Shy Guy

By David Addleman

When James Gearing applied for a job with Hadley and Emerson Detective Agency, its young and beautiful owner interviewed him. She met a red-faced man, who had trouble breathing and talking. “I get this way around beautiful women,” he gasped, quickly leaving her office. The receptionist stopped him and handed over a phone. “Can you talk to me this way?” Cori Hadley asked.

He told her he’d been a Navy Seal who’d left the service due to a back injury. He said he couldn’t tell her anything else. Cori checked with her sources and learned that he came highly recommended, but not what he’d done in the Seals. Her source also said: “If he’s available, snap him up!” So James came to work and reported to a man, Phil Westerling, thereby negating his phobic reaction to his new boss.

His first day on the job, James narrowly escaped a hail of bullets during a daylight mob hit, but stopped the heist of bearer bonds. Assigned to investigate, James becomes the mysterious Man-in-Black, visiting his prey under cover of night. He met his match in Max Roland, bodyguard for a crooked banker who was mixed up with the mob. Soon, Phil, Max, and James were marked by The Commission, a covert group of three men controlling crime across the U.S. Their primary enforcer, Ice, was dispatched to straighten out the mess. James was caught in the middle, but worried more about not being able to talk to his beautiful boss. He liked everything about his new job; if only he wasn't so shy around Cori . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Addleman
• Release date: Feb 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458198587

David Addleman

David R. Addleman has sold over 120 short stories and 8 novels. He was a charter member of the Fairwood Writers Group in Kent, Washington, and taught fiction writing at Renton College. He competes in masters swimming and holds a black belt in Uechi Ryu karate. He writes from Menifee, CA., where he lives with his wife, Deborah. Their son, Paul, works at UCLA in Westwood, CA.

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SHY GUY

by

David R. Addleman

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * *

PUBLISHED BY:

David R. Addleman on Smashwords

Shy Guy:

Copyright © 2011 by David R. Addleman

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

At eight-fifteen AM on a bright, smoggy summer day in Los Angeles, James Gearing pulled his Honda into the parking lot of Hadley & Emerson Investigative Services. He was fifteen minutes early for his interview with Mr. Corey Hadley, the owner and manager of the firm, so James decided to sit in his car and wait. He rolled down his window and leaned back to rest his eyes.

He heard a screech and the roar of an engine. He looked up in time to see a red Jaguar zoom off the street and skid into perfect position alongside his Honda. The engine raced momentarily and cut off. He sat up to see what the driver would look like. Probably a teenage boy out to impress the world with the amount of rubber he left on the road. He was surprised by the red-haired woman who straightened up out of the Jaguar. This was no teenager, and if she exhibited any boyishness it wasn't obvious. She had blazing green eyes and creamy skin that should have been freckled, were there any justice in the world. But, oh no, she had gotten it all — eyes, hair, skin. She was the prettiest woman James had seen outside a movie theater. She was also tall, with a straight-nose, high cheekbones, and a graceful neck. Her body was blocked by her car, but he would've bet her figure was as perfect as her face. She glanced over sharply.

Is something wrong with my face? Her voice was light, while her mouth made little movements as if she were about to smile.

Uh, no. Sorry. Didn't mean to stare...the way you raced in...and then, there you were. His face heated up. Goddamn it. Twenty-nine and he still blushed like an adolescent.

Oh, so you had to stare?

It was h-hard to look away, he stammered.

Her eyes crossed and her eyebrows flew up. Then her face relaxed. Even bullshit sounds good this early in the day. After a long second of sober expression, she smiled and showed him how pretty she really was.

Rising to the occasion, he blushed again and turned, pretending to search for an object in his glove box. When he looked back, she was gone. He began to breathe more easily.

James had never been any good around a pretty woman, and the presence of one always tied him in knots. Plain ones were all right. He felt on equal terms with them. Homely women were his best friends. With them he was relaxed and friendly, and could talk with no trouble.

What a cruel trick of nature that he was attracted by beauty and could never get close to it. Will I always want champagne and settle for beer? he asked himself.

He left his car and walked around to the front of the red brick building. Two imposing glass doors were lettered with the firm's name: HADLEY & EMERSON. Through the doors, a highly polished hallway led him towards a set of double wooden doors. He inhaled the rich wax smell and was reminded of all the polished floors he'd walked in the Navy. They smelled the same way.

With about eight minutes before his interview, he ducked through a door labeled MEN. Splashing water on his face, he toweled off and checked his appearance. His tie was straight, his brown hair combed, his tan suit decently pressed.

