Heads I Win...Tails You Lose...

By Donald Preston Whisenant

After a broken leg ended his NFL dreams, Bruce Wilder changed directions and landed as a top CIA operative in the Middle East. Retiring from the company after two decades of service, Bruce opened his own detective agency in his hometown of Dallas. Two long-time friends wound up in Dallas too, one as the Assistant District Attorney, and the other, the Chief of Police. When Bruce is hired by an insurance company to find the truth behind a top executives murder, he uses new high-tech devices to hunt down a ruthless killer. Follow him in this fast-paced who-done-it, with twists and turns and unexpected surprises, and the one clue that continually eludes him. This is a book you will remember!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496939593

Donald Preston Whisenant

Donald Preston Whisenant has always been a big fan of murder mysteries, and in his third book, takes his knowledge of the Dallas area and incorporates it into a thrilling murder tale. He enjoys travelling and has visited all 50 states with a jaunt in Europe, Central America and most of the Caribbean islands. Donald was raised in Texas, but now resides in Ohio, where he and his wife of 55 years enjoy their grandchildren, the cooler weather and the changing of the seasons.

Book preview

HEADS I WIN…

TAILS YOU LOSE…

Donald Preston Whisenant

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2014 Donald Preston Whisenant. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/09/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3960-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3961-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3959-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916214

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

In the distance Bruce could hear chimes, maybe church bells denoting it was midnight. It was a damp night, almost to the point of raining. The chill on this, hopefully, was the last cool spell of the winter. It could cut right through your clothes clear to the bone. Bruce wouldn’t mind a dose of a ‘Houston summer’ right now. Down the street a piece of newspaper came rolling and bouncing along, stopping to rest occasionally, and then, just when you thought it had found a place to rest for the night, the wind would pick it up again, and send it on its journey into nowhere.

He sat in his 1998 Corolla that he used for surveillance work. He felt he wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb as he would in his brand new red Corvette, which he had left in the garage back in Dallas. The sun visor had a mirror and Bruce had it turned down so he could see more of what was behind him than the regular rear view mirror afforded him. Always being vigilant and ever alert to danger had become a part of his make-up. His eyes were blurry as he hadn’t had much sleep for a couple of days. He sat there eating a stale donut, and doing something he had not allowed himself the pleasure…or pain…of doing for sometime. Thinking back.

How did I get to be here on a dirty, narrow street in Houston, watching and waiting for a certain person to appear, not even sure he would ever show. George said that there was just a 26.3 % probability that he would. Although the 26.3 % is not really good odds, it was better than any of the other places George could come up with. So here I sit.

Could it really have been just nineteen years ago that I was sitting right here in Houston? It was a warm, summer night, completely different than tonight, when Mac, Marcie, and I sat in a corner booth no more than five miles from here. There was a dimly lit candle burning on the table. We sat there and made plans for the future. The three had been together since Junior High and were like three peas in a pod. When you saw one of us, you generally saw the other two.

All three of us were graduates of the University of Houston, but each one was going in a different direction. Marcie was going on to law school at the University of Texas in Austin. Mac was headed to the police academy at Big D…… and I was on my way to the great American adventure. Or so I thought.

We all wanted to go into law enforcement of some kind. We thought we were going on to bigger and better things. Mac wanted to learn how to be a top notch police officer, and Marcie to be an officer of the court. I had joined the elite club known as the CIA.

When I was still in school I tried to excel in everything I did. I always tried to be first and sometimes that was a curse instead of a blessing, always disgusted with myself if I didn’t win. First in football, I was the first quarterback to take my Junior High School to the city championship, first one to take my college to the NCAA Championship in the school’s conference in ten years. And, I was the first quarterback to take Houston to a bowl game in ten years. We got our butts beat. That, and the fact I broke a leg in that game, might have had a lot to do with the fact I wasn’t drafted into the NFL.

I was definitely first on the swimming team. I spent a lot of time swimming and diving, especially in my senior year. I could do a twist and two flips and make a perfect dive off the high board and not leave a splash. The first time I heard words like ‘Olympics’ being batted around by the coaches, I knew I wasn’t interested in that, because I was in a hurry to earn a pay check. That also might be one reason I first started studying martial arts. I loved that almost as much as swimming. I never had a photographic memory, but it was close. With all of my activities I still remember holding a 4.0 grade average. It was easy for me.

