Run Money

By S.D. Gripton and Sally Dillon-Snape

Kathryn and Michael Angel, of Sacramento, California, are enjoying a normal Saturday evening at their home when there comes a knock on the door and their father is murdered, shot down in his own house. The murderer comes after the children but they manage to escape him. Later they find a computer disk left by their dead father, with a message telling them that they must only trust Vicki Harper, she is the only one they can trust in the whole world. They must run to her, the message says. Except Vicki Harper lives in Homestead, Florida, thousands of miles away. To get to her the children must run across a Continent. All the time they are being chased by gangsters, the FBI, cops and killers. The Organization wants them captured or dead. Because there is a question to ask: what happened to the stolen $220 million?

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.D. Gripton
• Release date: Dec 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466010888

S.D. Gripton

S.D. Gripton novels and real crime books are written by Dennis Snape, who is married to Sally who originate from North Wales and Manchester respectively and who met 18 years ago. I work very hard to make a reading experience a good one, with good plots and earthy language. I enjoy writing and hope readers enjoy what I have written. I thank everyone who has ever looked at at one of my books.

Book preview

Run Money

A CRIME & ADVENTURE

NOVEL

By

S.D Gripton & Sally Dillon-Snape

Copyright © Sally Dillon-Snape & Dennis Snape (2022)

The moral right of the authors is hereby asserted in accordance with The Copyright Act 1988

All characters and events in this publication other than those of fact and historical significance available in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living and dead is purely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher

The Cover is by Snape

This book is dedicated to all those

Who love a bit of adventure

***

MANHATTAN ISLAND

1962

GET READY...

The Beatles are yet to conquer America. Hippies, free love and drugs are nightmares waiting further down the road for the unwary, the unsavoury and the naive. In nineteen-sixty-two it is rock 'n' roll that’s the dominant sound for those so inclined to be up to date in their musical tastes. In California, surf music is the rising resonant sound.

Pietro Agnelli has no interest in either of these forms of music. Only nineteen, he likes Frank, Deano and Al. He likes the sounds of the balladeers, the real singers; not the quiffed fools who can't hold a note or sing a song without backing noise so loud they can barely be heard, or who gyrate obscenely to make up for their lack of talent, and sling guitars around their necks without ever attempting to play them. Pietro hates rock 'n' roll and all its derivatives. Which is why he is sitting in his favorite bar, on his favorite stool, listening to his favorite piano-man, Denny Macy; bald, overweight, in his fifties, unknown, undiscovered; but with a voice like velvet and the piano skills Nat 'King' Cole would appreciate. Denny Macy is cool.

And Pietro likes cool because he is, himself, cool. He's tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dressed in a dark suit, dark shoes, with a white shirt open at the neck. He sips his beer and rye, too young to be legally drinking alcohol, and he rocks his head slightly and the fingers of his left hand beat out a rhythm on the bar. He breathes in air so thick that it more resembles a solid mass of noxious gases than air to be breathed, and he peers into a room so dark that a cat would have trouble navigating it.

It's a great place to be.

Great place, a female voice says, into his ear, her voice dusky and warm.

Pietro turns on his stool and looks at the brunette who stands next to him. She's a good-looking woman, he thinks, stacked, though a little old for him, in her thirties, but a looker all the same.

Great, he says.

Great music.

You wanna drink? he asks.

Beer. Thanks.

Pietro clicks his fingers at the barman and nods towards the woman.

Beer, he says, and a cold one arrives almost immediately.

You come here often? the woman asks.

Pietro smiles. That's my line, surely.

Don't call me Shirley, the woman says, and they both laugh. It's an old joke, but still funny to them. And, yeah, I suppose it is your line. Sorry I stole it. Cheers.

Cheers.

Out of the darkness, the smoke and the gloom, a man appears. He's tall, belly-heavy, red-faced, sweaty and in his forties.

What th'hell you think you're doing? the man says to the woman.

I'm just having a beer.

Get th'hell back to the table, the man says, without any grace or manners.

Bad manners are almost a death-penalty crime as far as Pietro Agnelli is concerned. He is a man of manners.

She's having a beer, he says to the man.

She's gotta beer…, the overweight man says, as he turns to look at Pietro, …over there, and he points in the general direction of the tables.

She's having a beer with me.

The man leans on Pietro's left shoulder.

Look, kid, he says, keep your goddamned nose out of my business and my friends’ business, and keep your eyes and hands off, y'understand? This woman is at our table. We've got first call on her services, so bug out.

