Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  “You and I, uh, work for the same guy,” the man explained, gesturing a little too close. “We knew each other, you and me. I guess you really did lose your memory! That’s gotta be rough. Your name is Steven, you hate it when anybody calls you Steve, and you beat a guy pretty bad when he called you Stevie.”

  The man knew his name, but that alone said nothing. He could've made up the rest, although Steven’s jaw had tightened at Stevie. Still, it could’ve been a good guess. Steven thought about the drug dealers in the sedan—the guy with the bloodied up face and the guy who had sailed into the brick wall. How violent a man was he? All the better his memories were gone. It sounded like he used to be a shitty person. Maybe this was all about having a chance at a fresh start? Maybe he really could choose who he wanted to be.

  He had no reason to trust this man, did he? How could he even find out if the man was telling the truth? If he was, the man may very well know more about him than he did himself.

  “You don’t trust me? Hell, if I was you, not remembering who I was, maybe I wouldn’t trust me. How about this, I know stuff the police haven’t told the media.”

  “Which I still can’t exactly verify, can I?”

  “Then, ah, I guess you got yourself a dilemma, Steven.” The man put his left forearm arm flat on the bar. A wide black stone dominated a ring on his pinkie.

  “Don’t suppose you have a picture of us together or something like that?”

  “No, um, ah, you aren’t exactly big on your picture being taken...” The man coughed a little when he laughed.

  “Look, familiar places are s’posed to help jog memories, right? I can take you places you’ve been before. Um, you got anyone giving you a better offer than that?”

  “Oh, um, I’m Lou, by the way,” he added.

  Steven finished his beer. He supposed going with this man was no more dangerous than walking anywhere a police officer might see him.

  “I guess not.”

  “Good,” Lou said with big nod of his head and slid off the stool.

  Lou led him outside and down a few parking spaces to a dark green Lexus sedan with beige leather seats saturated with cigarette smoke. Getting the seatbelt in place was awkward, making sure he appeared to use his hands properly without unknowingly bending something in a direction it wasn't supposed to go. A broken finger would be one of the last things he needed. He paid close attention to what he was doing.

  Lou didn't put his on but turned the key to start the car with one hand while pulling out his phone with the other. He couldn’t see the name of the contact Lou selected on the phone’s screen to call.

  “Hey, it’s Lou,” he said as he put the car in gear. “Guess who I ran into at his old bar just now?”

  Steven wondered what he was getting into as the car pulled out. The engine was an interesting mix of movements; he could stop it if he chose to. Or bash Lou’s head into the steering wheel.

  “Steven, numbnuts,” Lou explained, shaking his head and sighing. “Yeah, that Steven. Anyway, I’m bringing him over. Um, tell Barton for me, will ya? He’ll wanna know.”

  Steven tried to think of questions to ask on the drive, but the more he thought about them the more he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answers. Lou had the upper hand, and that left him biting on his lip. He stopped that as soon as he noticed it. He started to regret agreeing to come with, but it seemed too late to back out now. He would just have to play it out and see what he learned.

  CHAPTER 27 – THE HARD CALL

  Andrew Barton sat upright at the rhythmic knock at the door. One of his armed men outside ushered Lou Martinelli and Steven Ambrose into the condo’s living room. Steven looked like shit. Haggard, as if he'd aged five years since the last time Barton saw him. The scruffy start to a beard did not become Steven. He'd never seen Steven with any facial hair at all. His hair was cut short, presumably when they did whatever kind of surgery they needed to do on him. Even the way he carried himself was different. Gone was the confident swagger. Now he moved almost...mechanically.

  He stood up and strode forward to greet his friend with a hug, but Steven actually recoiled some. Steven didn't hug back. Barton walked back to his spot on the couch, gesturing to one of the other couches in the little conversation space. “Sit, my friend,” he suggested.

