ON A WARM Monday morning I was in Ira’s backyard, happily reading Dostoevsky. Yes, you can be happy reading Dostoevsky.
Ira came to the back door and told me we had company.
Inside, dressed like the most successful insurance salesman in the world, was one Sheldon Meeks. “Mr. Mayne requests a word with you, Mr. Romeo.”
I looked out the window and saw a big, black limo. “Is he going to take me for a ride?”
Meeks smiled. “I assure you not. Just five minutes of your time.”
“You’re a witness, Ira,” I said.
“What was your name again?” Ira said.
Meeks laughed and out we went. He opened the rear door of the limo and I climbed in and sat opposite Mark David Mayne.
The limo was like a conference room. Mayne was dressed in an impeccable blue suit, light-blue shirt, and gold tie. I looked for a wrinkle somewhere on his clothes and swear I couldn’t find one.
He lifted a glass decanter from the interior wet bar and said, “Drink?”
“A little early for me.”
“Coke? Seven-up?”
“I’m good.”
“Yes you are,” Mayne said, replacing the decanter. He rubbed his hands together and hit me with his eyes. “How’s the hand?”
“Not ready for guitar lessons,” I said, holding it up. “But getting better.”
“I wanted to thank you personally,” he said.
“For?”
“My children. For getting them out of there. Maybe saving their lives. I don’t know what she might have done.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I don’t think your ex-wife is Medea.”
“Who?”
“Wife of Jason. She killed their children just to get back at him.”
“That was in a play, right?”
I nodded.
“You don’t know her like I do,” Mayne said.
“I don’t even know you,” I said.
“Fair enough. I never laid a hand on Natalia. Except once, and that was in self-defense.”
“I’m not a jury,” I said.
“But I want you to believe me.”
“Why?”
“I’d like you to work for me. I don’t have anybody around me who has your stones.”
“My stones need to take it easy for a while.”
“Name your price,” he said.
“Peace of mind.”
He smiled. “We could all use that. How about money?”
I shook my head.
“Will you at least think about it?” he said.
“I think, but dare not speak.”
“What?”
“Macbeth.”
“You’re a strange guy,” he said. “But I like you. Can I at least give you some money for your trouble?”
I still had the bills from Cameron Lette’s bag. And deserved every dollar of it. “I’m good,” I said.
“Look, if you change your mind.” He took a card out of his shirt pocket, handed it to me. “Ever anything I can do for you, call me. I mean it. People think I’m this big, ruthless SOB.”
“You’re not?”
He smiled again. “All right, I am. But at least I know it. Do you know who you are, Romeo?”
Good question.
BACK IN THE house, Ira informed me he was making his famous kosher quesadillas for lunch.
“Heavy on the jalapeños,” I said.
“Oh it’ll be hot all right,” Ira said. “Like Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace.”
I went to the backyard again, lay on the chaise, and resumed my reading of The Brothers Karamazov.
I was in the section of the book called The Grand Inquisitor, and it’s one intense take on free will, God, man, suffering, the devil. You know, the easy stuff. I hadn’t read it since I was in prep, back when I could talk to my mom and dad about it, when we had those conversations around the table and Mom’s meatloaf was warm and the tomato sauce rich on top, and Dad’s laugh filled the room.
I miss them more than I can say.
Mr. Dostoevsky got me thinking, as usual. At some point I put the book on my chest and fell asleep.
Ira’s voice woke me up. “Hey, laughing boy.”
He was at the back door.
“Huh?”
“Somebody here to see you,” he said.
I sat up.
And saw her coming through the doorway like a dream. A dream with sunset-red hair draping her shoulders. She was carrying a brown paper bag.
“You left your books at the ice-cream store,” Sophie said.
I got up to meet her.
“My friend works there.” Sophie handed me the bag. “She brought them back to the store. I remembered I had your address. You’re close to the store so I thought I’d walk them over.”
“Now that’s what I call customer service,” I said.
Her glasses framed burnished-bronze eyes with gold flecks in them.
“We love people who love books,” she said.
We were speechless for a moment in that what-should-we-say-next sort of way.
I looked at my books like a schoolboy, then back at her.
“I’ll have to come in and buy some more,” I said.
“I’ll be happy to help you,” she said.
And I thought, for the first time in a long time, that I’d be happy to have someone help me.
“Ever had a kosher quesadilla?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“We’re about to have lunch.”
“That’s a tempting offer,” she said. “But I do have to get back. See you at the store.”
I walked with her through the yard gate, out to the street. We shook hands and off she went. I watched her for a long moment, trying not to stare.
But not wanting to look away. Because I was looking at something vaguely remembered, and I didn’t want it to slip away.
I guess you’d call it hope.
Maybe Ira can explain it to me, and convince me it’s real.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Romeo’s Rules.
I hope you like the start of this new series. The next books in the series are: Romeo’s Way and Romeo’s Hammer.
I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d leave a review of the book online when you get the chance.
There’s more to come. And if you’d like to be on my email list and be among the first to know when the next one’s coming, please subscribe on my website (you may win a free book, too). I won’t share your email address with anyone, nor will I stuff your mailbox with spam. It’s just a short and to-the-point email from time to time.
Meanwhile, I have another suspense series featuring lawyer Ty Buchanan. The books are:
Try Dying (Ty Buchanan Legal Thriller #1)
Try Darkness (Ty Buchanan Legal Thriller #2)
Try Fear (Ty Buchanan Legal Thriller #3)
For all my books, for both readers and writers, see www.jamesscottbell.com.
Thanks!
Romeo’s Rules is a work of fiction. Though real locations are used or mentioned, events that take place are made up for the purpose of the story. All of the characters are fictional, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by James Scott Bell
All Rights Reserved
Published by
Compendium Press
Woodland Hills, CA
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