In the darkness, in the gloom, no one, not the woman, nor the man, sees the punch Pietro throws. It travels barely nine-inches, more an invisible right uppercut than a punch, but it hits the overweight man square in the throat, temporarily compressing his trachea, cutting off his air and hurting him, all at the same time. One second, he's leaning on Pietro's left shoulder and making veiled threats, the next he's rigidly upright, then he's crashing backwards into the darkness. He knocks over tables and people in almost perfect ratio, until he crashes to the floor like a Redwood, landing with such force that the dance-floor vibrates.

There are five of them, the woman whispers, before moving away.

Pietro nods, removes his jacket, hands it to the barman and waits. The barman calls the cops.

By the time Sergeant Barry Donelly arrives, accompanied by his smart-assed, too goddamned clever-by-half rookie, Officer Arthur Knutt, the bar looks like a disaster area. Broken tables and chairs and glass litter the floor. The air has cleared a little because so many people have left, four men are down, two are still standing. Both are covered in blood. Sergeant Donelly pulls his stick and indicates for his rookie to do the same except Officer Knutt has his head up his ass, as usual, and ignores him. Sergeant Donelly wades in, swinging his stick in wide, powerful arcs. In only a short time, no men are standing.

Following a short trip in a Meat Wagon five men clutter up and bleed all over the Precinct House, while the sixth is on his way to hospital; four have already been booked and are on their way to the cells for the night.

Only Pietro remains, and the woman, who's waiting for him.

Name? Sergeant Donelly asks.

Pietro just stares at him.

Kid, Donelly says with a world-weary sigh, tell me your name or the stick will be beating on your head again. Ain't that so, Officer Knutt?

But Officer Knutt seems to be in another world as he stares at the blood-soaked young man. How did he get to be so tough, he thinks? Grief, he's the same age he is, so what kind of upbringing made him so tough? Five older guys, all bigger, even if they were all beer-belly fat, all determined to beat him to pulp, but when Donelly and he arrived at the club, four were down, including the unconscious one, two were standing and the kid was winning. How did he get to be so tough?

Ain't that so, Officer Knutt? Donelly repeats.

Yes, sir, Sergeant, Art Knutt says.

His career as an FBI Agent is still some years down the line, his reputation as the Memory Man yet to be established.

Name, kid?

Pietro Agnelli.

Donelly looks up from his paperwork momentarily and smiles. Oh my, he thinks. It's Luigi Agnelli's kid. There could be money in this.

Officer Knutt, Donelly says, as he lays down his pen without finishing the paperwork, print this kid up.

Donelly slopes off from behind the desk, walks briskly down a green-painted corridor and finds a public phone, into which he drops a dime.

Officer Knutt, meanwhile, not a person thought to be clumsy, apparently messes up the first black-inking of Pietro's fingerprints, so apologizes and makes another set, which he slips onto a shelf under the desk.

Pietro is eventually released and he leaves with the woman, who clings to his right arm.

Two hours later in a down-town bar, Donelly slides into a cubicle, and pushes the card with Pietro's fingerprints across the table to the man who is already sitting opposite.

This the only copy? the man asks.

It sure is, Donelly says.

You sure?

Of course, I'm goddamned sure; I took them, didn't I? It's the only copy.

You didn't do anything stupid, did you, like keeping an extra copy as insurance?

What? You think I'm crazy?

The man smiles a thin smile. I guess not. What about the charge sheet?

There is no charge sheet. I never filled one out. No name was taken, no address asked for, no court appearance necessary, no prints, no record he was ever at the Precinct House. He will grow to be as pure as the driven snow, if he learns to control that temper.

Donelly grins.

The man opposite does not grin, he no longer even smiles, but he does slide an envelope which contains five-hundred dollars across the table towards the cop. He then stands, nods, picks up the card and walks away.

Donelly toasts his receding back.

Officer Knutt, who doesn't all together trust his Sergeant, who believes, in fact, that his senior may well be on the take, lets the duplicate set of fingerprints make their way into the system, complete with the name but no address, where they will always be, where they will remain until required.

Where they will remain until Pietro Agnelli's death.

***

OFF THE CALIFORNIA COAST

1972

GET SET...

Sweat streams down Daniel Hearn’s contorted face. His eyes bulge and his pupils are dilated. His mouth is locked in a bizarre smile and his huge hands grip the column so tightly that his knuckles shine white in the darkness of his surroundings. His forearms are cramping, his shoulders are aching and his back is going into spasms.