  Barton had three of his men in the room, taking up spaces on other couches. Tracy, a skinny blonde with dyke hair and a pale blue sweater dress sat upright from the lounging posture she'd sprawled in on a chair in the corner. She mashed her cigarette out in an ashtray on an end table next to her. Barton didn't care much for the slut, but she'd been a favorite of Steven’s, so having her here seemed like a good idea.

  It never bothered Sandy, his wife, that she was around sometimes. Partly, he always figured, because the slut was no threat to her. “They say she gives great blowjobs,” Sandy shared one night over dinner. “I’m not going to be upset if you try her out sometime.” But Barton wasn't interested in the girl. She was too young, too loose, too...weak for him. He liked his women to be women. Feminine yet strong. Educated and intelligent and passionate about something that could be done with clothes on. Tracy and Sandy were nothing alike. There was no doubt in his mind, or his wife’s, which he preferred.

  Steven ambled to the couch, looking around as if taking it all in for the first time. Not even the deliberate, methodical way he would survey a bank. He looked like a tourist. “Nice place you’ve got, Mr...?”

  “I’m Andrew Barton,” he answered while Steven lowered himself awkwardly into the couch. There was something rigid about his movements. Almost jerky. Perhaps he was still in pain, or still stiff from being in the hospital bed for so long. “You work for me. You have for many years. Are you in pain?”

  “Um. No.”

  The change in the man was staggering. The Steven Barton knew was confident and self-assured, so full of life. This older, sickly looking man had so much less vitality to him. He looked depressed and anxious. The man Martinelli brought could have been a corpse being controlled like a puppet with some sick ventriloquist behind him.

  “I heard you had lost all your memories,” Barton said. “Now, I’m pleased you didn’t tell the police anything, but I do hope it was just a convincing act, right?”

  “Um, no,” Steven answered with a frown and meekly downturned eyes. “It’s really all gone. One of the doctors said it could take time, and that some or all might come back eventually. I’m still hoping that’s the case, but they also said it was possible it never would.”

  Even the timbre of Steven’s voice was off. Softer, projecting less. Pauses came in the middle of sentences where they didn’t seem to belong. Steven—old Steven—was eloquent and could enrapture everyone at a table telling a story, his voice rising and falling for dramatic emphasis. Not so this withered husk of his former friend.

  “Well, for now don’t worry about a thing,” Barton tried to reassure the man, torn between an optimistic hope that his friend might return and a sinking suspicious he was lost forever. “We’ll get you all set up, see what we can do to help you in the meantime. I’ve taken good care of you in the past, and that’s not gonna stop now.”

  He turned to Jacko, “Get some clothes set up for him. A proper suit. Let’s welcome our friend back home with some style.” Maybe we can bring his dignity back, at least.

  He had a hard time even imagining his old friend stooped so low. Steven was a man of taste and class, not this wrinkled, disheveled mess. He'd taken his old friend’s fashion suggestions even over the insistence of tailors. Yet Steven never steered him wrong. Tailors wanted him to project wealth and status. Steven taught him how to project power, which was worth much more. They both shared an understated sense of style. Quality and class over flash and the “bling” crap the younger, crasser, ones thought projected anything worth having.

  “Sure thing, boss,” the man replied before he hopped up and left down a hall leading to bedrooms. The master suite was off the other direction. Whi
le he enjoyed having guests, he also enjoyed his privacy.

  Sandy came in from the kitchen with a wood platter loaded with fresh baked bread and butter and honey. The smell reminded him he hadn't finished his dinner earlier. He snatched up a piece of bread with his thick fingers when she properly offered the platter towards him first. “Thanks, Dear.”

  A radiant aquamarine swung away from her when she leaned over and emphasized the plunging neckline of her aqua, Moroccan print, wrap dress when she stood back up. Matching gemstones dangled from her ears. Her version of casual matched his wonderfully. Like him in so many ways.

  “Have some, Steven,” he suggested when she brought the platter in Steven’s direction. She raised an eyebrow, as they both knew Steven had Celiac disease and couldn't have gluten. But she shifted the platter towards the man. Will he take any?

