The Curse of Memories

By Vivian Griffen

Bennett Sinclair is a professional bodyguard. It says so on his business card. But when an old friend asks him to come down to New Orleans to help find his girlfriend's killer, this reluctant, closet psychic couldn't refuse. Along the way, he learns the world is vaster, and much stranger than he could have imagined. Bennett would be the first one to tell you the universe has it in for him. If only it was as simple as finding a murderer it would be fine. No, he has to find a serial killer and, while he's at it, get the local ghoul clan to hold off on his execution, stop the werewolves from participating and, if he's lucky, the local mummy will give him some pointers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vivian Griffen
• Release date: Feb 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301617340

Vivian Griffen

V. Griffen remembers writing her first story at age eight, a suspense-thriller involving a long and terrifying walk home from grade school and encountering her own shadow. The stories never stopped and many a digital tree is now carrying her words and characters into posterity. Now she’s made the supremely daring choice to inflict a few of her stories upon the unsuspecting population. V. Griffen is an author, artist, historian and inveterate researcher of any topic that strikes her fancy of the moment. She's lived in New York, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania. Newly relocated to Montana, she is awed and humbled in the wide-open prairies. Having worked at seemingly every job imaginable, she concluded that the width of her experience is best used to bring depth to her novels, focusing on her love of paranormal urban contemporary fiction.

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The Curse of Memories

Book One of the Dísir Saga

V. Griffen

Published by Vivian Griffen at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 by V. Griffen

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Other books by V. Griffen.

Curse of Memories

Call of Memories (Coming Feb 2123)

Second Chances (Coming March 2013)

Dedication

To Ray and Anne, who never, ever let me think I was too crazy for a new goal.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental. The use of historical events and documents depicted in this book are purely the product of the author’s imagination and are not based on historical scholarship.

Chapter 1

I knew the day would suck when I found the bomb. Oh, it wasn’t a big bomb. In fact, the only damage it was likely to do was singe the carpet a bit. I was more concerned that someone not only got through our security and placed it, but also knew the precise location where our client would likely sit.

Crouching down, I craned my neck for a better look. Two opaque canisters affixed by aluminum brackets to a dispersal unit consisting of rubber tubing and nozzles that were set to various angles. There was no timer. The thing would be set off only by a Bluetooth receptor wiring the whole together. This was going to go off through a remote trigger. That meant we had to move quickly.

There was no motion sensor that I could see, so it was probably safe enough to move. Standing again, I stepped back and gestured to Martin, my second, to have a look. The large black man folded his six and a half foot frame to peer under the side table. He pursed his lips and rumbled, Dispersal tubes and glass beads.

Yeah, I noticed that. I waited.

Martin’s eyes shifted, calculating trajectories. He was built like a tank, almost dwarfing me and, standing at about six feet tall. I’m not exactly petite. Built as he was, he’d make any major WWF player look delicate. But I knew that behind the bulk was a frighteningly smart man. I know he has at least two degrees, and I suspected they were doctorates. I have no idea what he was doing in the private security business. It’s not like the rest of us can match him for knowledge and the pay certainly wasn’t an incentive.

He could move fast and he was strong. Once he dented a car hood with his fist. I don’t mean a minor ding; he left a dent that cracked the engine housing underneath. He wasn’t a pretty man. His features were even, but tended towards being heavy. A scar ran from the middle of his forehead down and through his eyebrow, thankfully skipping over his eye, and continuing on down the side of his face. Despite this, he never failed to have some pretty thing his arm on the rare occasions we saw him in public on his days off. Maybe it was because of the scar. I don’t know. I’ve never been able to figure women out.

Martin leaded forward and sniffed a couple of times before standing. He kept his bass sotto voce, The glass beads probably wouldn’t do much except nick a few ankles. They’re mostly set up so that the beads break and spray the liquid on them.

I snuck another peek. And the liquid is…? I prompted.

By the sniff I got, I’m thinking skunk.

Involuntarily, I took a step back. Martin flashed a grin.

Where the hell do they get this stuff?

You probably don’t want to know, he replied.

Just thinking of the possibilities made me grimace, You’re probably right. I gestured to two others to remove the device. They weren’t particularly happy about it, but you got to have some perks for being the team lead. I wasn’t going to handle it if I could help it. Besides, I’d paid my dues at grunt work long ago.

We headed out to the corridor, Martin laughed. You still got the ju-ju, man. I scowled at him, hating that kind of talk. He was unfazed, having built up immunity long ago. I just won a cool fifty off of you.