It's time to give this up, he thinks. But not just at the moment. Not while he’s flying this single-engine Cessna barely thirty-feet above the waves of the Pacific Ocean, not while he’s attempting to fly in the face of the storm, with the wind whipping up and around the plane, making it buck this way and that. Not while the white-topped waves reached ever higher in their attempt to bring him and the plane and his packages down into the ocean’s bottomless bosom.

Something broke loose in the seat-less back of the plane and Daniel allowed himself a brief glance. One of the packages had broken free of its restraints and was bouncing from one side to the other. It weighed ten pounds and Daniel did not want it bouncing into him. He pulled back on the column and lifted the plane for just a couple of seconds while he reached behind him with a long right arm and grabbed the strap that binds the package. He jerked it forward and jammed it beneath the unoccupied co-pilot's seat.

He couldn’t afford to have that bouncing all around the inside of the plane, he thought. Bad enough if it hit me, worse if it broke open and spreads its contents. If that happened, he was going to be as high as a kite and he could fly this thing straight down in the deep blue.

He brought the tiny airplane back to its lower flight path as the coastline loomed up in front of him, through the rain and wind. Not far now, he thought. Not far at all. Then he could put this baby down, he could hand over the packages, get paid and get back to the woman who meant everything to him.

She was Dawn Greely, his flame-haired, fiery-tempered woman; the person who wanted him to give all this up, flying illegal substances into California from South America on behalf of the cartels, flying with no lights, no radio and no instruments, just him using the unique skills he learned in the good old U.S.A.F., before taking up with gangsters, before sliding down the slippery slope of a life-gone-wrong.

Except life was now going right for him. he had met Dawn; he’d fallen in love; God had smiled on him and given him another chance. All Dawn wanted was for him to go back to earning an honorable living, but how was he going to do that? She didn’t understand; there was no way out for him. Well, maybe one way, the dead way. The people he worked for were never going to let him walk, he knew too many faces, he knew too many routes, he knew too much about them. How could he tell Dawn that he could never get out; alive?

The coastline passed beneath the plane as it continued its incredibly low altitude, as Daniel fought to keep the plane straight and true. He really did have to give this up, he thought. But how?

Eleven minutes after crossing over from water to land, Daniel turned the plane and pointed it at a barely visible row of vines. He always thought it was a touch of genius on his part, he thought, to talk the gangsters into building a runway in a vineyard, where everything was laid out in straight lines anyway.

Below and ahead, spaced oil-drums burst into weak, yellow light, marking each side of the runway. Daniel adjusted his flight path slightly and dropped the plane ever lower. Only moments passed before the wheels hit rolled earth. The plane squiffed a little to the right, but he fought to bring it back on line, then he rolled it forward until bringing it to a halt. He switched everything off, un-strapped himself, pulled the package from under the co- pilot's seat, pushed open the door and tossed it out. He climbed into the back of the plane and un-strapped the other nineteen packages, each one of which he tossed out of the door. They packages were gathered up by darkened, almost ethereal, figures who scrabbled about at the side of the plane.

When the cargo was unloaded, Daniel jumped down and slammed the cockpit door behind him. He wanted his money. He wanted to go home to Dawn.

That's what he wanted...

...what he got was a very bright light in his face...

...what he got was a badge thrust in his face...

...what he got is FBI and Drug Enforcement Agency, Daniel! shouted into his ear. Your days are done.

What he got was arrested in a joint DEA/FBI sting operation.

One of the FBI Agent's was Art Knutt, shortly to celebrate both his thirty-ninth birthday and fifteen-years with the Bureau. He watched as Daniel was 'cuffed and led away. Art took in the details of him; tall, at least six-five, with a loose-limbed walk, red hair, long face. He filed these details away in his memory under 'Drug Runner' and they he would never forget what he had seen.

Daniel, himself, now sat in the back of an armoured vehicle. His feet had been manacled, and a padlocked chain ran around his waist and around his wrists and was shackled to it.

