Fort Avenue

By Ben Nicholls

You can’t lie down with your back against the wall.

Ex-NYPD officer turned LA Bounty Hunter Tucker Brag has traded the beat on New York’s mean streets for chasing bounties in the City of Angels.

When Jimmy Brag, Tucker’s father, a veteran in the U.S. Army and reclusive doomsayer, dies, Tucker is surprised by a windfall bequeathed to his only child.

Sorting out Jimmy’s affairs, Tucker is inadvertently thrust into the crosshairs of one of LA’s most powerful crime figures. On the run and looking over his shoulder, he is then faced with a past family tragedy, bringing heartbreaking memories back into focus. They compel Tucker to attempt now what he couldn’t hope to achieve as a young boy.

Tucker will first need to defeat a ruthless enemy before planning to fulfil his own desire for revenge.

PRAISE FOR ROGUE JUSTICE

‘A rollercoaster journey of criminal justice. For readers of mysteries and thrillers who prefer darker and more dangerous tales. A deftly plotted, intelligently accomplished novel that is as fast-paced as it is gripping.’ – Readers Favorite

‘Great depth of character and a thrill to read.’ – Literary Titan

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035825622

Ben Nicholls

Ben Nicholls lives in Sydney with his wife and their two children. Fort Avenue is his second novel. Ben’s debut novel Rogue Justice was published in 2021.

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About the Author

Ben Nicholls lives in Sydney with his wife and their two children. Fort Avenue is his second novel.

Ben’s debut novel Rogue Justice was published in 2021.

Dedication

For Rachel and our two little men

Jonathan and James

Copyright Information ©

Ben Nicholls 2024

The right of Ben Nicholls to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035825608 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035825622 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781035825615 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

To Erin Wise, thanks for the endless supply of books and for helping me navigate the murky waters of social media. I’ll be forever grateful for your efforts in cranking the wheels and getting the good word out.

Anyone who knows me is aware of my passion for music. I write my novels to various soundtracks. The Angels and The Screaming Jets are regular companions as I attempt to put words on a page worth reading. To have these guys and their crew as friends is extra special.

To my summer camp mates from French Woods, Tim, Dan, and Randy, and fellow 14B inhabitants, thanks for the awesome memories. It was fun to include such a unique and vibrant location and turn it into the complete opposite for this story.

For Dad, for your patience and feedback during early drafts. And who will no doubt inflict this book onto unsuspecting bowling mates across two states.

To Rupert Brow, my faraway cousin, thanks for your extensive feedback on my debut novel. I expect nothing less for my second.

To Graham (Jan) Greener, thanks for the stunning book about your family’s rich history. I hope you enjoy the mention.

And to those who enjoyed Rogue Justice and encouraged me to go again. I’m thrilled to have you along for the ride.

1

Dwayne Pickering was rudely woken on the tick of 4:00 a.m. Was there any other type of awakening at such an ungodly hour?

After the barking of his name had ceased bouncing around inside his skull, he rubbed undusted eyes from the sleep fairy and roused himself further by propping on his elbows as he swung his legs off the worn-out mattress.

There wasn’t long to go—one-hundred-and-thirteen minutes to be precise. Dwayne Pickering hadn’t seen a clock in the longest time and couldn’t care less what time it was, or for that matter, the day, hell, even the month. Those around him made up for it. They were a bunch of punctual bastards, regimental and cold in equal doses. Acts of overt violence sometimes punctuated their behaviour towards him. Hence, the crooked nose that looked back at him as Dwayne took in his blurred reflection from the stainless steel section countersunk into the concrete wall above a sink with one tap—cold.

But today was to be different. Dwayne expected today’s escort to be pain-free. At least until he arrived at his destination, they promised he would not feel a thing. Dwayne didn’t believe them. But what choice did he have?

He’d been reduced to a robotic existence.

The cold water splashing against his skin served as an added reminder of how others dictated every facet of his life. He’d had a shower a couple of days ago. It would be his last, amongst a long list of ‘lasts’ that had been steadily stacking up.

Dwayne looked down at his distended belly due to supplementing a healthy lifestyle with poor nutrition and little exercise. He’d long ago embraced the stereotype of an oppressed African American, hopeless and downtrodden, playing his hand accordingly against the stacked deck he believed he’d been dealt, with violence and intimidation of his own.