  Steven did take a piece, passing on the butter and honey. It was mostly the other men who used the butter. Sandy didn't offer bread to Tracy, but placed it on the coffee table in the center of the space before claiming some bread and the honey for herself and crossing her legs on the couch next to him. Barton set his hand on her thigh where that side of the dress fell aside.

  Steven took a bite as Tracy came forward for some. He didn't show any more recognition for the whore than he had for anyone else, although he had stared at her ass as she leaned over in front of him. A disapproving frown grew on Sandy as Tracy poured honey on a piece of bread and took it back to her corner seat. It was one thing to not mind her presence, but Sandy never pretended to like her. Steven once said Tracy viewed it as a power statement, but one that Tracy didn’t mind.

  As Steven continued to eat the bread along with everyone else, Barton grew more and more convinced Steven’s memory loss was genuine and total. Would he put himself through what would probably be painful diarrhea just to cover pretending to lose his memory? No, Steven’s dignity had always been too important for that. Steven made the point brutally clear in the past.

  While Steven’s posture was still tall and straight, he carried his shoulders higher. His head still tilted to the side when he turned to observe the people around him, but his hand sat as if forgotten on his leg. Crumbs of bread had fallen onto his pants.

  That wasn’t right. Not like him at all. No, Steven ate things carefully, keeping a hand under chips to catch salsa drips. Now he held it up closer to his face between bites. No attempt to brush crumbs off of anything when he finished it, no effort to reach for or use one of the folded napkins on the table. Where did the meticulousness go?

  “You’re being a gracious host,” Steven said, “and I don’t want to appear rude. But, is there somewhere I can lay down for a little bit? I was in a coma for a couple of weeks and stuck in bed for more and I haven’t had a decent place to sleep since the hospital. I don’t have all my strength back.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Barton replied. Steven looked shaky. His jaw was even trembling. Huh. He'd certainly never seen that before. “I want to hear all about how you got out, and where you’ve been since. And I’m sure you have many questions for me. But all of that can wait. I’ve got some guest bedrooms. Consider one yours now. Just think of yourself as home. It’ll all be okay.”

  “Tracy,” he added, “help him get settled and comfortable, will you?”

  “Sure thing, sir,” she said as she all but sprang out of her seat and took Steven by the hand. His movements getting up from the couch were no less awkward than sitting down, almost clumsy. Marching down the hall with Tracy was so much...more mechanical than his normal graceful stroll.

  “Lou,” he said once he heard the bedroom door close, “we need to talk.” Not only about the way Lou stared at Sandy’s legs. The other men he excused, keeping pressure on Sandy’s leg to let her know to stay. The other men stood, knowing they had things to take care of, and left the three alone.

  “So, what, he just walked into the bar?”

  “Yeah. Outa the blue. Straight to the bar. He was drinking some yellow beer when I walked up.”

  Steven never drank lighter beers. Dark stouts, some reds, but never an amber. Just how much had been damaged in his brain?

  “He wasn’t very trusting. It took a little to convince him to come with me. But I knew you’d want me to bring him here.”

  “You did exactly the right thing, Lou. Good call.” Martinelli was not the most clever or resourceful man, but he was loyal and reliable, and those qualities mattered to Barton.

  He turned to his wife. “Grab us a bottle of one of the nice cabernets, would you?”

  “Eyes, Lou,” he warned, abruptly stern once she left the room. “Maybe she didn’t notice. Maybe she was trying not to embarrass me. But don’t think I don’t notice how people stare at my wife.”

  Martinelli’s face froze and paled. Stammering failed to coalesce into words.

  “We’re good, it’s okay. She’s a beautiful woman; don’t think I can’t acknowledge that. I’m not insecure or possessive. She’s more likely to be offended than I am. But don’t provoke her, okay?” He kept his tone and his face both friendly, genuinely wanting Martinelli to feel less afraid. The point was made, that was enough.

