seen it before."
"That's right. Now let's get off this bridge and go
have a drink. The train will be wandering by in about-
what, three, four minutes?"
" H o w . . . how—" I tried but he cut me off.
"We've been watching you. You've been timing the
train all week but this is the first time you've wandered
out onto the tracks. Suicide's not the answer, Mr. Fox."
Had I been that obvious? It terrified me that this
muscle head had been following me around without me
having the slightest clue, but it also pissed me off at the
same time. What right did he have to talk to me like
that? I'd kill myself if I damn well pleased—thank you
very much. To hell with this clown if he didn't approve.
Let him try to survive on the street like I had. Take
away his fancy car and expensive clothes and he proba
bly wouldn't last six months.
"Suicide's not the answer?" I asked sarcastically. "But
I suppose you are, right?"
"Not me, Mr. Fox, the man I work for."
He walked over to me, removed his billfold from his
pants pocket and pulled out two crisp hundred-dollar
bills. He handed them over and started walking away
toward the safety of Carver Street. I glanced down at
the money in my hand—the most money I'd possessed
at one time in three years—and had to ask.
"What's this for?"
Looking back over his shoulder, he paused to say,
"Chump change, Mr. Fox. You get that for simply com
ing down off the bridge. There's two hundred more if
you'll come into the limo and listen to my proposition.
You're under no obligation to accept, but I'm pretty
sure you'll like what you hear. We've been looking for a
guy like you for weeks, and you're perfect for what we
have in mind. It's simple really. Let's go have a drink
and I'll tell you about it. There's more money where
that came from, Fox, a hell of a lot more. Come get your
self some."
Without another glance, the muscular bald man
quickly retraced his steps back to the limo and disap
peared inside. He left the door to the car open, an obvi
ous invitation for me to join him. Was I prepared to do
that? Was I really that stupid? Sure, he'd helped me out
in the bar and he'd given me two hundred bucks for
nothing, but was that enough to risk trusting him? I
had no idea who this guy was or who he worked for. I
didn't have a clue what he wanted with me or what this
offer was all about. This had all the makings of a big,
big mistake.
What did I have to lose, though, really? The worst
thing that could happen was it was all a sham and he was
inside, the limo with a knife, waiting to slit open my
throat when I entered. That might be a nasty way to die,
but was getting run over by a freight train any better?
Maybe he was queer, out trolling around for a date? No,
if that was his game, he could buy it for a lot less than
the four hundred he was offering me. He wouldn't have
been following me around for days either.
My feet were walking before I'd even made a con
scious decision to do so. I suppose they knew that when
it came to the prospect of money, I was a weak-willed
jellyfish at heart and would cave eventually, so why
not get it over with. Maybe it was crazy, but to me at
least, it was worth the risk. Besides, I could always catch
the train again twelve hours from now if things didn't
work out.
I was near the bottom of the bridge, maybe ten feet
from street level, when the Erie freight rounded a cor
ner, speeding into view. I had lots of time to hurry to
the bottom and step out of harm's way, but for a second
I hesitated, thinking maybe I should just stick to plan A
and find out if things were any better in the afterlife.
The thought of the additional two hundred bucks was
something I just couldn't resist, though. To hell with it,
it was stupid to die with all this money in my pocket,
especially if there was a chance of—how had he put it—a
hell of a lot more.
How much more?
I made it onto Carver Street in plenty of time and
watched as the train rocketed by me like a huge metal
lic serpent snaking its way toward Rochester. When it
was gone and there was nothing left to hear, save for
the normal loud din of the chaotic city, I turned to find
the limo door still open. It was too dark inside to make
anything out, but I had the feeling the bald-headed
roan was watching me with a big icy smile on his face.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
Two thoughts swirled through my head as I ap
proached the fancy vehicle. The first was that if I got
into the back of this car I'd probably be dead by mid
night, and the second was that up on the bridge, I'd
missed my chance to cream Puckman in the yap with
the rubber hockey puck in my pocket. I must really be
in a weird mood because the second thought upset me
far more than the first.
"What the hell am I getting myself into?" I won
dered aloud, but as the cliche goes, there was only one
way to find out.
I climbed into the back seat.
PART TWO
T H E OFFER
CHAPTER FOUR
While it's true we all have to choose our own paths in
life, it's fair to say that other people we meet can heav
ily influence those choices.
And so can their snazzy cars.