Bruce twisted around in his seat trying to find a little more comfortable position.

You know the old saying, ‘you can’t go home again’, that is true for the most part, but I’m trying and so far it’s working. The other old saying that affects everyone is ‘what if’. What if the NFL had drafted me, would I still be sitting here tonight? Probably not. I really wanted to play, or at least try, to play pro ball, but I didn’t get the chance. On the other hand, Mac was better than a fair half back and he did get some pro offers after the draft was over, but he didn’t want to play. Isn’t that the way it seems to always work out? But the NFL didn’t draft me, and I didn’t want to train for the Olympics. I just wanted to get on with my life. So, when the two gentlemen came to see me and told me about the ‘company,’ as they called it, I was very impressed to think that even though the NFL hadn’t sought to draft me into football…my country, or part of it, the CIA, wanted me.

After graduation, I reported to Langley, VA, for my start in my new career. After the indoctrination, I spent the next twenty-three of the hardest weeks of training with the Navy Seals. Seventy percent of the men were unable to finish the course, but I still tried to come in first in every aspect of the training, again nearly killing myself in the process.

So, I learned when to push, and when not to. I knew when to shake someone’s hand or when to break their arm. I learned how to fire all types of weapons: hand guns, sniper rifles, AK47’s, and how to handle all types of explosives, including C-4 and the claymore mine.

But looking back now at my training, I just thought I was athletic. I just thought I was good in the martial arts, I just thought I was a good swimmer, I just thought I was a good computer operator, until I joined up and found that my training was just starting. I got an education all right. I really became a first class computer operator, a superb athlete, an expert in the martial arts. Of all my skills, I really learned to swim. I could swim underwater without surfacing farther than most people could swim on top of the water. They smoothed off the rough edges, and I learned how to act at a state dinner with a meeting of foreign dignitaries, learned how to speak four foreign languages, how to survive in the jungles of South America, the rough terrain of the rugged mountains of the middle east, the back alleys of Baghdad or on the main streets of Calcutta. The important thing I had to learn was how to kill people with kindness, or just how to kill people period.

My trainer at the ‘company’ thought I would be an excellent choice for a field agent. I was hardly ever in the States, and every year it got harder and harder. I got more and more disillusioned with the assignments, the red tape, and the bureaucracy. As I look over the nineteen years with the ‘company’, everything came rushing back. I can see the political back stabbings, and the literal ones as well. I had seen political warfare and jungle warfare too. I could still see the bodies and hear the screams of…

Suddenly, his thoughts came back to the present with a jolt, and the screams were a siren he could hear on the next street over. As the sound faded, he saw the 26.3% probability by the name of Pedro Gonzales. He walked at a fast pace, head down, not looking either right or left. That, in itself, showed the mentality of the man. Anyone wanted for attempted murder, a possible kidnapping, and three counts of armed robbery should be alert, very alert. He had on a black motorcycle jacket with faded blue jeans, Nike running shoes, and that’s exactly what he was doing…running, running from a court date. He had jumped bail and John Hitchcock, a bail bondsman in Dallas, couldn’t stand to lose all the money he had invested in Pedro. He had hired the best he could find to bring him back so he could stand trial. Bruce.

Bruce was certainly not a bounty hunter by trade. The sign on his door read ‘Bruce Wilder, Private Investigation’, but 10% of the bail money of this magnitude was worth his time. Thanks to Shelby and George, they had found out about Pedro’s cousin, and George came up with the 26.3% probability that he would show up here. All of a sudden, he was aware of the comfortable weight of the 9mm Beretta snuggled under his arm. He didn’t like the shoulder holsters, so he generally carried it clipped to his belt in the small of his back. He knew he would be sitting a lot, so for this time, it was the shoulder holster.

This young man coming down the street had already tried, and maybe killed once, and probably would not hesitate to do it again.