Fine, you can pay for the drinks tonight.

Hell, no. One glass of that grape juice you drink would drain my kitty dry.

Sighing, I continued walking. I do all the work and don’t get anything for it. And you don’t drink wine. I have no idea why I keep you around. You are such a philistine."

No, I isn’t. I’s from South Bronx.

That surprised a laugh from me. Martin’s bass laugh echoed a rumbled behind me. Jerry, newly assigned to the team fell into step with Martin. I noted approvingly that he maintained the proper distance so they couldn’t be taken as one target and they wouldn’t foul each other up if they had to move.

There are two types of security. There are guys like Martin, obvious muscle that would deter most anyone from moving on a client. That worked most times, and most people just assumed he wasn’t all that bright. It’s a cliché preconception, but it wouldn’t be cliché if it weren’t true some of the time.

Then there were the other guys, like me. I’m not all that smart, but I know how to place a team for maximum coverage. And while I work out religiously, most underestimate me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m well-built and work hard to stay that way. But I’m never going to be confused with a linebacker.

Guys like me tend to keep in the back, unobtrusive, while scanning crowds and surrounding area, working to keep the client and the team apprised of any potential threat they may not see. Outriders, like me, get less visibility, which I’m perfectly content with.

I’m also completely color-blind. Most people think that would be a liability, but it was far from the truth. Attempts to blend in, like with camouflage was ineffective against me since I don’t use color to suss out someone hiding.

Jerry could be an outrider, like me. He was lankier in build, but it was misleading. He was still too raw, but he had a quick fighting style which was distinctively nasty. He had the right idea. If it came to a confrontation, we’d all prefer to go down fast, preferably with us on the winning side.

He had the skill set, it was all a question of whether or not he had the brains and temperament for it. Being an outrider took patience, an attention to detail and constant vigilance, which few can maintain indefinitely. Only time and experience would tell.

Jerry prompted Martin, keeping his voice low. ‘What’s this kitty I keep hearing about."

Martin pitched his voice so I could hear clearly. Well now, our kitty is special. Ain’t anyone that’s won against me yet.

We moved slowly, turning a corridor. It was like every corridor in every hotel in every city you care to name, though we were one the floor with deluxe amenities. I surprised myself at how bored I was with it, which is exactly the opposite of what I should feel.

Plain beige walls, with only intermittent faux-oil paintings and the occasional decoration made it that much easier to spot any differences. Like someone planting a bomb. If you knew the décor, you knew what was out of place, which meant you were a step towards finding potential clients.

Even though I’d been through this corridor just a half hour ago, I scanned and pitched my perceptions to pick up anything new. It made for slow going. Behind me, Martin kept pace as he usually did but Jerry had to check his stride. He was becoming comfortable enough to resent the ‘old man’ crawl I was taking. I didn’t care.

Martin continued. ‘Bennett here has some special powerful ju-ju, beyond that of us mere mortals. Ignoring my snort, he went on. I could hear the grin in his voice. Bennett’s got one of the best records in the business. If someone’s planted something since the last time he’s done a patrol, he’ll find it. If someone is hiding in ambush, he roots them out. He’s never failed."

Silence met that remark. Jerry was probably wondering if Martin was playing him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’d already received more than his share of jokes just by virtue of being paired with Martin, just like the comedy team. Fortunately, most of the younger guys didn’t get it, so he was spared grief from some quarters. Equally fortunate was that Jerry realized it could have been worse; he could have been stuck with me.

With doubt tingeing his voice, What about shooters?

Martin had a shrug in his voice. As good a record as most of us, maybe better. Bennett’s a little shy to show off that way. And, besides from yours truly, no one’s taken him in a fight.

We turned the last corner. Ahead, two more guards were standing at the entrance to the suite. Behind which doors came blessed silence. Our esteemed client had partied almost non-stop for the last two weeks. Today was the last day, and none of us would be sorry to see the punk go. He did damn near everything he could to circumvent our security, which made the job hell on all of us.

I noted with satisfaction that neither shifted nor straightened at seeing us, meaning they were fully alert. Good.

Dubious, Jerry pressed, So, he has advanced training, right?

What did you see when we walked in that room?

Sensing a trick, or maybe a trap, Jerry spoke slowly. Bennett went in because the client usually goes there after his spa treatment. He started to walk around the perimeter of the room, same as he usually does. Before he got more that a third around, he stopped. He stared at nothing for a bit and then started looking under the table without moving from his spot. How could he see it? It was out of his line of sight.