He grinned into the mirror. Okay, blue eyes, give 'em hell.

A toilet flushed. Startled, he hurried out the men's room so the flusher wouldn't see the fool who talked to himself.

He hesitated in front of the double wooden doors, took a last deep breath, then entered.

James found himself in a large reception area — two couches in leather or vinyl, modern art on the walls, a grey carpet underfoot, and a rather plain secretary with dull brown hair and thick-lensed glasses. The name plate on her desk said Emma Jackson.

May I help you? Her nasal voice completed the portrait of a woman designed to put him at ease.

I have an appointment with Corey Hadley. He'd known a guy in the Navy named Corey, but his last name had been Klostermeier. Too bad, an easy entree would have been useful.

Emma frowned and consulted her appointment book. She used a pencil to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

James Gearing, he added helpfully.

Her brow smoothed. Yes, an eight-thirty. She pressed a button on her phone. Mr. Gearing is here. She hung up. She pointed. Through that door. Corey's expecting you.

If she calls him "Corey," I wonder what he calls her?

James pushed through another heavy wooden door. The office inside was nicely furnished in natural woods, cordovan leathers, and deep blue carpeting. One entire wall was windowed and looked over a patio and garden. At this end of the building the ground dropped away and he realized he was looking out a second story window. Nice, he thought. He liked everything he'd seen so far.

A door opened at the back. He was startled to see the redhead from the parking lot saunter in looking like she owned the place. And, yes, her swelling breasts, trim waist, flat stomach, and long legs did justice to her face. His face suddenly caught fire.

Hello, again, she said. I'm Cori Hadley.

His blush burned; he swallowed hard. If only he could disappear before this went any further.

Do you always do that? Cori asked. Her expression remained friendly.

D-do w-what? he managed.

Turn red every time you try to talk.

This wasn't going to work. I'd better go, he said.

Don't be silly. Sit down. Her hint of a smile was still there.

James backed against a leather wing-back chair facing the desk. His knees weakened and he sat down abruptly. Coughing, he struggled for air, feeling asthmatic.

What's wrong with you?

His face continued to burn. I get this way around pretty women, he mumbled. His skin felt prickly. The sweat started under his arms.

She frowned. Aren't you here to interview for a job?

Y-yes. He felt like she'd somehow sucked all the air out of the room.

How could you possibly work for me, if you're so shy?

James shook his head. I probably couldn't...can't. He stood up. Sorry. He rushed out of her office, propelled by the weight of her eyes on the back of his neck.

In the reception area he inhaled deeply, feeling his intake of oxygen begin its restorative process. Weight lifted off his shoulders. He moved away from Cori's door and walked towards the entrance, breathing until his strength returned. His armpits were soaked.

A phone warbled as he passed Emma, the receptionist. Hold it, she said, and held out the receiver to him.

He took it. Hello?

Can you talk to me this way? He recognized the soft voice of Cori Hadley.

Tense, but minus the phobic paralysis he had known in her office, he nodded at the phone.

Emma piped up. I don't think she can hear your nod. Her eyes twinkled.

Feeling stupid, he turned his back to Emma. Yes, I can talk this way, he said.

Good. Why do you want to work for me?

I'm an experienced investigator. I'm good at it, too.

Have you any idea how many men come in saying just that? Their only qualification comes from television and paperback novels.

I'm experienced. Eight years in the Navy, he said.

As an investigator?

He gripped the receiver tightly, fighting the urge to hang up and leave. Something like that.

What does that mean? Shore Patrol? The lilt in her voice told him she was playing with him.

Uh, no. I can't really describe it.

Why not? she asked.

It's not allowed. There, he thought. Now she'll throw me out.

Cori Hadley didn't say anything for a few seconds that felt like minutes to him. Will you wait while I make a few calls?

All right. James had nothing to lose, and he wanted a job. He handed the dead phone back to Emma.

You coming to work for us? She seemed interested.

Don't know yet.

Why'd you come charging out of her office?

Although he was comfortable talking to Emma, he wasn't about to give her his whole history. It's a long story, he said rather lamely. What could he tell her: that he could only talk to homely girls?

Oh, well...sure. Will Cori call you back?

She said to wait.

That seemed sufficient for Emma. Want something to read?

He doubted he could just then. I'm all right.

Sure you are. She returned to work at her computer terminal. He couldn't see her screen from where he sat, but she typed fast, as if she wanted to fill it quickly.