Vacuous eyes looked back at him. A buzz cut accentuated harsh lines on his face. The softness of his gait did not extend above his shoulders. Despite the baggy orange jumpsuit, muscled arms built upon a strengthening routine were evident. Dwayne stood six feet tall, on lean legs neglected in his workouts. During the years that passed, he’d felt progressively shorter, diminished by the burgeoning weight of betrayal constantly bearing down on him.

Dwayne’s spiral into criminality had crushed his father’s spirit but not his belief in his son that redemption was possible. Confidence was still evident with each letter Dwayne received written in his father’s grieving hand.

In contrast was a brother, kindred spirits until he upped and left Dwayne to fend for himself. His mom had abandoned her family long ago in Dwayne’s formative years, where her presence may have made a difference in the outcome he was facing.

Hey Pickers, I hope you enjoyed your last meal. Burn in hell, you sick motherfucker!

A cacophony of noise followed the kind sentiment bellowed by one of Dwayne’s neighbours. They were not happy risers. Lively repartee came in ever-increasing loud bursts, following a common thread. The ‘well-wishers’ wanted to see him suffer in various states of agony, most involving sharp and blunt instruments in equal measure.

The unrest was reduced to a dull roar upon a loud clang of metal from the end of the corridor. It was followed by two pairs of heavy boots stepping in unison. Occasionally, one of the owners of the steel-capped footwear would stop and shout obscenities of their own. Then a loud thunk against the thick steel bars by a baton equally robust, offering graphic descriptions of other uses it could be used for.

Seconds later, Dwayne had a captive audience of two. The taunts of others were ignored.

Dwayne Pickering was the star attraction.

2

Answering to Little Morrie or Morris Minor, each moniker was just as irritating as the other. Given his small stature, just a hair’s breadth over five-and-a-half feet, Maurice was the runt of the family.

Morrie’s brother and sister had taken after their father and been a good deal taller. Morrie took after their diminutive mother. His self-esteem had taken another hit. The black sheep of the family was also the fairest of skin. His ginger hair was polar opposites to the rest of the Bulsara clan, who sported thick brown hair. Morrie’s wispy strands were not long for this world, slowly uprooting and leaving the nest—something Morrie would never be allowed to do, not until he found a woman who could look after him as well as his mother. A tall order for the one family member struggling to find his own identity; and seen as a protected species. A belief reinforced by the death of Morrie’s only brother, Stavros, in the line of family duty.

Eddie Bulsara ran the most significant criminal enterprise on the east side. His fingers were in many pies, ranging from the meat and potato variety of extortion to more exotic tastes that included corruption in political circles. Gangland-type executions were regulars on the menu.

Whereas Morrie called the shots behind the scenes, his father controlled the front line. While he was given free rein to plan attacks behind the parapet of the family empire, Morrie wasn’t permitted to go over the top and join the rest of the battalion.

Morrie’s sister was equally protected. She looked after a different kind of housekeeping: cooking the family’s books. As far as the taxman was concerned, Eddie Bulsara ran an upstanding family business selling construction supplies. Eddie even got around town in a utility decorated with colourful graphics of various tools and a phone number that went straight to an answering service that vetted ‘real’ business instead of those enquiring about different tools of the trade.

Morrie was frustrated, feeling there was more he could offer the business than he was being asked. If he could find a way to prove himself capable of severing the apron strings that held him back, he’d be off and racing instead of stalling in the pits.

He was sick of being sheltered from the pointy end of the family affairs. Morrie’s involvement in planning executions of those his father deemed no longer deserved to draw breath wasn’t enough to get him a seat at the table. Anything believed to be risky or likely to get him implicated in the family’s shady business was strictly forbidden.

But readying a stage production behind a curtain before it went up had advantages. It meant he had the best seat in the house to make his move when the timing was right.

Morrie had a feeling that the time was right about now.

3

The day started with a certain air about it. It wasn’t quite desperation, although if someone were to analyse the air samples, they would have found a tiny smattering in and around the headspace of Tucker Brag.

