Working Stiff
Page 20And hers would not.
There was absolutely no point in saying all that, she realized. Nothing was going to change her fate.
So Bryn smiled and said, “It’s okay. What do we do now?”
“We get this place running,” Joe said. He seemed relieved that she’d accepted his reassurances. “So let’s get started.”
Going through the files was empty work, but at least it passed the time, and that was all Bryn was doing now … passing time.
Mr. Kanakareides—Spiro—showed up two hours later. She knew only because she was looking out the window, sipping her coffee; he never made it to the building. Joe Fideli had a car there, and two plainclothes security men, and Spiro was intercepted and put in and driven off without a single ripple of alarm. That was how easy it was to end someone’s life, she realized. All it took was being polite and efficient in public, until you didn’t have to be polite anymore.
The phone rang.
Bryn looked at it with dread and misery, and picked up the receiver. “Fairview Mortuary,” she said. “Bryn Davis speaking.” She fully expected it to be another of the desperate revived, and it made her sick to her soul—if she still had one—to think that she had to lure these people into the trap. But she had no choice, and really, they had no choice. Fate. It was a bitch.
But this time, the call wasn’t from one of those people. There was a silence, and then a strangely modulated voice said, “Now I know your name. Good. I’ll be seeing you, Bryn Davis.”
The call ended. Bryn stared down at the phone, frowning and a little creeped out. It could have been a prank call, but it felt … different.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked up to find Joe standing in the doorway, watching her. Full of concern, just like those men had been down in the parking lot, calming down poor Mr. Kanakareides.
“I had a call,” she said. “Caller ID was blocked.”
“Do you think it was one of our revived friends?”
“It didn’t seem like it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “And now he knows who I am.”
Joe hesitated for a second before he said, “Well, that was bound to happen. And it’s what we want.”
“Maybe what you want!”
“Bryn, we may still have a shot at luring him in. You can still make the case that you went to the meeting to fulfill Fairview’s obligations, since you took over the business. You can convince him that you know everything, and you’re willing to deal with him. It can happen.”
“You’re kidding, right? You shot at him! I’d think that would cancel any deals.”
“Nah, people in this line of work expect to get some return fire when they shoot up a car. So you have a bodyguard. He’d expect that, too. I’ll bet Fairview never met him alone. Fast Freddy was probably his muscle.”
She thought it over, because it did sound logical, and somewhere inside, she was still struggling for hope, any hope. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Wait,” he said. “He’ll call back, or he’ll contact you some other way. Stick to the story. Make sure he believes that you want to deal. He hasn’t got too many moves right now, if he wants ready cash; this guy is too cautious to take it to the street. Fairview Mortuary is a known quantity.”
“He’ll recognize that your goons are in the parking lot!”
“They’re contractors, not Pharmadene employees. Even if he’s watching and makes their faces, he can’t trace them back. We’re good.” He gave her a warm smile. “Relax, Bryn. I’m not taking any chances with your safety. I promise.”
That, Bryn reflected, made her feel both better and worse, because she really didn’t want to like Joe Fideli any more than she already did. But as the day went on, as the two of them found reasons to talk, she couldn’t help it. He was just … likable.
The last call came in as she was gathering up her things to leave, and Mr. French let out a mournful whine as he stood at the door. “I know,” she said. “We’re going, I promise. Hang in there.” She picked up the phone. “Fairview Mortuary, Bryn Davis speaking. Can I help you?”
“Maybe.” It was the modulated voice again. “You surprised me last night. I was expecting my usual contact.”
Bryn put down her purse and sank into a chair. Mr. French came over and flopped down onto the carpet beside her, looking depressed but resigned. She hardly noticed when he laid his warm, heavy head over her feet. “Well,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even, “you have to admit, I think you surprised me a little more, what with the gunfire and all. I was just keeping my uncle’s appointment.”
“Yes. And I inherited his property.”
“Let’s pretend I believe you. How did you know where to meet me?”
“Honestly? I didn’t. My uncle’s car had a nav system. I thought it was probably the warehouse, but it was a guess. He didn’t leave me your contact information.”
