ISBN 1-59201-015-6
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
http://www.booksunbound.com
Publication June, 2003
Cover Art by D. Lee
Quicksand
Len Harris
Copyright 2003
All Rights Reserved
Chapter 1
The moment I first laid eyes on
him, I didn't like him. He was Peter Lorre's Joel Cairo to the life, straight
out of the pages of the
Maltese Falcon.
The same swish of the hips, the same lispy voice, even the same swirl of
perfume preceding him as he minced into the office. He wore a light blue alpaca
jacket, a brilliant purple shirt, white slacks that clung to his rear as if
reluctant to end a wonderful experience, and gold thronged sandals. Disney's
Fantasia
, in full color.
"Your secretary was not in the
outer office, so I came straight in." The lisp caused a small plume of spittle
to accompany the sibilants. He flicked the visitor's chair with a lace-trimmed
handkerchief before lowering himself into it. "Do you always leave your office
unattended?"
"She must have popped out to
get some stamps." I wasn't going to admit she hadn't been in the office for the
past six months, all because I'd neglected to pay her a salary. We had rendered
each other certain services, which I considered as
quid pro quo
. She didn't.
"And did the cleaner also pop
out for stamps?" His eyes swiveled around the office, disdainfully.
Enough already! Was he a
potential client, or the roving critic for
Office Beautiful
? I should have tossed him out on his tightly stretched rear, but I remembered
my famished bank account. I forced a smile.
"Very observant of you. I've
been so busy these days, I hadn't noticed the state of the office. I must draw
my secretary's attention to it. However, down to business. How may I help you?"
Whatever it was he wanted from
me would cost him extra. My accounting method was very personal. The amount I
billed was based on my attitude toward the client. In this instance, it would
be the high end. Besides, the overage could go towards paying for a cleaning
service. I'm sure he wouldn't object, since it was he who brought up the
subject of office hygiene, or the lack of it.
"Very simple. Don't take on the
case."
"Excuse me?" Who was this clown?
"I said, don't take on the
case." He wasn't smiling.
"Sure, friend." This was going
to be one for my memoirs. "It just so happens I'm overloaded with hundreds of
cases at the moment. I'll be more than happy to drop one or two. You do
understand, though, before I can agree, d'you mind answering a few questions?"
"And they are?"
"Which case are we, or rather
you, talking about? And, why shouldn't I take it on? And, by the way, who the
hell are you?" These could be considered fair questions, under the
circumstances.
He moved his seat fractionally
forward, placing his hands on top of my desk. His perfumed aura now embraced
both of us. I reckoned it would take at least two hot showers to make me smell
like my normal male self again.
"My name is not important. What
matters is that you turn down this case."
"Just why should I do that? I
make my living, such as it is, by taking cases, not dropping them."
My tone was still polite,
though I could feel my temperature rising. This jerk waltzes into my office
without a by-your-leave. Then, he starts giving me orders. All this without so
far showing me a dollar of his money.
"Here is one good reason," he
hissed.
Suddenly there was a knife in
his hand, its blade as slim as a knitting needle, threateningly wicked, a
stiletto that appeared from nowhere. He was on his feet now, the point of his
dagger a scant inch from my nose. For a moment it looked as though he was about
to give me rhinoplasty, the type of surgery job performed on Jack Nicholson in
Chinatown
.
My assessment of him
immediately underwent a change. He was not the fatuous idiot his appearance
suggested. His slick handling of that knife told me I'd best treat whomever he
was with caution. Though I'd never majored in caution, if I needed any
incentive, it was the professional way he held the weapon. It told me he had a
lot of practice. He couldn't have spent all his time fussing over his wardrobe.
Placation was in order.
"You put it very clearly." I
tried to keep the smile glued to my face, but I couldn't. It kept slipping off.
My try at appeasement didn't
produce the result I'd hoped. The stiletto point still hovered near my nasal
passages. This was worrisome. I had become quite attached to my nose, and it to
me. I didn't want anything to part us.
"Did I? Was I perfectly clear?
Are you sure you understand?" His eyes grew slitted. "I mean, you sound as
though there may be something you have doubts about. You'd better speak up now,
or forever hold your tongue. If you can't grab your tongue, I can make it easy
and hand it to you."
He sniggered, an effeminate
little giggle, which prompted a stream of sweat to start coursing down my
spine. The dagger point moved slightly, descending from my nose to my mouth.
"No, no, I understand
perfectly," I hastily assured him. "I promise, I won't take the case. However,
it might be nice, don't you think, if you specified which one we're talking
about?"
"You know the one." He was
growing more irritated. I guessed it would be wiser to stop prodding him.
I kept moving my head back, so
my threatened bodily parts gained a little distance from that menacing sliver
of steel. At the same time, my hand inched towards the desk drawer containing
my .38, the 2-1/2 inch barrel Smith and Wesson. It could be a deadly piece.
Though useless at hitting a target more than a few feet away, it was very
efficient at close range. He was well within that range, but too close for
comfort, too close to allow me to open the drawer and start firing before he
could start surgery on my face.