Tucker had initially enjoyed the change of pace. There was the obvious benefit of having fewer people wanting to kill him. Still a decade away from qualifying for a mid-life crisis, Tucker made the call to shorten the odds of reaching the milestone. Overall, health was unlikely to be his undoing. Tucker’s six-foot-plus-some frame was in good shape. Outwardly, he looked a picture of health. Inwardly, he relied on a fast metabolism to maintain a fit exterior. Most opinionated fashion aficionados would label Tucker’s looks as ‘rugged’. The same social commentary would describe the stubble on his face as ‘designer’. Tucker hadn’t sought the description, but a lax attitude with a razor rarely saw him clean-shaven. His closely cropped brown hair was equally devoid of maintenance, however less obvious.

Being a New York cop, even after the social cleansing, many people called it after a mayor endeared himself to law-abiding citizens decreeing a zero-tolerance of violence on the streets. Despite the drop in violent crimes, the constant threat to those that wore the uniform remained the same.

Having chosen to make the sea change to Los Angeles and going the whole hog with a change of profession, Tucker only missed the constant paycheck. He was never used to a king’s ransom. Still, the sporadic wage he drew from being one of the many bounty hunters in a city with a criminal element that warranted the numbers, he was a new fish in an unfamiliar pond.

This afternoon, his new vocation brought him to the door of a dilapidated house east of Hollywood. His target wasn’t thought to be violent, but he’d been told there wasn’t a lot going on upstairs. To Tucker, that meant the same thing. Dumb people tended to do dumb things. And when those same people were cornered, they were highly unpredictable. He had seen people get shot under such circumstances. Where a rational thinker might stand down and go quietly, knowing their time in the free world was about to come to a grinding halt, those that didn’t consider their future beyond the immediate thirty seconds often paid the consequences.

If being part of NYPD’s finest had taught him anything, it was to be prepared. There would always remain an element of surprise, but the trick was to stack the deck in your favour. You could afford your opponent to play a jack so long as you still held the ace.

Tucker’s preparation took him down the side of the single-story dwelling that looked like a strong gust of wind would tear it down. Odd timber cuts were nailed haphazardly on the exterior like band-aids on an apprentice butcher’s hands. Paint that may have once been white, now a homeless shade of grey, was slapped over the top. The only thing that looked new was the door handle at the front entrance that Tucker had chosen, at least for now, to bypass. The new handle told him that a recent visitor to this house had likely forced his way in by a well-placed boot.

Apart from the traffic noise from the Los Feliz Boulevard, there wasn’t much else to prevent Tucker from picking up any noise inside the house. So far, he hadn’t heard a stereo, TV blaring, or even humming in the background. As he made his way further down a concrete path in the same degree of disrepair as the home it flanked, Tucker heard an unmistakable sound coming from inside that told him his bounty was not alone.

Hoople Palmer was wanted on four counts of theft of a motor vehicle. He hadn’t made his last court appearance, and Tucker was tasked with his apprehension. A matter deemed to be beneath the LAPD, with bigger fish to fry than collaring a tadpole like Hoople Palmer.

The element of surprise was always of great benefit. In this instance, Tucker had it in spades.

It sounded evident that Hoople was in the throes of an amorous moment. Judging by the breathless gasps the duo was emitting; it sounded like his fellow participant was having just as good a time as him.

Pity, Tucker thought, that this could be the last time Hoople got to throw a leg over for some time. Unless you counted the unwanted attention he could be expected to receive from his peers on the inside. From the 8x10 he’d received of his quarry, Tucker saw Hoople possessed the look that made him a target to those much bigger and uglier.

Tucker briefly thought about letting him get on with it before he came knocking, but that would mean he’d give up the highly sought value of surprise. He had the perfect get. Hoople would need to get dressed and therefore be ripe for the picking before he even thought about a chance to flee.

To further reduce the chances of Hoople bolting, Tucker opted for the door at the back. Less likely Hoople would flee naked down the middle of the street instead of chancing a break through Griffith Park that backed on the property.

Timing his knock, in between fervent moans from inside, Tucker rapped on the door and made his unwanted presence felt. Hoople Palmer, I have a warrant card issued by the city of LA for your arrest. I am here to escort you to the Los Angeles Police Station for arraignment.

Usually, upon announcing his intentions, Tucker is met with a barrage of abuse or his least preferred response: fleeing. In this case, he was met with silence—an impressive feat given what Hoople had been in the middle of.

Tucker continued, Did you hear and understand my instruction to bring you in?

Tucker strained to hear. He went so far as to place an ear against the door. Nothing.

In these cases where prohibitive actions prevented Tucker from carrying out his civic duty, he could apprehend his target forcibly. That also meant lawfully forcing entry into his target’s home.

