Collected: Volume 3

By M. K. Dreysen

We bring you here, dear reader, to tell you this: watch your back.
For knives. For the barrel cold against your ribs. For the way the people in charge always seem to have a different end game in mind than the one they've told you.
Betrayal hurts. Tears you apart and leaves you, tears on your face, desparate for but one thing more.
A chance to do it over.
Careful what you wish for.
Here are six little tales from M. K. Dreysen, stories of betrayal and the pain it leaves behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. K. Dreysen
• Release date: Jun 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463364970

Book preview

Collected, Volume 3

Collected Short Stories and Tales

By M. K. Dreysen

All Stories Copyright © 2020 M. K. Dreysen

Cover Image Courtesy of User Andrik Langfield at Unsplash

Graphic Design Via Gimp by M. K. Dreysen and Aimward Drift Publications

Published By Aimward Drift Publications. Visit aimwarddrift.blogspot.com for news, updates, and upcoming stories.

Dedication

Family, friends, readers, always. And especially the readers of the blog who've kept up with me. Thank you all.

It All Went Down On the Flight to Cartagena

Derrick Rodriguez stirred the coffee, contemplated the sunset. These things that you do on the day between flights. A little condensed milk to draw the cup lighter, he didn't take it except here in the place where that syrupy treat was essential.

One place, anyway. A few thousand miles over the water, that way, where the cigar in his pocket had been rolled so well, all the way south down the Andes; he wondered whether anyone put together trips focused on cafes and sunsets and coffee stirred to the color of old paper and sweetness enough to make him grind his teeth. He drew the cigar, smelled it, returned it to his pocket.

That was for celebration. The coffee was fortification. He'd waited an hour, the ten dollar bill enough to hold his table and keep the waiter out of his hair. She would come, he hoped, soon. And yes, he'd built in time ahead of the meeting.

To watch the seagulls. The dogs roaming the streets. The traffic.

You never knew when someone was watching who shouldn't be. Such a small thing, really. On camera all the time anyway, and Derrick saluted the little things wherever they might be. A fact of life in this fallen world. Direct human interests, though, that was to be avoided in Derrick's business. Cameras and computers noted and sifted; humans, especially at this stage of the proceedings, that he didn't need.

If nothing else, such interest would mean his measures for gauging such meetings were inadequate in some way.

When she did appear, this Mrs. Lorena McMurdo if the email were sufficient guide, he gave her a great deal of credit. This lady may or may not have been some sort of amateur; she didn't stand out. Linen clothes, a scarf and hat, no jewelry of any kind, walking shoes rather than sandals or similar. No purse or backpack.

In one light, a tourist, perhaps, a North American business woman comfortable with her locale.

In another light, a local woman of influence, prepared for an evening of dinner and conversation.

Both images hinted at the possibility of bodyguards close by, watching carefully. Privilege enough, McMurdo's demeanor announced. 'Interesting,' Derrick told himself. He rose from the seat; this wasn't his habit. But her staging of the set required certain improvisations. Madame McMurdo.

Mister Rodriguez. It's so good of you to come. I hope you can help me.

Of course, Madame McMurdo, I am at your service. I can, however, only promise so much. Circumstances may not allow...

Anything at all that you can do will help, I promise. She didn't bull through the niceties. McMurdo allowed the waiter to do his business, the little flatteries, the moments of silence and brief flirtations. The coffee, she took it in the same style as had Rodriguez.

He wondered if this was a treat for her, or something more akin to the natural way of things. Her Spanish was far better than his. That class hint, again, of education and life untroubled by circumstances.

She gave her story at last with the arrival of the small white cup. Rodriguez reminded himself he should keep this cafe in mind for later dates; one must have many different stages and this place maintained a level of service that might appeal to similar audiences. In between passes of the spoon, she let her tale spin.

My husband, he has too many mistresses... and The money that should be has managed to find itself to accounts outside... and My father's business has been turned into a wastrel's credit line... and it was this last where McMurdo showed him anger. Embarassment, certainly, at her husband's flagrant behavior; Rodriguez wondered at the father's business.

A collector, of paintings, art, of course. But of historical documents, books, these were my father's true passions. Of the revolution most of all.

A Bolivar historian?

This period fascinated him. The levers that move the world, and the loads that they move.

She emptied the cup, leaving only the dregs of the syrup. Father kept title documents in the way others hold stamps, or daggers with swastikas. Parchment assigns dating to Isabella and Ferdinand. Not as claims against property, but as traces of those who spun the web we are caught in.

Rodriguez had chased old documents a time or two. The Cuban archives opening up... he had his own passions. Your husband does not share your father's interests.

She threw her napkin over the coffee service, the white cloth jangling the coffee spoon beneath its folds as it settled. The bastard doesn't share any interests. Only money. McMurdo leaned back in the chair with enough force to bring complaints from the wooden frame. I forced an audit of my father's company.

He understood what she found, almost without saying. The most prized of documents were the first to have been sold. Such things, as you may imagine, were difficult to aquire. They will be difficult to recover.

I will rebuild my father's collection, Mister Rodriguez.

I need only some listing, with good description. And the expenses...

Of course, of course.

They agreed to a number; he provided her with accounts and an address. She had reason, McMurdo told him, to prefer physical documentation. He wondered at this, but set that aside to be worried over later. Madame, how may I contact you then? As circumstances develop...

Meaning, as money needed replinishing and an accounting given. She provided him with an attorney's contact information. When she was gone, and he allowed himself to enjoy the cigar, the internet informed him of the attorney's offices in New York, Cartagena, and Los Toronto.

And please, Mister Rodriguez, she had said, her parting words before she disappeared into evening crowds seeking dinner and pleasure. "This must remain independent of my bastard husband. He may have no care for my father's legacy. Therefore, he