He stepped back from the desk,
the knife disappearing up his sleeve, without leaving a wrinkle. So that's
where he kept it! I wondered who his tailor was? Mine was the bargain basement
of the local department store.
"I'm glad we had this little
talk. Now we can part as friends. Friends never go back on their word." He
stepped towards the door, facing me all the way. "It could mean the end of the
friendship, and bring all sorts of unfortunate consequences."
He slipped through the door,
closing it quietly behind him, leaving me wondering whether I had been dreaming
the entire incident. The cloud of perfume lingering in my nasal passages told
me I hadn't.
Taking the .38 from the drawer,
I moved quickly through the outer office and into the hall. My place of
business was on the top floor. The building was a holdover from the 20s. Long,
echoing corridors, overstuffed with offices like mine, surrounded the
antiquated elevator, with iron stairs running around the shaft. The corridor
outside the office was empty of anyone or anything but my late visitor's
perfume, a miasmic presence. There were one or two people on the stairs, but
none as colorfully resplendent as my lately departed peacock. The elevator was
ascending from the ground level, so he couldn't have used that. I couldn't see
how he'd pulled off his vanishing trick.
I stood there for awhile,
pondering. Had I hallucinated the whole episode? Oh no, that stiletto was real.
The prickle in my nose told me so.
My reverie was interrupted by
the elevator reaching my floor, ejecting a large, rotund man. Grabbing me by
the elbow, he pushed me back into my office, and without a "how are you?",
plunked himself down in the same chair where so recently the subject of my
reverie had been seated.
"Sam," Bert Entwhistle said, "I
have a little job for you!"
"Oh? You're actually delegating
a case?"
If I sounded skeptical, I had
good reason. I knew the jolly fat man, very well. Bert was not famed for
philanthropy. If he was handing anything to me, there had to be a catch in it,
possibly a fishhook concealed in his palm.
For ten years I'd worked for
him in his private detective agency, until I decided I could do better on my
own than tussle with him over every miserable dollar he grudgingly paid me.
These days I tussled with clients to extract the miserable few dollars they
also grudgingly paid me. Hardly progress. Every now and then, when his workload
became heavier than he was, he doled out a case to me, as a sub-contractor. An
intriguing character. Once, in a burst of alcoholic confidentiality, he
purported to have been a member of the British MI5, or some other spook agency,
though it was difficult to imagine how that mass of perambulating cholesterol
fit the picture of master spy.
Bert wrinkled his nose, and
sniffed audibly. "Your last client was either queen of the fairies, or had just
been baptized in a vat of perfume." Over 40 years in the States, and he still
sounded broad Cockney. You could take Bert Entwhistle out of the Old Kent Road,
but you couldn't take the Old Kent Road out of Bert Entwhistle.
For a moment I thought of
recounting my experience with my last visitor. Before I could start, Bert
beamed a jocund smile, full of good fellowship, the likes of which I had
learned, through bitter experience masked an ulterior motive. It usually boded
he was about to pull a fast one on the beneficiary of that smile.
"I have a great job for you,
Sam lad. Pays well, almost nothing to do. It's a piece o' cake."
"Sure. If it's a piece of cake,
why not do it yourself? That's how you usually allocate cases, the best for
Bert, and throw the rubbish to your minions. Me!"
"Two reasons, me old son."
"And they are?"
"Number one. Because I want you
to do it."
"And the second?"
"Because I will pay you to do
it. And there is a third."
"Oh?"
"Because if I did it myself,
you wouldn't be able to repay the cash you've cajoled me out of over the years,
on the pretense of it being a loan."
He had me there.
"OK. What's this 'piece of
cake' project you want to land me with?"
"Sam, Sam, why is it you always
think the worst of me?" he whined, radiating hurt.
"For the simple reason that the
worst always falls short of the actual villainy you perpetrate. So, what are
the details of this 'piece of cake,' and how much will it pay? Providing the
bank doesn't get me arrested when I try to cash your check."
"Nothing more than a messenger
job." Bert said, airily, giving the impression it really wasn't even important
enough to be classed as an assignment.
"I deliver a package? That's
it?"
"Yes, except that you don't
actually deliver the package. You escort the person delivering the package."
"What's in this package?"
"Nothing, really. Just some
papers."
"And how much does this
delivery pay?"
"Five hundred. Not bad for an
hour or two's work. Couldn't even call it work."
Five hundred for me meant he
must be making at least a thousand on his end. What sort of delivery was worth
that much? Was this the case my recently departed and unlamented visitor had
warned me against accepting? Was Bert omitting to tell me something that could
make his 'piece of cake' thoroughly indigestible? Knowing my former employer as
I did, I wouldn't put anything past him.
I made up my mind to play
along. We had a negotiating ritual, Bert and I, when it came to payments. Lots
of ducking and weaving, protestations of poverty, talk of ruin, bankruptcy and
suicide. The first move usually came from me.