Martin answered sagely, And, there is the juju.

Uncomfortable, I moved away. Martin would get any reports from the door security. I still called out, ‘I’m going to lose one day, Martin."

He shot back, Until then, you’re my sugar daddy.

I glared at the choking noises that sounded suspiciously like laughter coming from the guys at the door. Both faces went neutral. Satisfied, I continued on. Of all my limited skills, my glare was the best. I’ve even made politicians shut up. Go ahead, try it some time. It’s not that easy.

I stopped near a window, stepping to one side. I’m not so paranoid that I won’t stand in front of a window. But, in Las Vegas, the sun setting on the desert can be blinding, even with the tinted and treated glass. Even color-blind I could see the clouds, their outlines brilliantly lit from the setting sun. I’m sure it impressed someone out there, if they looked up from the slot machines long enough.

We were high up that the clients wouldn’t be disturbed by the teeming masses of the working population. Unfortunately, we also had a view of the expressway. Not an inspiring sight. The rooms had better views than the hall. I suspect few people looked out these windows.

Across that expanse was the Strip. The lights were going on, and I know from experience that you had to drive a fair distance before the ambient lighting from floodlight, streetlight, spotlights, and neon disappeared.

Staring at the waves of heat still rising from the city, I thought about Jerry’s comments. He was damn accurate and that bothered me. I wasn’t comfortable when people noticed my peculiar habits. Hell, they were not only noticing, they were making wagering pools. Vegas was a bad influence sometimes.

Perhaps it was time I moved on. I’d been here for five years, longer than I’d stayed in any place in my life.

I was reluctant though. The city offered a constant stream of people, which meant I didn’t have to worry about keeping work. Unless the city folded, there will always be people coming here to have a good time, spend money, or broker deals. And if you follow the money, paranoia and pretensions follow. Which meant someone always wanted local bodyguards on the assumption we knew the city better than their own personnel. It was mostly true. I’ve had to work with visiting security more than any that were employed by the hotels, casinos and clubs. Most of the time, it worked well enough.

And, the city was fairly new, reinventing itself regularly. Which meant they were always breaking new ground that just might be clear enough for me to deal with.I can’t say I loved the desert life, or the city. But it was safe.

And, there was the rub. If I allowed myself to try and be perfectly safe my world would get too narrow, my definition of safe becoming smaller and smaller every year, until I’d be afraid to leave my home. Given my proclivities, it was a very real fear, and I took a deep breath to quell the panic beginning to swell in my belly. Yes, it was time to leave. I wondered where I would go next.

I caught my reflection in the glass of a nearby picture. I wasn’t particularly striking, though I’ve had one or two women tell me I was handsome. But, that could have been the sex talking. All I saw was light hair, thick with highlights from swimming outside over a high forehead and eyes I’ve been told were hazel. My features were regular though my cheekbones were a little high. No chiseled jaw, but it was defined well-enough, I supposed. It was a face that blended in well, when I chose to. I’d perfected my scowl years ago, and few crossed me when I was really angry.

Somewhere along the line, that scowl had embedded deep lines that bracketed my mouth. There were no laugh lines to soften the effect. It was becoming a hard face. It didn’t help that I fostered the image every chance I could, especially when working. Most of the time, I relished the effect, it making my job a little easier. But lately, it’s been gnawing at me. I don’t go for a lot of introspection, but I did wonder what I would be like, given another decade in this field.

I wore an Italian Di Steffano suit, specially tailored for movement and to give the illusion that I was slimmer than I was. When new guys come on board, the first thing they do is head for the toughest to pit their skills. More than one person has remarked that it was more than testosterone poisoning; it was damn near an infectious disease. I’d long since gotten passed the novelty of anyone taking a look at me and deciding to test themselves against me. And, truthfully, making myself look more average makes most clients more comfortable. If I didn’t look like a bruiser, the assumed I had a brain. Fools.

I had to say that if I had to name any real skills I have it’s in anything physical. Running, fighting, lifting, subduing, it was all the same. I worked hard to keep those skills honed as sharply as I could. Being different, I’d been pounded on a lot as a kid. I learned to run really quickly at an early age. It was the only way I survived. Then I had learned to fight. Knowing the value of being able to defend had become ingrained to the point of becoming an obsession. Physical weakness was just not an option if I wanted to survive to retire.