The spacious interior of the white limo was, in a word,
amazing. There was seating for ten on the softest, most
comfortable leather I'd ever had the pleasure of touch
ing. A fully stocked bar, complete with an ice-making
refrigerator, sink, and hanging glass racks. A 14" color
television, a DVD player, and a killer stereo unit with
surround-sound speakers and a five-disc revolving CD
tray.
To the average Joe, this beautiful car symbolized
status, glamour, and delightful extravagance, but to
me—considering the seedy places I'd been spending
time lately—this excessive luxury was an assault on
my senses. The odor of expensive leather mixing with
the smell of brand-new plush carpet was incredible,
almost intoxicating. I took deep breath after deep breath,
savoring the sweet aroma like a rare treat, which to me
it was.
It smelled truly wonderful, but what it smelled the
most of was money. Cold hard cash. It was impossible
to sit in this magnificent vehicle and not realize that its
owner had to be not just rich, but rolling in the bucks. I
felt weird sitting there, stunned. It was like a
heavyweight's punch to my gut of all the things I had
lost in this world but still secretly desired. Like I'd en
tered a forbidden fantasy place, a land as strange and
foreign to me as a space shuttle trip to the surface of
the moon.
Obviously: I was impressed,
but I was smart enough
to realize these people wanted something from me and
this show, of obscene wealth was a part of their game
plan. It was bait—dangle the money in front of the pen
niless bum's nose and see if he'd bite. Admittedly, it was
working. I liked what I saw and wanted more of it. Not
ready to swallow the hook quite yet, but getting mighty
hungry.
My muscular host was the only other occupant in the
back of the lima and he was seated across from me with
his right ankle draped over his left knee, relaxing casu
ally while talking softly on a tiny cellular phone. He
pretended to ignore me, concerned only with his phone
conversation, but I kept catching him sneaking a peek,
observing me checking out the surroundings. I didn't
hear much of his call as I'd come in near its completion,
but I did hear him say "Yes, sir" a few times so he was
presumably talking to the boss he'd referred to earlier.
Probably assuring his employer how I'd be an easy mark,
what with the way I was staring around with wide-eyed
wonder like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Sorry about that," he said, clicking shut his phone
and slipping it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
"Had to check in with the office, so to speak. Anyway,
let's get the introductions out of the way. I already know
who you are: Michael Benjamin Fox. But I'm not sure
what name you'd prefer I use?"
"Most people call me Mike. That'll work."
"Fine, Mike it is. I told you who I was last night in
the bar but obviously you don't remember. No big deal.
My name's Drake, Alexander Drake, but I prefer just
using my last name. Fair enough? Good. Let's have
that drink and we'll get into this."
Drake tapped twice on the smoked glass partition
separating us from the driver and the car immediately
started to roll. I had no idea where they were taking me
but it really didn't matter. Anywhere was better than
here. Without bothering to ask what I wanted, he poured
us both three fingers of single malt scotch over ice and
handed oneto me. To someone used to drinking cheap
gin or Homemade Screech, the single malt went down
like it was nectar of the gods. Realizing it made me
look like the proverbial bum but not caring, I slurped
the whole glass dry and held my hand out for more.
Drake smiled knowingly and topped me up without
saying a word. Managing to control myself this time, I
only took one small sip before setting the glass into a
built-in cup holder beside me. I settled back in the
plush seat and tried to relax.
"So now that we've been introduced," I said, "what's
this fabulous offer you have for me?"
Drake took a tiny sip of his scotch—barely wetting
his lips^then set his glass aside and began his spiel.
"As I've already hinted, I'm employed by a very
wealthy and important man. His name is Nathan Mar
shall, Dr. Nathan Marshall, to be more precise. He's
one of this country's top neurosurgeons, the holder
of twenty-seven medical patents for various surgical
and research related innovations. The man's a genius,
no doubt about it, Mike. His work on brain stem inju
ries and spinal column nerve regeneration is second
to none. ,
"Dr. Marshall has made a fortune on his medic#f
patents, not to mention the private and government
grants that came pouring in after all his success, but
he was filthy rich before his career even started. His
family had money coming out of their wazoos from
way back. He never needed a nickel right from day one,
which is why, when he became furious with the medical
community and fed up with their restrictive rules and
regulations, he simply dropped completely out of the
public eye to devote his time and vast wealth into his
own private research.
"He's one of a kind, Mike, you'll like him, I know
you will. What's not to like? He's got the four G's."
"The four G's?" I asked.
