[Sodium_noir] Business Before Pleasure (continued)

[Josh]

(Apologies for the length of the post.  Last one for the introduction)
   
  Jeremiah Buford, Allen Bradley, Raul Montez
  A Boss, An Employee, and their Driver
  A Private Dock
  Nearly two hours past sunset
   
  By the time Buford and Allen made their way down the staircase, Raul had begun preparations to cast off.  They came aboard with a minimum fuss, and Allen took his accustomed place in the wheelhouse, talking with Raul while Mr. Buford stood at the bow.
   
  The Belle was a moderately-sized yacht, large enough to comfortably take a small party around the world if need be, but nowhere near the size of super-yachts like the Annaliesse or Maltese Falcon.  Her single mast allowed Buford to sail in relative peace and quiet whenever she was taken out into open water.
   
  But now was not the time for a peaceful sail.  Once Mr. Buford took his customary place at the bow, he started the oversized diesel engines and brought her about, angling towards the marina while Mr. Bradley explained where they would need him to drive after they came ashore.
   
  Buford often cut across the bay this way, paying scant attention to the sea spray as he watched the glass towers of the business district slide through the night.  Once past the towers of the Business Plaza, he went below deck to change into drier and more appropriate clothes.
   
  They reached the marina in short order.  After Raul secured the ship, he left and brought Mr. Buford’s customized black Chrysler 300C back to The Belle.  Securely enclosed in light armor plating and tinted plexiglass windows, the three cruised silently into the night.
   
  ***
   
  Dinner was burnt, his daughter was failing chemistry, and his son just told him that he’s going to bring his boyfriend to dinner tomorrow night.
   
  In short, Michael Torres was having a very bad day.
   
  And to top it off, some asshole was pounding on his front door in the middle of his crappy dinner.
   
  “Sit down,” he told his wife, who was halfway up from the table and about to answer the door.  The kids had their forks poised halfway to their mouths, waiting for their father’s inevitable explosion.  Their father wasn’t known to mince words, either on the job or with his family.
   
  His wife sat down, and the kids resumed eating.  The knocking, however, continued.
   
  “Son of a bitch,” Michael said, wiping his face with a linen napkin and pushing away from the table.  “I’ll be back in a minute.”  He walked from the dining room to the living room, stopping at the hall closet to pick up the aluminum baseball bat he kept there in case someone tried one of those “home invasion robberies” he’d been hearing about on the news lately.
   
  He looked through the peephole once he got to the door.  The light above the front porch showed a compact man, his size distorted by the fisheye lens, dressed in a rather plain black suit and tie, with a black flat cap.  He stood patiently, arms loosely crossed with his left hand holding his right wrist, as if he could stay there all night if need be.
   
  “Damn it,” Michael said, recognizing Mr. Bradley’s driver.  He put the bat down next to the door and opened it, plastering on his fake smile and personality.
   
  “Raul,” he said, offering his hand to shake.  When Raul didn’t offer his own in return, Michael let his drop.  “Did Mr. Bradley need to drop something off?”
   
  “No, sir.”  The only thing giving Raul’s deep voice any real personality was the slight trace of a Hispanic accent.  “He wants to see you.”  Raul then turned and left, walking briskly to the idling Chrysler.
   
  Great, Michael thought as he closed the door and follow Raul.  He thought about telling his family to go ahead without him, but decided to let them wait until he finished his business.
   
  Raul held the front passenger door open.  Michael found it odd, but when he ducked his head inside, he saw Mr. Bradley sitting alone in the back seat on the driver’s side.
   
  “Hello, Mr. Torres.”  Allen Bradley’s cultured voice and newscaster accent simultaneously soothed and irritated the old rivet-man’s ears.  “I hope that I’m not disturbing you.”
   
  “No, no trouble at all, Mr. Bradley.”  Michael took a quick look at the seats and found no paperwork, disks, or other material that would have brought Bradley out in the middle of the night.  “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
   
  “Yes, please.  Have a seat and we’ll discuss it.”
   