It has been nine hours since his arrest, though he wasn’t counting, he actually had no idea how many hours since his arrest, and he had been allowed no phone-calls and no contact with anyone other than the arresting agents. He had been allowed no substantive food and no drinks other than small, plastic cups of pure water. He had been allowed no rest, and the questions had been non-stop. They wanted to know the names of everyone he knew. They wanted to know all the routes he flew for his drug bosses, they wanted to know the timetables, the ways and the means, but Daniel said nothing. His life, not just his life as a drug-runner, but his very life was over if he said a single word. It may be over anyway, because no one in the organisations were going to believe he said nothing. But it was the only chance he had to live. He was more scared of his paymasters than he was of the law. He could do the time, that was not a problem, but he couldn’t do it if he was dead. So, he said nothing.

He was alone now, his inquisitors, none of whom have introduced themselves, were temporarily absent, the double back doors of the vehicle bolted from the outside. Daniel lifted his head and shook his long, unkempt hair. He knew he's facing maximum time and that he had lost, for all time, his beloved Dawn. He would probably never see her again. She'd get to read about him in the newspapers, get to watch him on television, she could follow his court case, take note of his sentence, which prison he was sent to. His sense of loss was great and bored into him as tears rose in his red-rimmed eyes.

The bolts slide back and the doors are opened, letting in warm aromatic Californian air. Daniel dropped his head so that his questioners couldn’t see that he was crying, though his shoulders shuddered with every silent sob. There was silence and Daniel kept his head down.

It's too late for tears, Daniel Hearn, Dawn Greely said.

Daniel's head snapped up, his hair flies all around his face, tears streamed from his eyes and spittle cascaded from his mouth. It is she. It really is she.

Far too late, Dawn continued seriously.

To Daniel she looked stately, supreme, better than he ever remembered her looking. Her long red hair glistened in the exaggerated light of the truck. She's tall, of course, almost six feet, not as tall as his six-eight, but a good height for him. She wore a long denim skirt and black boots, like a country and western singer, the music she was so keen on. She also wore a blue, high-necked sweater and a black leather jacket. He'd seen her in those clothes a million times; but this time, Oh, God; she looked so wonderful. She pulled tissues from the pocket of the jacket, stepped forward and wiped his eyes.

Stop crying, she ordered.

Daniel choked back any further tears.

You're dead, she said.

I know, Daniel agreed.

You know nothing! Dawn shouted, as she slapped him hard across his long face. You stupid bastard, you bloody fool! How long have I been asking you to give it up? How long? Since the day we met, that's how long. And have you given it up? Have you hell! Now look at where you are, arrested and dead.

I haven't said anything, Dawn, Daniel said. They may forgive me for losing the drugs.

She slapped him again, this time harder than the last.

Now, you listen to me, Daniel Hearn, and listen good. You are dead. Your plane went down in the Pacific with all its cargo. You will never be seen again. Some packages will be picked up by the coastguard to prove you went down. This operation has been months in the planning, I have been involved for the last month.

She stopped speaking a moment as Daniel stared at her, open-mouthed.

What was I to do? You wouldn't give it up. The FBI and the DEA have been following you for some time, following the drugs, too. Forty-six people have already been arrested, but you are the only one who has been picked to go into the Witness Protection Programme. You and me, both. Just tell them what they want to know and we can be free.

No! Daniel protested. They will kill me! They will kill the both of us; they will never give up looking.

Dawn grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him like a rag-doll, making the chains clink loudly.

They can't kill you, Daniel, because you are already dead. They won't be looking for you because you are at the bottom of the Pacific in your plane.

At last, what Dawn said began to seep into Daniel's brain. He blinked at the simplicity of it.

He was already dead; at the bottom of the Pacific; on a stormy night when crashing would be the easiest thing in the world to do. It could happen to anyone. He was already dead. He smiled and looked into Dawn's face.

I'm dead, he said.

Thirty minutes later found him unshackled and un-manacled, tucking into cheeseburger and fries, washing them down with a cola. Following the meal, and the shower that followed, a change of clothes, he was ready to talk.

He talked for over four months, hiding out in all types of secret locations.

He gave up the names, the places, the schedules, the routes, everything they asked of him...

...then he disappeared with Dawn Greely...

...never to be seen again.

Hopefully.

***

CHAPTER 1

WEST CAMPUS HIGH SCHOOL

SACRAMENTO

SATURDAY

28 YEARS LATER

...RUN!