He sat on the nearest couch. In Cori's office the visitor's chair had been glove-leather soft. Out here he got vinyl. He scooted down and leaned back, wondering who Cori Hadley was calling and whether it would do him any good.

* * *

Mr. Gearing. Mr. Gearing.

James opened his eyes. Momentary confusion cleared as he recognized Emma wearing a bemused expression.

Cori would like to see you again.

She's on the phone?

Not this time. She wants you in her office.

For a few seconds James fought his fear. How could he go back in her office?

Emma seemed puzzled. "She wants to see you now," she added.

He stood up and walked woodenly to Cori's door. His stomach clenched up tighter than a bosun's knot. Emma stayed right beside him.

Emma opened the door for him, giggled, and shoved him inside.

James stumbled in, aware that he must look as awkward as a teenage boy.

Sit down, please, Cori Hadley said crisply.

He dropped into the leather wing-back chair, but couldn't relax. Leaning forward, he watched Cori Hadley, while every nerve in his body screamed for him to get out.

I called a friend of mine who has access — shall we say — to high places. I asked him about you. You didn't exactly tell me everything.

I can't. He honestly didn't think anything he could say would help him get a civilian job.

Like your medals, she said.

James shrugged. Decorations were mostly luck — being in the right place at the right time. When you weren't, no one noticed, or you died, or both.

He couldn't tell me the name of your precise unit, other than to say it fell under the umbrella of the Seals. He seemed impressed and said you'd done things he couldn't tell me about. Can you guess what he said when I told him you were applying for a detective job?

James shook his head, flinging little droplets of sweat from his face.

'Snap him up.' Now why do you suppose he would make such a strong recommendation?

James didn't move.

Are you qualified with a handgun?

The skin on his face felt parboiled as he nodded.

Rifle?

He nodded again.

Other specialty weapons?

He didn't move. Some things he couldn't confirm.

Ever kill anyone?

He looked away. We moved fast, and it was usually dark. Should he say yes and tell her about his nightmares in which dead victims pointed accusing fingers at him? Or about the ones where the dead revenged themselves on him in various inventive ways?

She looked down at her notes. Navy Cross, Distinguished Service Medal. She looked up. You know what grabs my curiosity?

James shook his head.

I wonder why you left the Navy. You're young, she turned a page of notes. Twenty-nine, if my friend was right.

Hurt my back, James said. Then, It's all right now. No point in mentioning the three operations that made that statement true. His spine was a tad stiff, but now only bothered him in cold weather.

Despite his shakes and drenched armpits, he watched the beautiful woman across the desk. He was letting her wield a tremendous amount of power over him just by sitting there. And he couldn't say much else without violating half a dozen security regs. Even if he could admit he was a fully qualified thief, infiltrator, and killer, she might not be reassured. She might think him a terrorist or worse. Just as well keep silent, he concluded.

Well, hell, Cori said. I don't know whether to show you out or give you tenure. Her sudden smile burst on the room and paralyzed his breathing. How would we ever communicate?

He blurted out, Through a man?

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, studying him with bright green eyes. After a moment, she leaned forward again and picked up the phone. Send Phil in.

They waited in silence. James closed his eyes and imagined that he was swimming in the Pacific off Coronado Island. He let himself sink into cold water, tasting salt, fighting the choppy wave action as he breast-stroked through the water, his overlarge fins beating a propulsive rhythm behind him. The water cooled his face, allowing him to slow his breathing to match the rhythm of his breast stroke.

Mr. Gearing. An older male voice startled him.

James opened his eyes and saw that a middle-aged male had replaced Cori.

I'm Philip Westerling. He was an athlete subdued by age and gravity. His shoulders were thick, his neck beefy, his face fleshy. His brown eyes were alight with humor.

James Gearing. He liked the man immediately.

Westerling smiled pleasantly. Ah, yes. I know that much. He regarded James quizzically. You can't talk to Cori?

Not very well, he admitted.

Why not?

I'm not sure. Some people fear height, some can't abide crowds, or dwarfs or Gypsies or cross-eyed men. With me it's pretty women. Not real fear, exactly, but I get sweaty and can't breathe. My throat closes up and I can't talk.

Sounds bad enough. Only pretty women affect you? Phil asked.

James sighed. The plainer they are, the easier I feel.

Phil shook his head, looking perplexed. Cori told me to hire you.

James expelled a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Good.