Tucker carried a SIG-Sauer P226. He also carried a canister of pepper spray. Rounding out his tools of the trade were a pair of plastic cuffs and a Maglite the length of an old rotary phone and just as thick. Even in daylight hours, you never knew when a flashlight would come in handy while entering a dark passage or optioned to use as a baton; such was the Maglite’s durability.

So far on the job in LA, Tucker had needed to use all of his kit bar the Sig. Each time he knocked on a door or placed a hand on a shoulder, he hoped the encounter wouldn’t warrant the use of his last resort.

Tucker was about to put his steel-capped boot to good use on the back door when a splintering smash abruptly disturbed the peace. A combination of old timber and glass split and shattered at the front of the house. Hoople Palmer had just taken the baton of surprise right from the grasp of Tucker’s outstretched hand.

Tucker had only rounded the corner from the rear of the house to the side path when a flash of white streaked past.

Tucker’s meal ticket was hoofing it down the street wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-whiteys.

Tucker was fit but by no means a sprinter. He was more of a long-distance plodder that never gave up. Judging by the speed and determination of Hoople to flee in public in just his underwear, and his head start, Tucker knew he’d do well to see his mark again, let alone catch up with him.

Tucker set off after him. He knew he didn’t have the speed, but what kept him hopeful was the fact there weren’t likely to be many places Hoople would blend in with a crowd, even in downtown Hollywood where a man streaking down the main road wouldn’t necessarily turn too many heads.

As Tucker made the boulevard, he could still see Hoople running for the prize a couple hundred yards ahead. He quickly got into his stride and was confident that at least he wouldn’t lose sight of him unless he turned left at the end of the boulevard. That would make locating him exponentially more difficult. Surely darting right and fleeing into the wooded area towards Mulholland Drive would be the logical route to shake a tail. But then again, those who didn’t tend to think through their actions posed the biggest headache for their pursuers.

Hoople Palmer made a sharp left.

Tucker Brag let out an audible obscenity that, until now, he’d been saving his breath for the chase. Now he knew it would be down to cunning rather than stamina. And Hoople had already proven himself to be the veritable surprise packet. Tucker wondered whether Hoople had a plan or was adlibbing as many of his ilk did when backed into a corner.

Hoople Palmer was headed directly to the heart of LA’s bustling Farmer’s Market in just his underwear.

4

A pair of eyes looked upon Dwayne Pickering’s pallid complexion; the artificial lighting over a sustained period wasn’t a patch on the natural source of vitamin D. The eyes belonged to a head stuck in an 80s time warp. The burly figure looked like he’d lost a bet or skull-fucked a raccoon.

If Dwayne’s first chaperone was stuck in the mighty 80s, his partner was a 70s throwback. A handlebar moustache took pride of place on a face desperate to hang on to a semblance of youth. A hole in the left earlobe foretold outside of working hours, an earring would punctuate the look, along with the hair that was pressing against his collar. Given the nature of what Mr 70s was tasked to do, it looked like he had pushed his luck and the length of his hair as far as he dared.

The Raccoon was the first to speak. Packed your things, Pickering? This was met by a sly chuckle from Mr 70s.

Dwayne had left behind his earthly possessions long ago. He suspected this wasn’t the first time these two had played a double act together. The line had a forced delivery about it.

Dwayne knew the drill. He stepped backward and allowed a set of cuffs to be secured. His two visitors then felt at ease entering the confines of what Dwayne had called home for as long as he could remember. The shackles around his waist and legs were next. Then it was the two-step shuffle from hereon.

We’re going to miss you, Pickering. Kind of a comfort to know you were on our rounds. The Raccoon was enjoying this. You’ve got this big cuddly teddy bear vibe about you I’m gonna miss. It makes me wanna rip your fucking head off and pull out the stuffing.

Dwayne had suffered far worse than the empty taunts of those that were all talk. Not that he wanted Raccoon to back it up with actions. He knew he wouldn’t. Not today. Nobody would dare lay a finger on him ever again. He knew he had to be presentable for where he was ending up. It still didn’t bear antagonising these two. There was no point. The fire in his belly had been extinguished long ago.

The labyrinthine corridors he was being led down were new to Dwayne. Of course, this was a path traversed only once. This was a unique route. So unique, he was able to spot a clock. The countdown had ticked down to twenty-six minutes. It felt like he’d be early. Not the type of event you wanted to be punctual.