“He didn’t have it.”
Bryn waited, but he didn’t say anything more. Still, he hadn’t hung up on her. That was something. “So,” she said. “You were supplying him with … a certain drug. And I’m going to need new stock, obviously. Whatever my uncle had on hand burned up with him, and I’ve got clients. Desperate ones. I need something to sell.”
“I don’t trust you,” he said.
“My clients don’t have a lot of time to wait around for us to develop a relationship.”
“That’s too bad for them. My advice is to recruit new clients. This is going to take some time, and you’re going to show me some goodwill to start or this conversation ends now.”
Bryn’s office door opened, and Joe Fideli stepped in, moving in his usual ninja stealth mode. She pointed at the phone, and he nodded. Luckily, Mr. French had already gotten used to Joe; he raised his head and stared at him, but didn’t bark or even growl. “What kind of goodwill?” she asked.
“You’re going to do a wire transfer of a hundred thousand dollars into an account that I will name in the next call, and you’re going to do it without bargaining.”
“Really,” she said flatly. “What do you take me for, an idiot? You think I’ll just hand over that kind of money for nothing?”
“Not for nothing,” he said. “You’ll hand it over so I don’t put a bullet in your head the next time you go home to that crappy apartment, Bryn, or the next time you go out walking that ugly dog of yours—and I’ll kill the dog for free. A hundred thousand buys you a week for me to look you over and decide whether or not I want to deal. No negotiations. I know Fairview’s coffers are deep.”
Click. She waited, but he was gone.
Bryn hung up the phone and took a deep breath, feeling strangely violated—not so much that he knew so much about her, but that he’d mentioned her dog. Dogs are off-limits. “He threatened to shoot me,” she said to Joe. “And my dog.”
“A hundred thousand dollars. I suppose it’s an introduction fee. Black-market deals in Iraq used to be like that—you pay to play.”
“And you know about black-market deals in Iraq how, exactly?”
She smiled grimly. “I was in supply, on the ground, in a war zone. How do you think I know? We couldn’t always get what we needed when we needed it. My job was to get it, period.”
“You’re just full of surprises, kid. Okay, so you pay the hundred thousand, and …?”
“And maybe he’ll come back for more. Or maybe he’ll just shoot me and walk away.”
“Well,” Joe said, “the good news is that if he does, you’ll just ruin a good outfit.”
He was, Bryn thought, always looking for the bright side.
The next morning, she got a modulated voice on the phone, reciting a string of numbers, which she took down and read back. There was no conversation, and no additional threats, by which she understood he wasn’t screwing around. She gave the info to Joe, and he made the transfer using some method she didn’t know about, and didn’t want to know.
She got another call that simply said, “You’re not dead yet.”
Which almost made her laugh, because, hey, she really was.
It took exactly the amount of time Joe had said for the construction work to finish, and during that time, she got no more calls, except from two more of Fairview’s extortion victims; those were quietly spirited away by Pharmadene, but away from Fairview’s premises.
The grand reopening arrived, mostly thanks to Lucy’s hard work; Bryn honestly didn’t know what she would have done without her. Lucy knew absolutely everything about everything, including things Bryn had never imagined would have to be done. Plus, she was a complete sweetheart with inspectors, all of whom went away charmed and delighted with Fairview’s new improved looks.
Bryn had settled into a little bit of a routine—wake up, shower, breakfast, pat Mr. French on the head, drive her new car to Fairview, and get her coffee there. Joe Fideli had morphed into a totally acceptable funeral director, which did not surprise her much; in putting on the dark suit and tie, he’d also put on an air of gravity and seriousness. The only time he dropped it was when they were alone in her office, and even then, he used his little black pyramid device to give them a few moments’ privacy.
“Done,” he said on the morning of the grand reopening, as he emptied the contents of a syringe into her arm. She’d gotten used to choosing blouses that rolled up easily, determined not to have to go half-naked before him, and particularly McCallister, ever again. Fideli disposed of the syringe in a red biohazard sharps container, which he put in a second red biohazard bag. She watched this process, frowning, as she slipped her jacket back on. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">