  Michael thought it odd to have a conversation with his neck cranked halfway around, but it seemed like Bradley was always riding him about something.  Materials costs, labor overages, accounting inconsistencies, there was always one last “little thing” that ended up causing a huge headache for Michael later on.
   
  As soon as he sat down, Raul started the car and left.  Michael Torres’ home was in Westbrook, one of those places in town that tricks its residents into thinking that they actually live in the suburbs.  Manicured lawns cared for by people who could never afford the houses they sat on rolled by, an endless stream of beautiful architecture that looked like every other fifth house on the block.
   
  They hadn’t driven a full block when Michal began to turn around.  “Mr. Bradley, if you could -”
   
  His head wasn’t quite turned when he felt something hit his jaw like a jackhammer.  Michael roared in surprise and tried to jerk his head away, but whatever hit him pinned his head against the side window.  He gripped what felt like a polished piece of wood and tried prying it away from his face, but it wouldn’t budge an inch.  He tried both hands, but couldn’t get the right leverage to move it.
   
  Eventually, he gave up and tried to look in the rear-view mirror. He saw Allen Bradley, looking disinterestedly out the window with his hands folded neatly in his lap, but not much else.  He tried the side mirror, but the only thing he saw behind him (when the window wasn’t showing the yellow glare of the street lights) was a dark silhouette.
   
  A new voice came from the back seat, southern honey and rotten molasses that tickled the back of his neck like a velvet noose.
   
  “Mr. Torres, it really isn’t polite to speak unless spoken to.”
   
  “What do you want?”  Michael’s eyes were wide, and he had to keep his tongue pressed against his teeth to make sure that he didn’t accidentally swallow a loose one.  He felt the big pulse in his neck beneath whatever it was keeping his head against the window.  He tried the door, but it locked automatically when the Raul began driving.  There was the window, but he figured that whoever this guy was would have no qualms about pushing his head until his neck snapped while the window made its slow crawl down.
   
  “I believe, Mr. Torres, that it is customary to ask ‘Who’ before ‘What’.”
   
  Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Some psycho trying to give him a lecture on grammar?
   
  “Okay.  Who are you?”
   
  “That’s better.”  The pressure eased from his face as Michael saw what looked like the solid metal head a cane drop down between the driver and passenger seats.  He made the barest motion to turn his head and the cane was up again, hovering dangerously at eye level.
   
  “I believe we have already established that it would be best for you to keep your eyes forward.”
   
  “Fine.”  Michael tried to adjust himself to a more comfortable position in the seat.  “But you still haven’t told me who you are.”
   
  “I’m the man who signs your checks.”
   
  Michael immediately took offense at that.  “I’m my own man.  I own my own company, and I run it the way I like it.  Who do you think you are, coming-”
   
  “Own?  OWN?  Do you really think that you own anything?”  The voice from the back seat rose and took on a dangerous edge.  “Do you actually think that your piss-poor record keeping got you the loan from Gotham National two years ago when things were slowing down?  Or the easy jobs that bought your house on the hill?  Are you under the impression that your cheap bribes are what keep the city building inspectors from throwing you in jail?  You own nothing Mr. Torres, and if you continue with this asinine line of thought that you’ve worked for what you own, I will show you the error of your ways.”
   
  Michael kept very still.  If what this guy was saying was actually true, then he was more juiced than, well, anyone Michael knew.
   
  “But,” the mysterious voice said, much more calmly than before, “that’s a lesson for another time.  I really have only a few questions for you, Mr. Torres.”
   
  “Okay.  I’ll answer them if I can.”
   
  “Oh, you should know them.  After all, you’re in the business.”
   
  “Shoot.”  Michael regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth, picturing his brain smeared against the front windshield.  The car continued to drive through the yellow puddles of light from overhead.
   
  “How much rebar is needed to properly reinforce concrete?”
   
  “What?”
   
  “Did I stutter?”  The voice from the back seat rose.  “Are my words slurred?  How much rebar do you need to use to make sure that concrete is properly reinforced?”
   
  Michael thought quickly.  “Well, it usually goes from one to six percent steel-to-concrete, depending on what you’re building.
   