Dwayne and his posse came to an abrupt halt outside a door that didn’t look like either of his friends had a key. The door buzzed as if the sight of them opened the door by magic. Raccoon shouldered the door open and waited for Dwayne and Mr 70s to step back in line. The door closed on heavy hinges; a loud clasping sound was evidence it was secured behind them.

Whereas before, they’d been in corridors wide enough for a duplicate arrangement traveling in the opposite direction, now the walls were touching each of his two captive flankers. A single door with a cube-shaped window cut into its frame was at the end of the corridor.

Dwayne felt last night’s dinner start to rumble. His gut was having a tough time keeping its inhabitants happy. They wanted to get out. Dwayne knew how his insides felt. His whole being felt the same. If the remains of the fried chicken, pizza, and ice-cream wanted to get out, who was he to stop it? Dignity was now a thing of the past. Even so, Dwayne tried to get his innards under some sort of control. They could always have the evacuation party without him. By then, his bowels would let loose their temporary guests with full effect.

The door opened. Out came an officious type, complete with a clipboard in hand. A pair of glasses sat on a beak-like nose. He was dressed in a white coat with large pockets on either side. Without a word, he stepped aside. This must have been the cue for Raccoon and 70s to enter the room as they imperceptibly seemed to glide Dwayne through the door.

Dwayne’s vision was assaulted by the garish green of the compact room. It looked like someone had thrown up on the walls, and the powers-that-be had decided they liked the look. The up-chucker hadn’t had the self-control Dwayne possessed.

Two large windows were on one wall, and a smaller window on another. The large windows had curtains drawn. The other window was devoid of coverings. Dwayne knew what the windows were for, just like he knew the purpose of the odd-shaped-looking bed positioned in the centre of the room.

Waiting inside the room was another sterile-looking man of officialdom. Instead of holding a clipboard, he had a stethoscope around his neck.

Dwayne had entered the final phase of his nightmare journey. It felt like eons ago when he had been detained and told all manner of tall stories of what he had purportedly done. He hadn’t believed them at first. But over time, and with so many people insisting that he atone for his sins, he had eventually come to the realisation that countless others had to be right. It was only his lone voice against a battery of loud hailers contradicting his self-belief. Who was he to rail against a system so empowered?

Dwayne felt his feet drag across the linoleum. Gone was the shuffle of limbs. With his head forlornly bowed and shoulders slumped, Dwayne Pickering entered the execution chamber.

5

Little Morrie Bulsara had been an intricate part of the planning for the heist. He saw this as his chance to make a name for himself, stand up and be counted on his own two feet. He had finally found an opportunity to not only run with the boys, but to be the Man.

If thuggery weren’t an occupation, Dax and Stevo would be lining up at the nearest soup kitchen. The two hired guns provided the brawn behind the brains of Eddie Bulsara’s burgeoning criminal enterprise.

Morrie regarded the duo as a couple of attack dogs that, while regularly fed, would happily do the bidding of their master. But if the leash were loosened, would attempt to bite the hand that fed them. Both men were descendants of white trash. Morrie reckoned that if it weren’t a trailer they lived in, it would be no less mobile. Dax’s aversion to cleanliness—an objectionable odour was never too far away. Morrie could picture him emerging from a dumpster.

Knowing how much preparation had gone into today’s endeavours, Morrie decided to exploit his father’s crew with the ultimate weapon he had at his disposal: greed.

When he came to tell Dax and Stevo they were a man down for today’s fun and games and he would be filling the breach, the immediate reaction from both was of mild disbelief. They had scoped the Wells Fargo Bank on Vine Street and devised an action plan to relieve the bank of an expected payday of upwards of a million dollars. Dax was the first to say what both immediately thought. Where’s your old man sit with this? He’s always made it very clear you’re a behind-the-scenes player.

Morrie was ready with a quick rehearsed reply. It’s his instruction. He had to divert Larry to the Gonzales house at the last minute. You know the trouble we’ve been having with those spicks. As soon as the call came in they were trying to defer for another week; the old man flipped and told Laz to get things squared away this instant. I was there when he made the call. I could tell he was about to rethink today’s plans. I jumped in and said I’d take the wheel. After all, that’s all Laz was gonna do, right? I can drive. It doesn’t take a genius to wait in the car keeping an eye.