To that end, if there was a muscle on my body, I worked it hard and regularly. As a result, I was very, very strong. Freakishly strong. I suspected I was even stronger than Martin, who could bench-press a ton easily, but you’d have to have a gun to my head to admit that to the big guy. Aside from hurting his feelings, I just didn’t want the attention.

Once, when I was repairing a car, the winch holding the engine slipped. Testing myself, and seeing that no one was around, I’d lifted it back up with only a little effort. I know that’s not natural and I have no desire to make that public.

I’d be contented, ecstatic even, if that were the end of my freakishness. No, the universe isn’t that kind. You know the saying, the one that said the universe wouldn’t send you more than you can handle? It’s a lie. If the universe is paying enough attention to you to think about sending you anything, then I suggest you duck and run for cover.

You see, as the parlance goes, I see dead people. Not ghosts, precisely. I’m not haunted by the departed ones who want that last bit of business taken care of before moving on. Nor do we ever speak to each other. No, I see…history. History is more than names and dates, as any historian will tell you. Anything of significance has an emotional element to it that can stick around for years. I’ve never figured out the how and why, only that I can sense it, re-live it. My oldest memory is my curse manifesting itself and its done nothing but bring me pain. I call them memories.

Let me tell you, it’s no fun sitting in a restaurant and suddenly watch the world darken and disappear, only to see the desert all around as a bunch of cowboys of a century ago gang rape an Indian woman. Or realize that the new condo of a client was built over where a man beat his wife and son to death because she was selling secrets to a rival mob and using his son as the mule. I’ve grown pretty sensitive to feeling when memory is lurking. Enough to sense when a memory is going to hit. I can block most of them out, but not all of them. Occasionally, when I can’t block them, I can force them into a fast-forward and get it over. Once thing is certain. Once they start, I can’t stop them.

And, that is the secret of my ‘ju-ju’ as Martin likes to put it. If someone is going to be putting a bomb in a room, or waiting to jump out and start shooting, they are nervous and often pretty pissed off. I can pick it up, if it’s recent enough, which is why I’m such a hard-ass about doing patrols myself. With the exception of a pure sociopath, whom I’m grateful I’ve never encountered, everyone is emotionally invested when they are about to hurt or kill someone.

Like I said, I’ve been dealing with these visions, or memories, for years. And, because I could have dealt with all of it, the universe ‘gifted’ me again with another kick in the balls. They made it an empathetic experience. That man, the one that beat his wife and son to death? I could feel his blinding rage, the insanity-inducing betrayal he felt when she committed with her treasonous acts and the savage satisfaction as his fists and feet found their targets. The Boss thought he was the mole and even though it wasn’t true, he could ask for no mercy if he couldn’t control his own wife and son.

Again, if that was all I had to contend with, I could have simply stripped away my humanity and spent the rest of my time on this Earth happy as a psychopath. But, no, I have to feel everything. The anger of the woman for yet another beating, the fear that he was far more angry than she’d ever seen him, the pain of his blows, the sadness that her plans to escape were gone, the slow horror that he wasn’t going to stop, not this time, the bitterness that even her son would have no mercy. I could hear the fear in the boy, pleading, begging for his papa to stop, followed by his high screams and horrible, horrible fear until it all…stopped.

I usually will scout ahead, alone, to check out any area the client listed on their itinerary. That way, if there’s anything residual, I can work through it alone. If I have to, I go through the memory. I can block them after I’ve seen it once. I like to be alone during it. I have no idea how they’d explain it, but seeing me in a ‘trance,’ sweating and shaking is not a good way to instill confidence in my team or the clients.

But once, our latest client, the stupid punk, decided to change his plans at the last minute and I was blind-sided. I’d walked into one of the rooms and got hit with a scene from maybe forty or fifty years ago. Some goodfellas had cornered a mark from a rival mobster and worked him over for information.

Fortunately, long ago, I’d learn to remain still, making no movement or sound that would indicate anything was going on. For all intent and purposes, it looked like I’d just paused to think, or whatever they thought I was doing. That scowl I was telling you about? It was especially useful here. Few took the liberty of asking me what I was doing. It stopped the questions. But I had no illusions that they wondered what was going on with me while they were in the locker room or at the training mat.

I’d gotten good at it the camouflage. Too good. Keeping myself alert on any unfamiliar ground, containing every ounce of the emotional storm I was experiencing has taken it’s toll, so that these days I could barely smile, except to be polite to the high and mighty that employ our asses. The days of being carefree and easy with a laugh were long gone, if they ever existed.