He watched as Pedro went in the east door of the building on Market Street. Bruce was sitting in his car on the opposite side of the street, so he could see down Market Street and also back down 53rd at the same time. The only other door to the building was on Elm Street and it was an exit only. There used to be a door in the alley in back of the apartment building, but it was boarded up. He gave Pedro a full five minutes after he went in to give him some time to get settled.

Bruce got out of the car and walked toward the apartment building. The cold night wind was slapping him right in his face. It was a clean cut looking face that needed a shave, but if you looked closely, you could see a look that was much older than his 39 years. He had a scar on the left side of his face at the jaw line. One of the few times he zigged when he should have zagged. He had a couple of other scars, including two old bullet hole wounds. The wounds had healed and the scars were hidden by his shirt, but not the memories. Bruce had deep blue eyes and sandy wavy hair, one lock of which always seemed to hang down in his face. He looked like a cross between Lee Marvin and Robert Redford. He felt a little colder than he should, and he realized that he might have to kill Gonzales, and he hated to do that. He thought about taking him on the street but he was afraid that Pedro might make a run for it, and then he would have to chase him. Bruce thought about it for a minute, but then opted for the confines of a one bedroom apartment, with only one door to get out.

As he approached the front door to the apartment building, he took a coin out of his pocket, and gave it a little flip and said out loud, Heads I win and tails you lose. He caught the coin and dropped it back in his pocket without even looking at it. There was no fanfare, no entrance cameras, no doorman, no buzzers, to the apartments. In this neighborhood, all it had was just the front door and it didn’t even lock anymore. People had come home so many times and broken the door trying to get in, that the landlord simply fixed it where the door would close, but not lock. As he stepped inside, his hand automatically, without thinking, eased the Beretta out. He slowly started up the stairs to the 3rd floor, staying as close to the wall as he could, trying to miss the creaking noise of the stairs. The old carpet had long ago lost its resiliency. It was like walking on hard wood. As he approached the 3rd floor landing, he looked down the hall both ways. This is what he liked, the hunt, the chase, the capture, and/or the kill.

Bruce had been in the building earlier and knew exactly what door he was after. He reached up and tapped the bare bulb in the hall with his gun. It made a small pop and then the hall went dark. He moved up to 3C and knocked softly. Standing in the darkened hall, he heard a shuffling of feet.

Who is it? Juan asked.

Me, amigo, Bruce said in his best Spanish accent. It always seemed to work.

The door opened a crack. A skinny Mexican with stringy hair, a crooked nose, and yellow teeth said, What the hell you want? Bruce showed him his badge that meant absolutely nothing in Harris County, but it looked official.

You got a warrant? he snarled.

No.

Well, come back when you got one! You mother… And he started to close the door.

Bruce dropped his badge into his pocket, and hit the door with all 198 pounds, and hit it hard. Juan went flying back, and hit the wall in the entry way. Bruce stepped into the room and said, I’m back!

Bruce hit Juan with a vicious left hook to the stomach. Juan doubled over and Bruce hit him again, this time with the butt of his gun right behind the left ear. Juan was out. In the same motion, he stepped into the living room, and in a quick sweep of the room, saw a Hispanic woman at the far end of the couch. There were three opened beers on the coffee table, a smoldering butt in the ashtray, and a door closing to the one bedroom. Bruce stepped over to the near end of the couch, motioned the woman to get down, which she did immediately. Almost at the same time he reached over and broke the bulb in the light at the end of the couch. If I keep this up, I’ll have to go into the light bulb business..

With three quick steps he was by the door that he saw closing. It was pitch black in the living room, but a shaft of light showed under the bedroom door. Bruce did two things; he kicked the door open, and hit the floor, almost simultaneously. Pedro fired at where he should have been.

Lying on the floor in the dark, Bruce took careful aim, and put a bullet through the arm that was holding the gun. Pedro Gonzales spun around, fell to the floor, and Pedro’s gun went clattering to the floor. Bruce was on his feet like a cat and stepped into the room. All told, it took about fifteen seconds from the time he had entered the apartment.