The two weren’t convinced. Stevo added, Then you won’t mind if I call him and get the green light from the horse’s mouth.

Be my guest.

Dax and Stevo were in a bind, debating whether to question their boss’s son’s integrity.

Morrie, seeing he had them, pressed home his advantage. We gotta move. Our window is up soon. You wanna miss it for another week? That’s on you to tell him. Don’t expect me to sugarcoat an excuse for you both on account of doubting his call.

Morrie knew this had been the decisive blow. There was a narrow window they needed to make for a smooth run inside the bank. It was also true Larry had been sent to the Gonzales house. Morrie had been the one to call him.

Let’s get going, said Dax. Stevo nodded in agreement as he fired up the engine of a grubby brown Ford Crown Vic. An ideal vehicle when you want to blend in. They had the option of the Ferrari in the Bulsara four-car garage, but who stakes a claim at anonymity in a fire engine red elite sports car? Besides, the legroom was prohibitive, not to mention for the loot they expected to be laden with. Although given Morrie’s limited need for space, it would have been doable for his level of comfort.

The window the trio was aiming for was when the security guard took a bathroom break. They knew this because they had bought him off. Easy to get to a man working for minimum wage with the assurance of a handsome payday and even easier to ensure complicity when coupling your promise of killing his family if he didn’t comply. It was another reason why Dax and Stevo suspected Morrie to be on the level. Having someone inside bought and paid for could have limitations if stretched over time. And one week was a long time in the game, relying on an innocent to still come through with the goods. In these cases, you needed to leap, not stand around on the high board, contemplating whether to jump.

The traffic on the Hollywood Freeway was sparse for a pleasant change. They planned for gridlock moments but had flown through to the point where they were early. Too early to be waiting around outside a bank and not feel conspicuous, despite their average wheels.

Stevo made the call to whip into the In-N-Out Burger on Sunset. They had time up their sleeves, which meant a quick feed was in order. It would also give them a chance to reaffirm they were all on the same page, given the last-minute change in personnel.

Dax placed the order as the other two took a booth by a greasy window. Sitting opposite Morrie, Stevo asked him, You know about the guard, right?

Who do you think whose idea it was?

Before Stevo could quiz him further, Dax arrived with the fast food that didn’t contradict the speed at which it came. Three value meals, two the size a ravished linebacker would have trouble devouring. The other looked like a kid’s meal against the grownup fare. Morrie hadn’t been asked what he wanted. It was assumed his appetite would match his small frame. Even though Morrie hadn’t been hungry and glad of the size of his meal, it nevertheless riled him that this was his overall perception. Little Morrie with the tiny appetite, Little Morrie could get fitted out in the boy’s section of department stores. And so the list went on.

While Dax and Stevo tucked into their Double-Double burgers, Morrie struggled with each bite of his regular hamburger. Compared with Morrie’s kiddy-sized beaker, the two drinks with the supersized version of the menu looked like buckets for milking a cow.

Despite his lack of appetite, there was no way Morrie would dare leave even the tiniest morsel. The last thing he wanted was to give his luncheon companions the belief he couldn’t stomach his small serving. At least, he thought, after today, their opinion of him would change. Not only them but his father as well. To be finally recognised as equal amongst those not sharing his surname.

The disparity in meal sizes still meant the trio finished simultaneously. Morrie glanced at his watch and saw they still had time on their hands. He hoped the two seated opposite him were not about to call for dessert.

Three and a half minutes, right? Morrie asked, hoping to divert attention from possibly still hungry stomachs.

Less than three would be better, replied Stevo. Good to keep a buffer up your sleeve. You never know where you might need it, either inside or on the road.

Even better if we didn’t have this conversation. You drive. We make the time, however long that is, said Dax, fixing Morrie with a twenty-yard stare. He made it clear he wasn’t convinced Morrie was suitable for the job, even in a support capacity.

Okay then, Stevo said as he got up from the table, leaving Dax’s comment hanging in the air. As Morrie got up and turned to go to the bathroom, he could still feel Dax’s hardened gaze shooting daggers into his back.

Go easy on him, man. Last thing you want is him going back to the old man and giving a less than commendable report card, Stevo implored. We need to have each other’s back.

Dax countered, There’s something amiss about all this.

You wanna call Larry?

I did, Dax said, "when