Gord Rollo Read online

  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