Michael Angel was as nervous as hell. He’s made the bench of his High School Football Team for the first time. A 10th Grader, he was still young, considering the team was mainly made up of seniors. But Michael was tall and lithe for his age and he can run, he can run fast, and that’s why he’s on the bench. More importantly, he could catch a football thrown a good distance at some speed. He had great hand-to-eye coordination. He was a Wide Receiver in the team, though he hadn’t yet had the chance to show off his skills. With only three-minutes left on the clock, his team were down 14 to 9. He was nervous and tense. He wanted an opportunity to show his father, mother and sister, sitting in the crowd, what he could do. He wanted them to be proud of him. He glanced towards where they sit, but they are watching what’s happening on the pitch. He wanted his opportunity.

And he got it.

Angel, the Coach shouted, "after the next play, you’re on. You will know the play; you’ve practiced it enough. Get it done, kid.

Michael's heart leapt, he jumped up, received pats on the back and noisy encouragement from other players, and he readied himself for, what he thinks, was the greatest adventure of his young life. It was his time. When he got the signal, he jogged onto the field, pulling his helmet over his head. He huddled with the Quarter Back, the blond Allan Carter; the dream-date of every girl in the school; and the rest of the offence, and heard the play. It's the one Michael had practiced a hundred times and he was good at it. His team could win if he scores. The score could be 16 to 14 with very little time to go, and he could do it. He really could.

His heart beat, his pulse pounded and he took his place on the right side. He made a quick glance towards his family, who watched him with almost as many nerves as he had himself.

Ah-Ah, Allan Carter shouts, as the ball is passed to him by the Centre and Michael took off like a bullet, racing along the sideline towards the Corner Back, who is ready to block as soon as the ball reached him. Except Michael cut inside, across the field, leaving the Corner flat-footed.

Oh yes, Michael thinks, as he raced on, the ball already in the air for him to catch. It was a perfect throw and a perfect catch. Michael barely had to slow down to bring it close to his chest. He turned for the line, the touchdown was his, the ground opened up in front of him. He picked up his knees so that he couldn’t be dragged down by the feet, he was steaming, his breath was loud in the helmet, he could hear the crowd shouting, his family part of the noise. He could win the game.

He could…

…and…

...boom!

Michael was hit in the middle of his back by a Safety who is bigger and who was traveling at almost twice his speed. Michael was so sure he was going to score that he had failed to look over either shoulder to see if he was being pursued. And he had been pursued by a senior Safety playing his 20th game for his own High School, who was someone who had already been tipped for greater things. Michael thought he was away, thought he was a star, a winner. Now he was just flying helplessly through the air as the ball popped out in front of him and bounced towards an empty field, quickly pounced upon by defenders. The opportunity was lost, the game was over, Michael had failed. He crashed to the ground with a noise that could challenge jet engines, and the Safety crawled all over him, laughing loudly.

Hard luck, kid, he said, through his laughter, as Michael jumped to his feet, ready for a fight, except Carter took him in hand and restrained him.

You gave it your best, Angel, Allan Carter says, it was just bad luck, is all. He's good.

Michael was distraught but said nothing as his team left the field to some cheers, but nothing like the noise it could have been if only he’d scored. He could have won the game. He could have.

But you didn't, darling, Helena, his mother, said. So please stop going on about it now, and eat your cheeseburger.

They were enjoying Mr McDonald's hospitality, eating burgers and fries; all of them together around one plastic table, the food being somewhat more plastic, but it’s what they did on Saturdays’. They burger and fry, whether Michael played football or not.

Michael was more than s a little down, but feeling better after praise from his family; they always backed one another up through good times and bad. Not that they'd had many really bad times.

Dad, Peter, was an accountant, had been all his working life, had a small one-man business in the centre of Sacramento, where they lived on 15th Street, near the park. It was the only house the children had ever known and they'd been happy there; it was where their friends gathered to hang around in the yard and the alley behind the property. It was home and the children loved it.

They would go away each year for two weeks to Canada or Montana, where the children would swim and bowl and take in movies, along with their parents, while mom and dad stayed out late, drank more than is normal and messed around. They were a very close and loving family and Dad, God bless him, was responsible for that.

He had a very strong sense of family, as one would, who’d lost both his parents at a young age. Not that he talked much about his younger years, only that his parents died when he was young. He worked long hours at his business, and took many trips across the States, backwards and forwards, doing the best he could for his clients, who came from across the social divide. Rich or poor, Dad, gave of his best for all of them. He had a deserved reputation for fairness and for giving good advice. He took care of the finances of the local Church, and the investments he has advised on had seen the Church move into an excellent financial position. He rarely raised his voice, except in song, had never been known to be violent, or ever been known to strike out at anyone. In fact, if sometimes you did not know he was present, he was almost invisible, nondescript, almost ethereal in his presence, but he was the granite rock of the family.

