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Peter
With athwump, a huge goddamn file lands on my desk. At first I’m kind of pissed. I was right in the middle of crunching some numbers.
I look up to yell at whatever one of my inept workers ambushed me like that. Then I realize it’s Marshall, my VP of Security.
That’s a different story. I actually respect this guy. Plus, if there’s one person in this company that I think is probably capable of taking me, it’s Marshall. Guy was part of the 101stin Afghanistan before he got out of the military and got into business. You can see from the way he holds himself, though, that he may have left the Army, but the Army never left him.
“What do I have here?” I ask Marshall, leaning back in my plush leather office chair.
“It’s the dossier I put together on Kleeberger.”
“That was quick.”
“What am I, new to this or something?” He doesn’t smile.
Sometimes I wonder if Marshall was really in the 101st, or if that’s a cover for the spy work he was really doing. The guy’s got contacts no one else in the city could access. He’s quick. Smart. Professional.
It’s a real fucking pleasure to work with people like him. If only therewere ‘people’ like him. Marshall’s really one of a kind.
Which is why I invite him to sit and discuss the dossier with me, rather than leave me to review myself.
“Sit,” I say. He unbuttons his coat and sits in a chair opposite my desk. It’s an expensive as shit piece of furniture. Designed for maximum comfort. Marshall sits bolt upright in it, though.
“Give me the highlights,” I say.
Completely from memory, Marshall breaks down a bunch of the key details that are in the dossier. He rattles off names and dates like they were things that happened in his own life, not some sleazy stranger’s.
“One interesting thing is the dancers at the club,” Marshall eventually says as he catches me up to the present day.
“I’ve been to the club,” I say. “There’s a lot of interesting things about them.”
“Not quite what I mean.”
“I know. I was trying to loosen you up a little.”
“Oh.” He stares flatly at me.
“So?” I ask with a sigh, opening the dossier and paging through it. “What’s interesting about the dancers at the club, other than the obvious?”
“They rotate in and out of there like the place had a revolving door instead of a stripper pole.”
“I kind of imagine that’s par for the course at a place like that, isn’t it?” I ask, still looking through the documents and pictures in front of me. “I’d think stripping is hardly a career where people work at the same location until they’re old enough to retire and get a gold watch.”
“No, you’re right about that,” Marshall says. “Except there seems to be one lady there in particular who’s holding out at least long enough for a promotion or some shit.”
One lady.I have a terrible feeling I know what he’s going to say before he even says it. Still, I need to know.
“And who’s that?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Woman by the name of Becky Brash. Turn the next page. There’s a picture.”
Shit.I do turn the page, more to keep up appearances in front of Marshall than anything else.
And there’s a picture of Becky. She’s in one of her stripper outfits, leaving little to the imagination. Not that I have to imagine. I’ve now seen it all a couple of times. The memory of it starts to arouse me. I’m glad I’m behind my desk.
“Well,” I say, forcing myself to meet Marshall’s gaze, “she’s pretty hot. I imagine she does well for herself. Probably brings back a lot of regulars, right? So that would be good for Max. I can see why she’d stay and why he wants her around.”
“Yeah,” Marshall says with a hint of sarcasm, “he wants her around, alright. But less around the club and more around him. Keep looking.”