Naturally, I'm curious as to why she's hiring you, when she can't talk to you. He leaned back and steepled his fingers. I also wonder what happens when you're on a case and a pretty girl crosses your path?

I'll work on it, James said, although I doubt there will be many like Ms. Hadley.

Phil smiled at that, and looked towards the door. What about Emma?

The question surprised James, although he recognized its logic. Your receptionist?

He nodded.

No problem.

Westerling barked out a laugh. I think we'd better keep your little phobia a secret, or every woman you can talk to will hate your guts. He shuffled through a few papers. All right, here's what we offer as a starting package...

* * *

James reported for work on Monday morning. Emma took him down the hallway to Phil Westerling's office.

James expected to start filling out employment papers, insurance papers, and bond deductions.

Don't sit down, Phil said. Today is evaluation day.

You want to check me out before you hire me, James said.

Right. He walked to a closet door, opened it, and took out his suit jacket. Instead of putting it on, he threw it over his shoulder. Let's go.

Phil drove to the police firing range out near Dodger Stadium. Parking in a visitor's spot, Phil led him to a secure door and ran a card through the scanner. The door clicked.

Inside, a short hall led to a desk. The man behind the desk wore an LA cop's uniform and corporal's stripes. He smiled when he saw them. Hi, Phil. Breaking in another one?

This one may not need it, Westerling said.

The desk cop handed over a closed box. The corporal shoved a clipboard at Westerling. Sign here.

The firing range had positions for eight shooters. Each place consisted of a waist-high table in a window that overlooked the range. Currently, Westerling and James had it to themselves. Westerling handed James the ear protectors that had been laying on the table. Use these when you fire, so you can hear afterwards.

James smiled. We used to call them Mickey Mouse ears.

Westerling nodded. Still do. He held out the box. Tell me what you think of these.

James set the box on the low table and lifted the lid. Inside were three pistols.

He picked up the largest. Sig Sauer .45 ACP Model 220 — an excellent pistol. Shoots more smoothly than a lot of smaller bore pistols. He set it down and picked up another. Smith & Wesson .38 Special — an older one, Model 649. Used to be standard police issue. Not any more. Not accurate enough, and too little clout. Besides, it's only a five shot. He replaced it and took out the last. Hmm. A Walther TPH .22. About as good a small-bore as they come, although I prefer the trigger on the Beretta Model 21. He looked down range at the small target. This should be interesting.

Ready to show me your stuff? Westerling asked.

You want me to fire all three of them?

That's right.

Then, I'd rather start with this one. He picked up the Sig Sauer .45 and hefted it for balance, checked to see that the chamber was empty, then dry-fired it. Hmm. Feels new, but it has a crisp break. He laid the .45 on the table and adjusted his sound-suppresser ears.

Westerling pushed a button on the left-most vertical post framing the low table. A tinny voice came back. Slot two, he said. Ten yards.

Ready on the right, Westerling said, then added in the time-honored cant of the firing range officer, ready on the left. Ready on the firing line.

James filled a magazine with round-nosed .45s and slapped it into the handle of the pistol, jacked the slide, and thumbed down the decocking lever. He held it in a modified Weaver stance, with his slightly bent left arm supporting his shooting hand.

Ready, James said. He looked down range at the target. The bulls-eye seemed awfully far away. He wondered if he could still shoot. No one would blame the Sig Sauer .45 for any inaccuracy.

Fire, Westerling said.

He brought his elbows up to horizontal, slipped his fore-finger around the trigger, and, leaning slightly forward, rapid-fired five times, bringing the pistol back down to horizontal after each explosion sent it bucking upwards. He ejected the magazine, checked the empty chamber, then set the pistol down on the table.

Why did you stop? Westerling asked.

The target's dead, James said, matter-of-factly. Either it is or it isn't, he thought. He'd shot on instinct, using only the front sight as an aiming reference.

Westerling didn't say anything. He put the .45 back, then carried the box to the next table. He pressed another button. Slot three, ten yards. He handed James the S&W .38.

James spun the cylinder once. Empty. He rocked open the cylinder, filled it with five .38s, and snapped it back firmly but carefully, not slamming it home like B-grade actors did in movies.

Westerling repeated his litany.

James rapid-fired all five rounds, noting the balls of flame that appeared with each shot. The revolver kicked up more that the .45. Someone put a fair load in those casings, he thought. He slipped out the cylinder and ejected the casings, then laid the .38 down on the table.

"Target