Bruce looked around the room, noting it was very austere, having only one chest, one unmade bed, and one religious picture on the wall. Bruce stepped over to the bed, got a big hand full of hair and pulled Pedro up to a standing position. He half threw him on the bed, and said, I was right. You lose. Bruce picked up a pillow, took the pillow case off, turned it inside out so it would be a little cleaner, and got Gonzales by the arm. Pedro had his jacket off, and all he had on was a short sleeved tee shirt, the kind with a pocket on the left side with a half used pack of cigarettes in it. Bruce wrapped the pillow case around the arm and tied it, then reached down and picked up the 38 caliber revolver that belonged to Pedro, and stuck it in his waistband. Pedro was cursing, calling Bruce everything he could think of, but the fight was gone.

Flattery will get you nowhere, Bruce said.

Bruce walked him toward the door, and pushed him into the living room. Juan was struggling to get to his feet, holding the back of his head. Bruce told the woman to get a light on, and she turned on the overhead light. It long ago had lost its cover shade, and the bare bulb made everything look harsh. With a good hold on Pedro’s shirt, he walked him over to Juan, who was still over by the open front door and said, No need to tell anyone about us being here. In fact, if anyone does make a call on the gunshot, the best thing for you to know is ‘nada’, which in your case will probably be easy. Pedro’s a wanted criminal, as you well know, and you don’t want an aiding and abetting charge. It will mess up your work week, if you have one…do you understand?

Juan just nodded.

Bruce pushed Pedro out the door into the dark hall. He could see a crack at one of the doors, but he would wager that no one would call the HPD. Of the ones who lived in this building, hardly anyone had a phone, and no one had any use for the police. But not taking any chances, he pushed Pedro toward the stairs.

Pedro was complaining about his arm, but went the way he was directed. He stumbled down the stairs and into the street. When the cold wind hit him, he realized he didn’t have on his jacket. Hey, man, I got no coat on. I got to have my coat, man.

All you have to have, and I hope for your sake you do, is enough sense to get in the car, Bruce said.

The wound was a clean one, only because he had time to aim, and the pillow case had contained the bleeding for now. Bruce stopped at the door to the car, and held up his hand for Pedro to stay put. There was an old army blanket in the trunk that he put over the front seat, and he motioned for Pedro to get in.

As he pulled away from the curb, he heard sirens again. He didn’t know whether they were coming there or not, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night explaining what he was doing, and go through all the extradition process to get Pedro back to Dallas. He gassed the Corolla and it moved out sharply for an old car, and turned at the first corner and cut over to Wayside, and then headed for I-45 and Big D.

CHAPTER 2

Bruce cut over from Wayside to Navigation, and hooked up with I-45 in downtown Houston. The street lights looked like big balls of light, as the rain drops distorted the images as they splattered on the windshield. He got on the up ramp and in a matter of seconds, the world changed from shops, dirty sidewalks, blinking traffic lights, to six lanes of 60 mph traffic, three of them going northbound, three going southbound. But no one was going 60 mph. Most of the traffic was going in the 70’s or more. It was an elevated freeway that made everything below look a little cleaner…looks can be deceiving.

Pedro rocked back and forth, saying over and over, You shot me, you son-of-a-bitch, you shot me!

Instead of complaining, you should be saying, ‘Damn, what a good shot you are,’ because if I had missed the arm shot, the next one would have been dead center of the packages of cigarettes in your shirt pocket, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about your damned arm. In fact, you wouldn’t have to worry about anything again, ever. The only reason I didn’t was because then I would be out of a lot of sleep and money and about now, they would be wheeling you out on a gurney. There would be somebody downtown, needing a shave with his shirt tail hanging out, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, waiting to tie a DOA tag on your big toe. So shut up! If he doesn’t shut up I might have to stop and try that shot again.

Pedro coughed and said, I’m getting sick.

Bruce knew the shock of getting shot was ebbing, and pain was starting to set in. Bruce knew the pain would only intensify from here on. And one thing for sure, Pedro would only complain more and more if he babied him.

I’m getting sicker.

Pedro, if you think your arm is hurting now, just throw up in my car, and you won’t even know your arm is hurt at all, Bruce said. Believe me, you wouldn’t want to make this trip back to Dallas in the trunk of the car, but keep on and that is exactly what is going to happen!

The night had enough moisture in it that he had to put the wipers on intermittent. After going a couple of miles on I-45, he had to increase the speed of the wipers. They cruised through town at 55 to 60 and after he got past I-10, he started looking for a drug store.