  She came back with the bottle and three glasses. Barton smiled and nodded approvingly while she poured.

  “To wise decisions,” he toasted once they all held a glass. The nod he offered Martinelli was gracious and appreciative. “Thank you for bringing an old friend home to me.”

  “Now,” he added about halfway through the glass. “The law is looking for our friend. Did you have any indication at all that you might have been tailed?”

  “I was watching, but I didn’t see anything.”

  “Good. Just in case, I want you to gather up a few extra men and set up some surveillance of our own. Keep an eye on parked vehicles, vans especially. Watch out for me and let me know if you find anyone watching this building. You don’t need to do anything about them other than let me know.”

  “Of course, boss.” Martinelli finished the wine a little fast, not appreciating it properly. “Thanks for the wine.”

  “You earned it. You did well today.”

  Martinelli left and Sandy turned to face him. Now they could talk.

  “He’s really not going to feel well,” she said of Steven.

  “I wondered what would happen. Interesting test.”

  “I think our Steven is gone.” She looked as disappointed as he felt. “What are you going to tell Müller?”

  He chuckled, a long, soft rolling laugh she smiled at. “That his hitter isn’t as good as he thought, for one. Maybe I’m glad his guy isn’t killing Steven. Part of me wants to keep him around and see if he gets some memory back.”

  “I know.”

  He sighed, disappointed. “But that’s just a fantasy, I’m afraid.”

  “He just sat there, hardly moving. Like some kind of robot,” she pointed out. “I don’t think he’s okay. He looked more than tired.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think he needs a doctor”

  Tracy came back with a sheepish, embarrassed frown and smoothing out her sweater dress. Barton raised an eyebrow.

  “He didn't want me,” she pouted. “Said he was too tired. He needs a shower. He doesn’t smell so good.”

  “He’s been through a lot. Go ahead and go home.”

  He sighed hard once she left. His hand had clenched into a fist without his realizing it. He took a deep breath and unrolled it.

  “Damn. She was his favorite. Him pushing her away? Bad sign.”

  “I think he’s just gone, Andrew.”

  To almost everyone in his life, Andrew Barton was Barton. Sometimes Mr. Barton. Sometimes boss but never emphasized the same way the Etherax was ‘Boss.’ With no immediate family, the only ones to call him Andrew were his wife and Steven.

  Steven had been around for a lot of Barton’s rise to power. They both started from small, simple beginnings. They helped each other along the way. Giving the fat Mexican or
ders to shoot him if they were going to be arrested was heart-wrenching. Now regret crushed his heart.

  Steven knew so much. Too much. Some men knew too much that could get him arrested and put away forever. But Steven knew everything Barton knew about the alien artifact locked away in the bank. More even than he let Müller find out. No, Steven knew things that would get Barton killed. And Sandy. And a lot more. That risk scared him. Besides, Müller would’ve had Steven killed in jail anyway.

  Brain damaged so horribly? He hadn't counted on that possibility. Seeing the shell of his former friend sitting before him hurt more than seeing his dead body would have. He'd done worse than kill his friend. He had ruined him. Broken him. Destroyed him. It hurt worse than the scenarios he'd been afraid of.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, bringing him back to the present.

  “He wouldn’t want to live like this. I think I’m going to have to kill him.”

  She leaned in and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry, Andrew.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I should call Müller. Let him know he can call off his hitter.”

  “I’m going to take care of the dishes. Let me know when you’re ready for bed?”

  He smiled, but it wasn't genuine. “Of course.”

  Her ass rocked side to side more than normal as she walked to the kitchen. It didn’t help.

  The phone was heavy in his hand. Heavy with dread. Heavy with regret. Heavy with guilt. He swiped to the contact and started the call.

  “Hello, my friend,” the German said. He hated that accent. It always sounded just a little fake, an affectation he might have clung to.

  “I know, it’s late. Ambrose is here. Sleeping in a guest room.”

  “Ah, interesting. Does he remember anything?”