résumés—pondering each one much longer than usual. He needed to fill the open slot Eric James left when he got stabbed in the shoulder and his wife insisted he find safer work. But it was difficult to do any meaningful evaluation when he couldn’t meet the applicants face-to-face. He had to refer the candidates who had promise to Marilyn. She interviewed them, then called him to report.
He’d also been dealing with his accountant, at long last getting caught up on his books, something he rarely took the time to do when living his normal life. He preferred to be on the phone or answering email queries, booking jobs for himself and the six bodyguards he employed. Business had never been better, which was part of the reason he was dying to get back to it. There were times he felt so much like a regular person, like a regular businessman, he could almost forget the past.
Almost but not quite. There were some incidents he could never forget and people who wouldn’t let him forget others.
“You could take up mountain biking,” she suggested. “My two sons love it.”
“That’s outdoors, too.”
“But you don’t do it standing in a river. And if you ride hard enough, you stay warm. They bike year-round. We live in California, after all.”
He moved the check he’d just signed to the bottom of the stack. “I won’t be vacationing long enough to take up a new sport.”
She looked across the park toward the maple and dogwood trees that lined one side. Those trees blocked the sight of the Victorian where he was staying, but Marilyn had no idea. He wasn’t telling anyone where he slept at night—for their safety as well as his.
Not that he’d actually spent the night at Little Mary’s... And he wouldn’t. Eve had asked him to leave.
“How do you know?” Marilyn asked.
Finished with the payroll, he tapped the edges of the checks on the table to even the stack. “What do you mean?”
“How do you know how long you’ll be here? You weren’t planning to be gone in the first place, just up and left in the middle of the night. Yet we’re both here in this park. Something must be wrong. Are you sure you’ll be able to fix it?”
Maybe not. He’d been fighting the same battle for years; he’d thought things had finally settled down—until he heard otherwise from an old friend. In a different time, a different place, he would’ve closed down his business, sold his house and moved. Anything less was gambling with his life.
But he wasn’t about to sacrifice everything he’d created now that he’d hit his stride. At thirty-six, he was getting too old to be constantly starting over. Not only that, but he was afraid of what another uprooting would do to him. Afraid he’d no longer have the determination or the energy to keep plowing forward.
No way could he allow the gang he’d joined in prison to cost him the ground he’d already gained. He just had to lie low for a while, make sure The Crew never found him. With luck, he’d stay one step ahead, and they’d never get the revenge they were after.
“I’m hoping for the best,” he said.
She sent him a “give me a break” look, what he guessed her adult sons saw when they tried to put one over on her. “I wish that assured me,” she said, but then concern pushed aside the skepticism. “I know you won’t tell me what’s going on, but I’m getting the impression you’re really in a mess this time.”
He’d been in a mess since long before he knew her. It’d started when he’d been a lost and confused teenager and then spiraled out of control. But the men who wanted him dead also had a business to run—several businesses. Prostitution. Gun and drug smuggling. Money laundering. Theft. Whatever would make them a buck. Although killing him would give the banger who did it ultimate bragging rights, chasing him around didn’t net The Crew any money. If he continued to elude them, they’d eventually quit, wouldn’t they?
It was possible. But the opposite was more likely. The longer he lived, the more of a legend he became, and that only increased their desire to put him in a body bag. As far as they were concerned, he and his best friend, Virgil Skinner, had done the unpardonable when they defected and then assisted the authorities—and that demanded retribution. The member who accomplished it would be a hero, at least in their small, sordid world.
“Depends,” he said. “Has anyone come by the office, asking for me? Any strange calls?”
“There are always strange calls,” she said. “You own a personal security firm. Some of our clients are delusional as well as paranoid.”
“So nothing out of the ordinary.”
She studied him for several seconds. “It would help if I understood what you were dealing with. Maybe then I could figure out what to look for.”
“You know I can’t tell you. Some people are after me. That’s all.”
“There’ve been no red flags on my end.”
He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and let it go. He’d stay away from his usual haunts for another week, see if there was any sign of his former “brothers.” If all remained quiet, he’d head home. Mona Livingston, the friend who’d warned him that several members of The Crew claimed to have new information on his whereabouts, was still using drugs, so he wasn’t sure her information was all that reliable. She could’ve imagined what she’d heard. Or maybe it was nothing but a bunch of street soldiers trying to impress everyone else by vowing they were going to bring him down. There was always that chance, since putting a bullet in him or Virgil, who now lived on the east coast with his wife and kids, would make them the envy of all they admired.
“So how’d it go with Frick?” he asked.
“That’s Jason, right? For the job? Physically, he’s perfect. He’s an absolute Goliath! But mentally?” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “He seems a little trigger-happy to me. I’d worry about him shooting someone without a legitimate reason.”
Rex had sensed that same reckless element when they’d chatted briefly on the phone, but he’d wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t easy to come by someone who was six-six and built like a Mack truck. “What about the others? Anyone else a good fit?”
“Peter Viselli seems like he has the right temperament.”
He grimaced. “Peter’s what...five-eleven?”
“Yes, but that’s just a couple of inches shorter than you. You also weigh less than every other man in our company—and yet no one’s better at security than you are.”
Size wasn’t a man’s only weapon. Rex found speed, agility, experience and intelligence to be more important. But appearance counted, too. Size gave All About Security, Inc., the intimidation factor, and enough of an intimidation factor could head off problems before they started. Being surrounded by a couple of muscle-bound giants also helped foster client confidence.
Still...
“I don’t want any loose cannons on my team.” Besides the moral implications of having someone use a firearm without sufficient provocation, there were liability issues. Rex preferred to avoid both. “Set up a second interview with Peter for when I get back next week—say, Friday?”
“You