"I think there will be more
than a few hours here...." I said. "I'll bet it could turn out to be more than
a couple of days to make the delivery. You know, the recipient is not at home,
not at the office, not even in town, and I'll have to go looking all over the
place for him."
"He'll be there. I assure you,
the whole thing will be over in a few hours. It will be almost criminal to take
$500 for such a piddling little chore."
I tried for the high ground.
"It's damned nice of you, Bert, handing me this errand. I really appreciate it,
but I'm afraid I'm currently involved in a big case, taking all my time and
worth lots of dough. So you see, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to pass on this
one."
"Hey, who d'you think you're
kidding?" Bert laced his fingers across his corpulent stomach. "We both know
you're hurting for gelt. You may not be able to retire for life on five big
ones, but at least you'll be able to retire your bar bill, not to mention
you'll be doing me a long overdue favor."
"No, I truly am sorry, Bert,
but I am so tied up with an overload of clients, I couldn't take the time to
help you out on this one."
Bert let out a long sigh, like
air escaping from a whoopee cushion.
"All right, you extortionist.
I'll make it seven fifty, but that'll have to include expenses."
"Expenses? How far do I have to
go to make this delivery?"
"Just a hop, skip and a jump, I
told you. The whole thing shouldn't take more than an hour or two at the most.
I'll even pay you in cash, making it tax-free. What's more, it'll be dough in
advance."
Despite taking into account
Bert's habit of forgetting to mention threats of danger connected with an
assignment, it sounded harmless enough. The money was tempting, I was normally
lucky if I managed to squeeze out $300 a day from a client, and even then,
there was the good possibility the check would bounce.
"Right, then. But this is just
a provisional 'I'll do it' until I've heard all the details."
"Simple," said Bert, smiling
that Cheshire Cat smile of his again. "Be at Hoularn's Bar this evening at 6:00
p.m." I knew the place well. It was where some of my finest unpaid tabs were
deposited. "There'll be a geezer named Nigel Worthington waiting. He's in his
early 40's, five ten, and he has hair, lots of it." Bert smoothed his three
strands across his own baldness. "He'll have a briefcase with him. He'll
instruct you as to your destination. Keep him company until he hands over the
case, and that's the end of it. And you get $500." He caught sight of my scowl.
"I mean $750 for doing practically nothing."
"And that's it?" I couldn't
help feeling there was a little something my fat friend had neglected to tell
me. There was.
"Oh, you might bring your piece
along."
I knew it! This last little
comment from Bert vindicated my opinion of him. He
wasn't going to dish out $750 for a walk in the park. Not Bert Entwhistle.
"I don't think so, since I
won't be going."
"But you just agreed," Bert
stood up, agitated.
"I agreed to a piece of cake,
not my .38 piece."
"Look, Sam," here he switched
on the entreating, "I already promised the guy we would do it. I can't back out
now. The reputation of the business is at stake."
This last bit I believed. For
Bert, the reputation of his agency was held as dearly as his daughter's virtue.
If he but knew it, a lost cause years ago. I could vouch for that from personal
experience.
"I'm even prepared to take
money from my own pocket and go to one thousand bucks. There won't be any
problems, I promise you." His promises were as worthless as used kleenex. "I'm
only suggesting you take along your gun to reassure the client you are a
professional. He's something of a 'Nervous Nellie.'"
The more I mulled it over, the
less attractive it appeared. Bert's eagerness to hire me and his willingness to
up the ante for my services, told me this was something big, not just a mail
service delivery. There was also the visitor and his stiletto. Could this be
the case he warned me about? The inner tingle serving as my mental
Consiglieri
advised me strongly to forget it. There were wheels within wheels, and if I
didn't want to get chewed up in the cogs, I should kiss Bert a fond farewell.
But just then the phone rang, and I picked it up.
"Mr. Kantor?", I acknowledged
it was I.
"About that bill of yours. It's
been overdue for three months now, and we...."
That did it.
I gave Bert my hand, the hand
that then took possession of $1,000 of his, or somebody else's, money.
This is a sample chapter from
Quicksand
by
Len Harris
We at
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
www.booksunbound.com
hope you will enjoy the entire book!
Author's Biography
Born in London's East End and a
few blocks from the historic Tower of London, Len Harris is proud to describe
himself as a Cockney. At the outbreak of World War Two, he was one of the
thousands of kids evacuated to the comparative safety of a village in the
country. Bored with pastoral life, he quickly returned to London, landing his
first job as a messenger boy for Reuters' News Agency. He nightly cycled
through the horror of exploding bombs, burning buildings, and ravaged streets
of London under siege in the Blitz. At eighteen, he volunteered for the Royal
Air Force, and served for three years as an air gunner aboard a Lancaster
bomber operating over Germany. Following the war, he pursued his newspaper
career, becoming a shipping journalist for numerous British and European
publications. He emigrated to the United States in 1961, where he founded a
public relations agency, hosted TV and radio talk shows, and became a magazine
publisher. Now living in the San Francisco Bay Area, he concentrates on writing
fiction and poetry.
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