eat, talk strategy on this whole sordid mess. It was chilly, a cold wind blowing off the bay, and we weren't really on the lookout. For a moment, we got wrapped up in watching the sun set under the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  Is she serious? Staying in her hotel room, watching sunsets together? I wondered how much of this was just a figment of her imagination, but I didn't interrupt the flow.

  “Everything happened at once. A bunch of girls ran up, Girl Scouts, asking us to buy cookies. We turned around and realized that, at the edge of the pier, two men were trying to
act casual, just hanging out, and not looking at us. But they were doing just that.”

  I could feel my core tense up, which inadvertently created head pain.

  “You grabbed my arm and told me to listen as we walked with the Girl Scouts right toward the men. You said we were going to separate at the end of the pier but to meet at Mount Sutro once we felt safe.”

  “Doesn't sound like a great plan,” I said.

  “We didn't have time to think of anything else. We knew...well, we felt pretty certain these men were connected to Gustavo's murder.”

  I shook my head. “The guy with the meat cleaver buried in his back.”

  “That's the one.” Andi moved closer, our coats making a swooshing sound with each swing of our arms.

  “I was really nervous. I think you were too. I'll never forget those two guys. The shorter one wore a beret, didn't have much hair, I think. The other guy, I'll never forget. He had one of those wandering eyes. I think it was glass. And it was way off. You could spot it a mile away.”

  “What else did he look like?”

  “Jeans, red sweater with a zipper on it. Well built, maybe six three, six four, upper twenties. Looked like a former athlete. But the glass eye...he didn't look human.”

  I held out my hand, and we both slowed to a stop. I closed my eyes and tried to envision the scene.

  “Keep going.”

  “It just all happened so fast. You were holding me close, tight, like we were, you know, a couple. Right at the end, you gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, 'Call me when you get back to Wisconsin. Have a safe trip.' You basically pushed me to the right, and you went left.”

  My heart fluttered, but I wasn't sure why. The way she told the story...my subconscious tried to crack into my filtered but flawed memory.

  “In some respects, your plan worked. I glanced behind me, and after a few seconds of confusion and bickering, they both took off after you. I guess they eventually caught you and did some damage. I don't know if they were sending you a message or trying to kill you.”