He saw one as he neared the Hamilton exit. He moved over to the right lane, and took the exit ramp. When he got down to the light he had to go under I-45 and then turned into the large parking lot of the strip mall. He stopped as far out as he could from any store and reached over and got Pedro’s left arm, the good one, and put a handcuff on it. Bruce pulled it over to the steering wheel, snapped the second part of the hand-cuff on it. Pedro was rocking and moaning, and Bruce slapped him on the back of the head with an open palm and said, Now behave, and I’ll see what I can do for your arm and your pain.

It was raining hard enough that Bruce moved quickly, almost a run, till he reached the cover of the overhang of the drug store. The sign in the window said ‘Open 24 hours’. He went in.

A drug store has its own smell.

He went up and down the aisles of lipstick, powder and deodorant. Finally in one section they actually still had some medication. Bruce gathered up some peroxide, alcohol, gauze, tape, aspirins, and a box of OTC sleeping pills. Since he hadn’t eaten all evening, he went over to the cooler and got a couple of bottles of orange juice, two ready made sandwiches and two packages of potato chips. When he got to the cash register, he paid with a credit card, and stuck the receipt in his pocket. He would give these to Shelby when he got back to Dallas, for two reasons: one, she was going to do all the tax work and she wanted every receipt, and two, if anything ever came up in court about what he was doing and when or why, he would have written proof.

Bruce stepped out into the cool damp air. He stopped under the awning and set one of the orange juices on the edge of the trash container and opened it. With his thumb and finger he mashed up three aspirin and four sleeping pills in the juice, put the lid back on and shook it up. Bruce went back out to the car, put everything in the back seat, opened up the front door, and started his MD work. Bruce had no bedside manners. He just took out his pocket knife, cut the bloody pillowcase off, got some alcohol on a piece of gauze, and wiped off the wound. It was a through and through shot and a clean wound.

Of course, Pedro moaned and groaned. Bruce then wrapped the arm with gauze and taped it. He stepped back and nodded his head and said, Eat your heart out, DeBakey. Then he opened the juice he had doctored up and gave it to Pedro and said, Drink, and I mean all of it.

Bruce looked around; he had been doing that all along, watching out for any patrol car that might want to investigate why he was parked out so far from the stores. If one came his way, he would simply shut the door and walk over to the patrol officer, show him his license and talk to him, one cop to another, and more than likely be on his way. Bruce opened the back door and got their food out, got in the driver side, unlocked his prisoner and said, After you finish drinking the OJ, if you want a sandwich, I have one for you.

Bruce pulled out of the strip center and went under the freeway, turned north toward Dallas, got his speed up and merged in with the traffic. He sat back and ate his sandwich and chips, and by the time he was through, Pedro’s head was nodding. Another few miles and he was sound asleep.

The next few hours went by without incident. The rain stayed steady, with the wipers doing their best to keep the windshield clean, and not doing a great job. He looked over at Pedro and he was still fast asleep. He let his mind wander again. He had been living in a very dangerous world. He tried to always keep his senses and his mind on his business. It was like handling dynamite or nitro, as it only took one act of carelessness, or one wrong word, one time of not being aware of his surroundings, and he could be in a world of hurt. For years now, he had been a loner with little or no friendship with people in the world. Some friends he had made, good friends, in the ‘company’, and now that he was out, he tried to keep in touch. Of course, he was now in a lot less stressful environment. After quitting the ‘company’, he had come to Dallas to start his life, and was very glad to be back with his old buddy, Mac, that he had grown up with. He had learned that the third one of their group, Marcie, had moved to Dallas from Houston, and he was certainly looking forward to that. But now he was thinking about the‘fort’ and his new assistant of only four months. She was four years younger then he was, and had twice the energy. He was thinking about the first time he saw her. He was in the back working with George, and he went into the front room, that was now his reception room. With a little remodeling, he had his office in what was at one time the kitchen. When he walked from his office into the reception room, he was startled to find someone sitting in one of the big leather chairs he had in there. He asked her who she was, and more important, he wanted to know how she got in, since the front door was locked.