They loved him for it, especially Helena, his wife of many years, mother of his children, love of his life, just as she was his. She was an aromatherapist who did home visits; she was out most of the time now the children were at an age to look after themselves. She was the cement upon which Peter the rock has built his family, she held everything together. She was kind and softly spoken, generally, but the children had heard the sharp end of her tongue on occasion. She would not tolerate rudeness, loudness, profanity or taking the Lord's name in vain. She was not a great fan of modern music but put up with it for the sake of her children, neither was she very keen on all the friends Michael and Kathryn brought back to the house, though she turned a blind eye to those feelings knowing she was becoming more prim with every passing year. She loved her family more than anything in life. And she would die for them.

Kathryn was Michael's twin sister.

They were fifteen-years-of-age, both tall, with Michael just the slightly taller. They both had blond hair and slim builds, with blue eyes and fantastic skin. Kathryn was just entering adulthood, while Michael was still content to mess about with the boys, play games, soccer, toss a ball, throw a hoop. Kathryn was becoming more serious, she was more concerned about school than Michael because she didn't have his natural brilliance, his ability to learn things overnight and pass exams on the subject the following morning. She wished she did have his skills. But her grades were good; she was never going to fail anything. Father would never forgive her if she failed. The family tradition was to pass. She loved her mom and dad enormously, and her brother too, if only he would lose some of his dork friends.

They finished their meal, wiped their hands on napkins, rose in unison and departed as one unit, Peter with his right arm around Helena, while he held Kathryn's hand with his left. Michael ambled along behind them, occasionally being hailed by someone he knew, and he threw signals at them with his hands and fingers and laughed. His mother didn't notice. They made their way back to their home on 15th Street.

Except for the football defeat, it had been a lovely day...

...and the family expected to have many more of them in the future...

...but the clock was ticking.

***

TOURIST HOTEL

MIAMI

FLORIDA

Ya’ll have a nice day, now, Vicki Harper said for about the zillionth time that day, her tone and her smile still appearing to be fresh even if her make-up was getting a tad worn and her body felt as if it was falling apart. Any problems, ya’ll don’t hesitate to contact the desk.

Temporarily, her area of responsibility was clear; no one was bothering or harassing her. She leaned back on her high-backed, swivel chair, closed her eyes for a moment and massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers.

God, but I hate Saturdays, she thought. All those pale-skinned Northerners from places like Wisconsin and Ohio, flying in for their two weeks of Florida sun, making the beaches look untidy, always complaining about the heat, returning home pink as crayfish. Sometimes she hated living in Florida, doing the same job; hotel receptionist; answering endless streams of stupid questions, always having to smile and stay happy, something that was totally against her nature. Maybe this would be the year she’d finally make it to New York, or somewhere, or anywhere that’s a little cooler, with fewer tourists.

Behind her, a door creaked open.

Oh, no, she thought, as she dropped her hands, opened her eyes and slid from the stool.

Not Kelvin ‘Creepy’ Simkins, not cadaverous, greasy Kelvin, not him. Please.

Hi, Vicki, Kelvin said, as he whispered in her left ear.

Go away, Kelvin, I’m busy.

I can see that you’re not. That’s why I’m an Assistant Manager and why you’re only the receptionist. Perception is a very important trait in an Assistant Manager.

Go away, Mr. Perception.

Aw, be nice to me, Vicki, and she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck. I can do things for you.

There's not a goddamned thing you can do for me, Kelvin Simkins, except make my skin crawl. Just get th'hell away from me.

He rested a sweating hand on her left, bare shoulder, ignoring everything she said.

Oh, I think I could do something, Vicki. I really think I could.

Kelvin slid his hands from her shoulders down her back, until he rested them, momentarily on her waist. He then moved them forward and lifted them, as if he intended to cup her breasts.

How much do I need this job, Vicki asked of herself?

Well, it's my main source of income, but do I need all the rubbish that goes with it? Kelvin's fingers drummed on her ribs in a really annoying fashion, as he said in a sing-song voice, Here are the hands and here are my fingers and here is the girl. You will like it.

Vicki decides she didn't like it at all.

She spun round, catching Creepy Kelvin completely by surprise and before he could move back, or away from her, she’d got hold of his privates in a vice-like grip.