Footsteps in the plush carpeting alerted me to someone approaching. With the rustle of silk came three women around the west corridor, heading for the elevator banks. Even by Las Vegas standards they stood out. And, of the three, Sirocco stood out, making every man bless his xx chromosome.

Sirocco and her friends slid by. I tipped my head, giving them each a polite smile while fixing my eyes behind them, making sure no one was using them as a distraction. Martin watched the east corner while the other three did their best to not drool too much. Sirocco was wearing some bit of silk that wrapped in bands around her slender frame, encouraging the eyes to follow the bands around every wonderful curve. Long, wavy auburn hair didn’t hide the fact that the back of her dress dipped down to reveal little dimples above her ass. Stilettos completed the picture, giving her a sashay that did great things to a man.

The elevator opened at the end of the corridor as they approached. The elevator wouldn’t dare to keep her waiting. The car disgorged several other women who paled in comparison. The girls entered and Sirocco gave me a light wave. I let another smile flash towards her. It had been a long time since I called her. Perhaps I should re-think that in the immediate future.

Oh, and before you get any ideas, Sirocco is a working girl. And, before you get more ideas, it’s not what you’re thinking. Okay, it probably is, but not all of it. Remember what I said about being contained all the time? It’s damn hard to get a date when all she’s seeing is some guy standing there like a wooden doll. So, I take Sirocco, or an associate out to dinner, pretending we’re dating. They get a good movie, a show, or whatever they are in the mood for. It’s part of our tacit agreement.

I know it’s how they make a living and most of them are smart enough to know that I’d rather have them enjoy the evening. Of course, they could be faking it all, not just the sex. When it comes to…relationships, I’m pretty clueless.

I think I make a good accounting of myself at the end of the night, but I don’t like dragging them to something they’d be bored with during out pretend-date. Amber, another woman I call on occasion once took me up on my preference to let them decide where we’ll go. She challenged me to take her spelunking. So, a short plane ride to Pennsylvania and we were deep in the Laurel caverns. I don’t think I’d ever hear her laugh so much, to see the formations. She must have really liked it. After working for a little over ten years, I’d heard she retired and went back to school for geology.

Glancing at my watch, I headed back to the suite. I heard Jerry ask, Did she just wave at you? He looked to the others, Did she just wave at him?

Martin confirmed, with an amused smirk, They go back a ways.

Jerry’s eyes were appreciative.

Martin laughed, Boyo, you can’t afford her.

Jerry’s head swiveled to the elevator doors, to me, and back, a look somewhat between disillusionment and lust. Hey, you make the same as us, right?

Martin laughed out loud, No, he doesn’t. Not for a long, long time.

A Latin samba began to play behind the suite doors. Martin grimaced towards me, Seems we have a complication. The client is thinking he’s holding another party.

I bit back a curse on idiots in general, His plane leaves in four hours. If he starts now, he’ll be too plowed to go anywhere.

Silence fell as they commiserated their sympathies with me. After all, as team leader, I’d have to deal with the idiot. Right, I’ll get on it.

The party that had just vacated the elevator stopped at the suite, rather than continue down either corridor. Steve, a quiet man, inquired politely, Ladies?

Apparently, the hired help didn’t rate their attention. The women moved forward to go past us. Steve, with his partner Barry, closed ranks, blocking the door. I looked with women over. They were the usual type I see around here. Young enough to be brave (or stupid, depending on your definition) to try new things, jaded enough to know the score, but just young enough to still be attractive before they turned hard and bitter. There were five of them, all dressed casually in clothing that could be easily discarded. Two wore blouses sheer enough to make out the bikini tops underneath. The fifth, a blond, stood in the back, oddly shy as she stood behind one of the others. My attention peaked.

Keeping my tone polite but firm, Ladies, there’s been a misunderstanding. There isn’t going to be a party today. I’m sorry for the confusion.

The lead woman looked me up and down, a small smile on her face. Keeping her eyes drifting just below my belt, her fingertips brushed along the edge of the chemise that barely covered her. Mr. Helmsbold called us in particular, wanting one last party before leaving. She pursed her lips in a sexy pout that was far too contrived to be as effective as she hoped.She eyed me through her lashes and licked her lips provocatively. I kept my face bland and did not respond, making like the stonewall I was hired to be.