  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”  The voice behind him seemed almost giddy.  “And for projects that you really want to keep stable, like bridges and roads, do you use anything special?”
   
  “Well, yeah.  You use a grid of the stuff.  It helps to keep the concrete from warping or cracking under high stress.”
   
  “Well then.”  The voice turned pensive.  “Can you please tell me why you used a cheap one percent mix of straight rebar on your last project when the design specifically called for the highest level of reinforcement possible?”
   
  Oh SHIT! Michael thought.  “I-”
   
  “How about I venture a guess?”  The voice behind him turned mocking.  “You saw that no one was really paying attention to what you were doing, because you knew the inspectors wouldn’t be able to test everything.  You gambled, went cheap, and sent a bill for the higher-quality materials to Mr. Bradley over here.  Is that about right?”
   
  Michael felt his life was now going to be measured in minutes instead of years.  “Yes.”
   
  “How much?”
   
  Michael couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.  “How much what?”
   
  “How much of the construction did you cheap out on?”
   
  “Just the last day.”
   
  “Really?  Why just the last day?”
   
  Since this guy seemed to know everything, Michael decided to spill what he knew.  “I wasn’t keeping an accurate count of the stuff and we started to run out.  If I put in for another order, it would have delayed construction for another day.”
   
  “Which would have cost you several thousand dollars, correct?”
   
  “Yeah.”  Michael felt for sure that his family would be reading about his broken body found in the drainage ditch leading in Westbrook.
   
  The voice behind him seemed to guess what Michael was thinking.  “Cheer up.  My engineers have told me that the rest of the structure should hold up fairly well if the only problems are with the two pylons that were laid on the last day, and it would cost me much more to have you killed and replaced in the middle of your current job.”
   
  Michael visibly paled.  Even though he was expecting it, the mere mention of death unnerved him.
   
  “However, I can’t let this go unpunished.  Let’s see
”  The voice trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.  “I believe Gotham Memorial’s pediatric wing is in desperate need of funds.”
   
  “Sure thing.  Whatever you say.”  Hope came back into Michael’s voice.  Maybe he would live after all.
   
  The car slowed to a halt.  Michael looked out the window, and saw that he was back home.
   
  The voice from the back seat was flat.  “I think a half-million should do it.”
   
  “Wha-?”  Michael was flabbergasted.  That was everything he was making on the new job, plus a hefty chunk of his savings.  He’d have to get a second loan from the bank to keep the business afloat.
   
  “After all, you’d hardly want someone’s kids to receive substandard care in an emergency.  Or your own.”
   
  Now Michael finally understood.  Raul opened his door, but he remained in his seat.
   
  “Sure.  Half a million.”
   
  “I’m glad we see things eye-to-eye.  You should really get going.  Your family’s probably wondering what’s keeping you from dinner.”
   
  Michael got out of the car and stared at his beautiful home.  He realized how much he really didn’t own, and how easily it could be taken from him.  He heard Raul’s door shut and turned to say something to the mysterious voice from the back seat, but the car was already driving off.
   
  ***
   
  “What’s next, Allen?”
   
  Allen Bradley turned and regarded the man who spoke to him.  A white three-piece suit covered something that could be called a pockmarked white fish.  He was thick and powerful, not muscular but as solid as Hoover Dam.  Yellow lidless eyes stared at Allen, and his scaberous hand was smoothing the sea of long, thin worms above his upper lip.  Now that Torres was out of the car, their writhing slowed to a stop.  He had no eyebrows, but did posses a great globe of white hair.
   
  Allen always thought that he looked like Mark Twain as imagined by H.P. Lovecraft.
   
  “The only thing left is the Sinclair party.  Unfortunately, it will be a ‘mixed’ affair.”
   
  Buford turned to stare out the side window, watching cookie-cutter houses slip into the darkness and allowed himself a small smile.  “No matter, Allen.  I’ll deal with the monsters in the back room while you deal with those in the front.”
   
  “Yes sir.  Business as usual.”
   
  (TAG to the Game Operations Director)

 		
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