here…”
“Fine.”
“Excellent.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly reopened them. “Thank you, both of you. It is reassuring to not have to worry about the agency while…” A look of withdrawal came over her face as she glanced away.
Drake followed the focus of her attention. It was that painting on the far wall. A city landscape. Maybe a place she’d once lived or visited or perhaps where her family came from.
His father, who had worked in hotel security for years, had known Jayne peripherally. Drake recalled his once saying she had lived with a woman, a lawyer, somewhere downtown. He wondered if that had been in the back apartment.
Drake wasn’t one to grieve openly, but after a few beers, he sometimes loosened up about his dad, his brother. He would bet Jayne never did that. She faced her ghosts alone.
And now she was facing life’s harshest challenger. Death. Not that it was at her door, but it was lurking in the neighborhood. If anybody could outmaneuver the Grim Reaper, it was sure as hell Jayne.
But if not…
He thought of his father those last few weeks of his life, their talks, Drake’s promises.
“Anything you need, Jayne, call me. My phone is on 24/7. Don’t worry about the office or clients or…” He scratched his throat. “The mentoring. I’ll be here. I promise.”
CHAPTER SIX
A N HOUR LATER , Drake stood at a door marked 3B in the Willow Creek Apartments, which were nowhere near a willow or a creek. The building sat in a not-so-good Vegas neighborhood, but being on the third floor, with a picturesque view of the busy U.S. Route 95, gave it some security.
He knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?” asked a peculiarly strained male voice.
“Drake. Open up.”
After several clicks and the sliding grate of a latch, the door creaked open. A paunchy, barefoot guy in chinos and a T-shirt with the words I’m Calmer Than You Are stood there, his eyes pinker than some people liked their steaks. An old Aerosmith tune, “Sweet Emotion,” played in the background.
“Aqua Man,” he murmured around an exhale of smoke, “long time no see. Worried that Mayan apocalypse got you, my brother.”
Drake wished his nickname had stayed back in high school along with pimple cream and bad cafeteria food, but it had stuck, being used by people who overheard others use it or who, like Li’l Bit, thought the name sounded groovy.
“Can I come in?”
His buddy stepped back and made a gesture as though he was welcoming a player to a game show.
Entering Li’l Bit’s place was like stepping into the ‘70s. The furniture was a mix of wicker, chunky wood and chrome lamps. A creepy spider plant dominated a corner, seemingly thriving on stray fluorescent light aimed at a poster of Hendrix with a rainbow flowing out of his guitar.
“Shut the door,” Drake said. “We gotta talk.”
Li’l Bit, who claimed he got his nickname after answering “a little bit” whenever asked if he liked something, complied.
“You gotta air out this place,” Drake said, waving his hand. “It reeks of weed.”
“Man, you should talk. You smell like a marshmallow roast.”
Drake swiped at his hairline. “My place burned down last night.”
Li’l Bit pressed his palm to his forehead as though keeping the thoughts in place. “Whoa, no…you mean…”
“Arson.”
A stricken look crossed his face. “Hearsay?”
“Smoke inhalation, but he’s okay.”
Next thing Drake knew, he was wrapped in a bear hug. The kind only a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man, most of it heart, could give.
Ever since Drake had hired Li’l Bit four years ago to serve some legal papers, the two of them had clicked. Not because they shared interests—Drake could care less about ganja, three-day concert festivals and the film The Big Lebowski —but they shared a passion for their professions.
Li’l Bit, born Nathan Davidovitch to Lillian and Bernie Davidovitch of Brooklyn, had been enrolled at Brooklyn Law School
“Fine.”
“Excellent.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly reopened them. “Thank you, both of you. It is reassuring to not have to worry about the agency while…” A look of withdrawal came over her face as she glanced away.
Drake followed the focus of her attention. It was that painting on the far wall. A city landscape. Maybe a place she’d once lived or visited or perhaps where her family came from.
His father, who had worked in hotel security for years, had known Jayne peripherally. Drake recalled his once saying she had lived with a woman, a lawyer, somewhere downtown. He wondered if that had been in the back apartment.
Drake wasn’t one to grieve openly, but after a few beers, he sometimes loosened up about his dad, his brother. He would bet Jayne never did that. She faced her ghosts alone.
And now she was facing life’s harshest challenger. Death. Not that it was at her door, but it was lurking in the neighborhood. If anybody could outmaneuver the Grim Reaper, it was sure as hell Jayne.
But if not…
He thought of his father those last few weeks of his life, their talks, Drake’s promises.
“Anything you need, Jayne, call me. My phone is on 24/7. Don’t worry about the office or clients or…” He scratched his throat. “The mentoring. I’ll be here. I promise.”
CHAPTER SIX
A N HOUR LATER , Drake stood at a door marked 3B in the Willow Creek Apartments, which were nowhere near a willow or a creek. The building sat in a not-so-good Vegas neighborhood, but being on the third floor, with a picturesque view of the busy U.S. Route 95, gave it some security.
He knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?” asked a peculiarly strained male voice.
“Drake. Open up.”
After several clicks and the sliding grate of a latch, the door creaked open. A paunchy, barefoot guy in chinos and a T-shirt with the words I’m Calmer Than You Are stood there, his eyes pinker than some people liked their steaks. An old Aerosmith tune, “Sweet Emotion,” played in the background.
“Aqua Man,” he murmured around an exhale of smoke, “long time no see. Worried that Mayan apocalypse got you, my brother.”
Drake wished his nickname had stayed back in high school along with pimple cream and bad cafeteria food, but it had stuck, being used by people who overheard others use it or who, like Li’l Bit, thought the name sounded groovy.
“Can I come in?”
His buddy stepped back and made a gesture as though he was welcoming a player to a game show.
Entering Li’l Bit’s place was like stepping into the ‘70s. The furniture was a mix of wicker, chunky wood and chrome lamps. A creepy spider plant dominated a corner, seemingly thriving on stray fluorescent light aimed at a poster of Hendrix with a rainbow flowing out of his guitar.
“Shut the door,” Drake said. “We gotta talk.”
Li’l Bit, who claimed he got his nickname after answering “a little bit” whenever asked if he liked something, complied.
“You gotta air out this place,” Drake said, waving his hand. “It reeks of weed.”
“Man, you should talk. You smell like a marshmallow roast.”
Drake swiped at his hairline. “My place burned down last night.”
Li’l Bit pressed his palm to his forehead as though keeping the thoughts in place. “Whoa, no…you mean…”
“Arson.”
A stricken look crossed his face. “Hearsay?”
“Smoke inhalation, but he’s okay.”
Next thing Drake knew, he was wrapped in a bear hug. The kind only a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man, most of it heart, could give.
Ever since Drake had hired Li’l Bit four years ago to serve some legal papers, the two of them had clicked. Not because they shared interests—Drake could care less about ganja, three-day concert festivals and the film The Big Lebowski —but they shared a passion for their professions.
Li’l Bit, born Nathan Davidovitch to Lillian and Bernie Davidovitch of Brooklyn, had been enrolled at Brooklyn Law School
Similar Books