"Yeah, he's good-looking, he's a genius, he's gener
ous with his money, and he's got gazillions of it to
toss around. The four G's, man. He's Bill Gates, with
a scalpel!"
It was obviously a line Drake used often, but he still
managed to laugh at his own joke. Personally, I didn't
find it very funny, but I chuckled anyway to play along.
When Drake settled, I decided to get down to business.
"And. what does this rich and famous doctor want
with a broken-down bum like me?"
Drake's smile disappeared immediately, as if it had
never existed, replaced with a condescending scowl.
"Now, Mike," wagging his finger, in my face, "that's
not a nice way to describe yourself, is it? You're for
getting I've been following you around and I know
you better than you think. You're not a bum. I don't
think so anyway, and I don't think you believe it either.
You're a guy who's down on his luck, that's all. A guy
who knows there's more to life than living in a Dump-
ster. Even though you were getting ready to kiss the
front grille of that freight train, I dunk you still want
to get back up on your feet and live again. Not this
pointless existence you're so sick of, I mean really live.
Am I right?"
Drake had no idea about my plan for helping out Ar-
lene, but what the big brute said-did stir me a little.
Then again, words were cheap. It was way too early to
answer his question and sometimes my mouth gets me
in more trouble than I'd like to admit, so I decided to
just shut up and listen to what my host had to say. He
apparently took my silence as an affirmative and car
ried on.
"I knew it, I just knew you were the right guy, Mike.
That's why Pm here today, to help you get back on your
feet. On my recommendation, Dr. Marshall is prepared
to offer you a great deal of money for helping him con
tinue his research. What he wants you to do is perfectly
legal and no one is going to get in trouble. Everything
you've lost, you can get back, and more. Everything
you've ever dreamed of or desired, you can have it. It's
simple, Mike* If you're willing to give Dr. Marshall what
he wants, he's willing to make you rich."
I
amount of money would get me my wife and son back,
which is what tdesired most, but this big steroid mon
key would never understand that. Money was the only
tiling that mattered to guys like him. Speaking of money,
they knew I was homeless and didn't have a nickel-*-
making me rich probably meant forking over two or
three thousand bucks. That wouldn't do me any good.
Wouldn't do my daughter any good, either. Sure, I
could live it up for a few months, but then it would be
right back to where I was now. And what about that
helping the doctor out with his research part
? What
the hell did that mean? Did they want to sign me on as
a human guinea pig? Maybe inject my balls with radio
active soap bubbles to see how big testicles can swell
before exploding? N o , I didn't like the way this was
shaping up one bit but I'd come this far. I may as well
hear the rest.
"And what does Dr. Marshall want from me, exactly?"
Drake set his scotch down again and looked me
straight in the eye. In a hushed tone, almost a whisper,
he said, "He wants your right arm."
For a second, I thought he was joking again, but some
thing in his eyes and the set of his shoulders and jaw
tipped me off that he was indeed serious.
"He wants WHAT}" I screamed, suddenly angry
with myself for getting involved in this nonsense. "Stop
the car, Drake. IVe heard enough of your bullshit. You
can tell Dr. Bigbucks he can go straight to Hell. Just
because I'm homeless, dirty, and sometimes eat out of
trash cans, it doesn't make me an animal he can play
with in his sick twisted little experiments. Fuck bim,
and for that matter, fuck you too. You come down to
the slums in this fancy car looking for an easy mark.
Well, start looking elsewhere because I'm out of here.
Now stop the goddamned car!"
I wasn't in much of a position to be making threats
and I was worried I'd gone too far. There was no doubt
this huge man could easily snap my spine in two like
a twigbut screw it, I was mad. Fortunately, I>rake re
mained perfectly calm throughout my little tirade, wait
ing patiently until I was finished before responding.
"Whatever, Mike. I told you from the start the choice
was yours and you weren't under any obligation what
soever,"
He made the same tapping gesture on the glass di
vider as earlier and the limousine driver pulled over to
the gravel shoulder and stopped the car. Drake reached
over and opened the door for me, then sat back to allow
me passage.
"You sure about this, Mike?" he asked. "You're toss
ing away a lot of money."
"I'm sure all right. He wants my arm? You've got to
be out of your mind! Where's the other two hundred
bucks you promised me for listening to this crap?"
Drake gave me a coy little smirk, meaning either he
was laughing at me or perhaps respecting my pathetic
display of bravado. Either way, he reached for his bill
Gord Rollo Page 3