Realizing I wasn’t even a little bit charmed, she dropped the act and huffed, annoyed. I saw a full-blown snit about to erupt. Having seen celebrities and the powerful do that for years, I could see it coming a mile away. Suddenly, very tired of the whole mess, I reached past her to pull on the hair of the blonde in the back. The wig came off, revealing slightly matted black hair with purple highlights. Blue eyes glared at me.

Martin recognized her right off. Miss Huston. I do believe the hotel has standing orders not to allow you entry. I’m going to have to ask you ladies to leave.

What followed that declaration was a truly astonishing repertoire of abuse from the woman. Martin and I flanked the group as she began yelling, prodding and herding them back to the elevator. Annabel Huston, or Annie D as she likes to be called (No, I have no idea what the D is for) was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. It was her sole aim in life to embarrass her father, which she did regularly and spectacularly, if the local tabloids and Internet sources could be trusted. Even the other four were looking mortified by her behavior and were moving along peacefully. I give thanks for the small things in life.

We got them into the elevator. Annabel’s string of profanity never wavered on the ride down. Normally, you’d think anyone named Annabel would be sweet and charming. I always envisioned that name with some southern belle. Well, that’s totally ruined now. I glanced at Martin and saw he was concentrating deeply on some of her more creative verbal attempts, in the hopes he hadn’t heard one of them before. That man can find something interesting in anything.

Realizing we were about to arrive at the lobby where any hope to get upstairs would be lost, Annabel launched herself at me. It would be too much to hope she’s take on Martin. Startled, the others fell back behind Martin’s bulk, which he was happy to provide.

I swept an arm to knock her talons aside, just avoiding her nails raking my face. Using her momentum, I swung her around until her back was against me and wrapped my arms tightly around her waist, pining her arms. I bent and lifted, tilting her slightly so she couldn’t get in a shot with her heels. I may not be using my balls, but I had hope. It would be easier if I was intact.

She began screaming. Rolling my eyes, I looked at Martin, You could help here, you know.

He held up his hands, You’re doing fine.

My mutters about his lack of professional support was lost in her howls. I squeezed as much as I dared, giving her enough room to breath, barely. As I hoped, she turned a becoming shade of red before quieting down. The doors opened and hotel security was there, looking grim and very unhappy with us. There is always competition between private and hotel security. They knew they screwed the pooch by letting her get past them, which means they owed us. No, they were not happy.

We handed her off and left with alacrity, before she got her breath back. I had sympathy for the poor sods. Sweet Annabel would be making one hell of a scene on the way out.

On the ride back up, we both leaned against the walls. Martin glanced over at me, You okay?

I felt the sigh leave me before I could stop it. Sometimes I get tired of this crap.

You’re good at it. You could go to any of the top outfits. Why don’t you try them out?

I rolled my shoulders, as much to work out the tension as to deflect his idea. You know me. I’m not too good about following orders, if I don’t agree with them. Besides, Pinkie gives me a lot of leeway. I won’t get that anywhere else.

Pinkie, or more precisely, Edgar Pinkerston is our boss. Somewhere, long ago, he picked up on the fact that his name was one letter off from the more famous of the security people out there, past and present. He believed he was fated for this work, even though he barely scraped together enough to weigh in as a lightweight. So, he did the next best thing. He hired those who did know what they were about. He was a bit of a slime ball; no one can slither on their bellies in search of a commission better than Pinkie. His saving grace was that he could spot talent, and that kept him in business.

I don’t know. You’ve got a bit of a reputation, now. You’re being requested on a team more than you’re being reprimanded.

Which one am I getting today?

Martin’s grin dissolved into a grimace as the elevator approached our floor. Even from two floors away we could hear the yelling. We looked at each other, Punk. We said in concert.

Sure enough, the doors opened to the less than savory view of Herbert Helmsbold III. I kid you not about the name. The problems was (there was that universe again) no one thought to match his looks to his name. You might envision a large Teutonic giant, a force to be reckoned with. Instead, he was five foot five with the scrawny build of a habitual user. He’d looked okay when he arrived, but two weeks vacation had left its toll.

He was only in his mid-twenties, but looked a decade older. He’d barely slept in the last two days, frantic to jam sensation in every minute available. He only bathed when he had company, and judging by the miasma of tobacco, alcohol and old sex, it wasn’t today.

Our guys were stone-faced behind him, which meant he lit into them just after we left. They could have called me, but we couldn’t have gotten here any faster. They were good guys. They were letting him vent a bit before I had to deal with him.

Steve gave me a bland stare. It was his way of screaming for help without sounding like a little girl. Helmsbold, seeing he didn’t have their