He remembered the big smile on her face. She had short, coal black hair. When he entered, she stood up. She was about 5’3" tall, and weighed no more than 125 lbs. She told him that his friend down at the DPS had told her to do that, and show him her skills with a lock. He told her right up front that he wasn’t hiring. Bruce said that he didn’t need anyone, but she introduced herself as Shelby, and kept on talking, as if he hadn’t said anything. Now, he’s glad she didn’t listen, because in this short time, he couldn’t see how he could do without her.

Pedro moaned and shifted in the seat. Bruce looked at the time on the radio and it was 5:02. He knew he was less than an hour out, so pushed a button on the sun visor and the sun visor came alive and said, Number, please.

Shelby. He had all his numbers programmed in. Although it was early, he wanted her to know what was happening.

She answered on the second ring. Good morning, boss, she said, with no sleepy sound in her voice.

Caught him! George was right.

Good! Are you at the office? Shelby asked.

No, I’m on the way to Parkland. She sat up quickly.

What happened? Why Parkland? Shelby asked, sounding even more alert.

I’ll tell you when you get to the office. Also tell George we got him.

Okay, but I still want to know why Parkland. Are you hurt? Shelby asked.

Oh, I’m alright, but our friend got a little scratch. I’ll tell you about it when I get there. Now turn over and go back to sleep.

Gee thanks, but I’m already up and making coffee. You want to drop by and get some…coffee?

He laughed out loud. No thanks, but I have to call Mac. I’ve got to turn over our prisoner, and probably have to fill out paper work. Is it raining there? It’s been raining all the way from Houston.

Yes, and it has rained hard at times. Call me if you need anything, Shelby said.

10:4. He pushed the button on the sun visor again and said, Phone.

His phone device said, Number please.

Mac, at home.

CHAPTER 3

The phone kept on ringing. Mac reached over and was trying to turn off the alarm clock, but the clock just kept on ringing. He realized what was happening, and he switched to the phone. The clock read 5:33. He hit the talk button, as he kept it on speaker all the time. Bruce said, Boy, you are hard to wake up. What if I told you that there was a bank robbery in progress.

After I got through cussing them out, I would tell them to call you. You’re the meanest man in the whole damn town and your name isn’t even Brown.

Well, if you’re not the poet this early! It’s time you got up. The city doesn’t pay you those big bucks to lie in bed. You’ve got work to do. I am returning a prisoner to your keep and confinement. I need you to meet me at Parkland at the Emergency entrance so we can make the exchange, Bruce said.

I’m glad you got him, Mac said. He threw back the covers and struggled into a sitting position. Rubbing his closely cut hair (the only way you could get it any shorter would be to shave it). He stretched and yawned and asked, But why Parkland? What did you do to him?

Nothing much. He just brought a knife to a gun fight and he lost, Bruce said.

How bad?"

Just a flesh wound. I’ve had worse scratches on my eyeball. Come on down and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, and tell you all about it, Bruce said.

You’re going to buy me breakfast! He cut the phone off before Bruce could say anything else.

Mac sat up on the edge of the bed, reached over and turned off the alarm which was set for 6:00, and put his feet on the wooden floor. He didn’t have any carpet in his apartment. He thought it was easier to clean wood. He stood up and stretched again and then went over to the small kitchen and started the coffee pot going. He went in to clean up and get dressed.

Mac was only 5’10 and weighed 211 lbs with very little fat, if any. Mostly, he looked like an over exercised wrestler. His arms were as big as some men’s legs. He was formidable looking. He had a small waist and a 19 neck, but in reality, he had a heart of gold and would do anything for anyone. People who knew him called him a big teddy bear, but only those who knew him. The men who worked for him knew he was fair but also knew that when he said do something, they had better do it, and in a hurry. His name was Mark McDaniels but everyone called him Mac, and they all said, ‘yes sir’ and moved out of his way. Ever since his college football days he had kept to a very tough physical regimen.

After dressing, he went over to the TV and sat down in one of the only two chairs he had in the living room. There was a table between them that had a little shelf which would pull out where he set his coffee. It also had a door that opened up below where he kept his reading material. His house was furnished very austerely, except for the walls. On one wall