Between a Grizzly and Her Cub: Part 7

Chad expected Ernie’s directions to lead to a stripe club. Chad assumed that all mobsters kept their offices in strip clubs. Chad arrived instead at a modest, two-story set of offices. White paint. Blue trim. A fountain.

He parked his Prius, which now sported a shattered windshield, rear window, and driver’s side mirror.

He took a moment to prepare for the meeting he planned. He used his cellphone to call Valdus Qasim’s own. Ernie looked up the number earlier when he looked up the mobster’s address.

One ring. Two.

A young woman with a New England accent answered. “Qasim’s Waste Management Solutions. How may I help you?”

Waste management? Chad groaned against the cliché. “Um, I’m looking for Valdus Qasim. I thought this was his personal cellphone.”

“This is his personal number,” the woman said. “I’m his personal clerk. How may I help you?”

Chad exited his beaten vehicle. “Is Mister Qasim in his office?”

A pause passed. “Did you make an appointment to see him?”

A plaque on the wall next to the building’s front door offered a list of offices. One office (“Qasim’s Waste Management Solutions”) sat on the second floor. Chad headed for the nearest stairwell.

“I don’t,” Chad said. “But—”

“May I ask who’s calling?” the woman asked.

He went the honest route. “Chad Heel. I’m David’s brother.”

“Does Mister Qasim expect you?” She sounded as if she spoke just as much to Chad as someone else who stood near her.

“No,” Chad said, “but I’ll pay Mister Qasim fifty dollars for five minutes of his time.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Mister Qasim’s time commands a far higher wage than that.” Her voice suddenly sounded as if it came from the bottom of a well. “Would you kindly tell me what this is about?”

“I’m on speakerphone, aren’t I?” Chad exited the stairwell, entered a short hall. “Mister Qasim? Are you there?” He marched past the doors, sought out Qasim’s office.

He overheard, through his phone, a half muted conversation. Then, “My apologies, sir, but we don’t accept calls from solicitors.” She disconnected—

—Just as Chad entered her office, caught her with her hand on the phone and a startled look on her face.

A large, Russian man in an expensive suit stood behind her. His gunmetal-gray eyes scanned Chad.

Chad swallowed. “Mister Qasim?”

The other man stomped into Chad’s personal space. “Mister Heel.” Not a question.

Chad nodded. “I need a moment of your time, sir.”

Qasim narrowed his eyes. “Hold my calls, Debra,” he told his clerk.

She paled, nodded.

Qasim’s thick finger, covered with wiry hairs, coaxed Chad to follow him.

Chad overheard the clerk (Debra) scoop up her phone with a frantic sweep of her hand.

The Russian (Qasim, most likely) led Chad down a hall and into a small office. He waved Chad inside—before he and three other men (who appeared as if by magic) followed him inside the room.

Chad guessed that “Hold all my calls” served as a code phrase that instructed Debra to call in some backup.

The shortest of the three newcomers, an Asian man with a scarred face, slammed the door.

Chad glanced about the empty, windowless room . . . while the four men spread themselves, surrounded him.

The thin man with a tattoo on the side of his neck grabbed Chad, spun him, and slammed him chest-first against a wall.

Tattoo Neck held him in place while two other guys (a broad-shouldered Mexican and an albino) thoroughly searched Chad, presumably for a weapon or wire. The broad-shouldered guy took Chad’s wallet.

“He’s clean,” Albino said with a buttery, southern accent.

Tattoo Neck spun Chad so that he faced the big Russian, who stared down into Chad’s eyes.

Broad Shoulder handed Chad’s wallet to the Russian, who opened and examined it.

His eyes lingered on Chad’s driver’s license. “You are David’s brother.” He produced a rusty chuckle. “I am Valdus Qasim. I noticed that your wallet does not contain the fifty dollars you promised me.”

Chad offered a sheepish smile. “Do you accept checks?”

Qasim’s meaty, oversized hand crashed against Chad’s shoulder with nearly enough force to put him on his knees.

“You barge into my office?” Qasim slowly shook his head.

“I just want to know what happened to my brother, David. He wrote you a large check, tore it up, and turned up dead.”

Qasim managed to step even closer to Chad. His breath pulsed, oven-hot. “Why should I know anything about that?”

Chad forced himself to meet the larger man’s eyes. “I just want the truth.”

A terrifying smile crept across the Russian’s face. “You wouldn’t talk to police?”

Chad thought of Detective Redwood. “Rather not. Don’t like them.”

“That’s a shame, my friend,” Qasim said. “You will deal with them soon. You break into my office, threatening me. Very serious.” He turned to Albino. “Serious, no?”

Albino’s red eyes drilled hot holes through Chad’s soul. “Very serious, boss. We felt threatened by this guy, got carried away protecting ourselves.”

Qasim turned to leave. “See that you do.” He slammed the door behind him.

Tattoo Neck’s elbow slammed Chad’s neck. Chad collapsed, couldn’t breathe. A shoe struck his stomach. Another crashed into his kidney.

A pair of hands grab each of his ankles and drag him into the middle of the room.

An avalanche of fists rained upon him. He felt them even after he lost consciousness.

. . . When he awoke—handcuffed to a hospital bed—Detective Redwood sat across from him.

The cop wore the smarmiest of shit-eating grins. “Mister Heel. How do you feel?”

He felt as if someone pounded his bones with a rainstorm of bricks. “Fine. Where am I?”

Redwood gestured towards all the medical equipment that surrounded them. “An aquarium?”

Chad flicked his tongue around his mouth, detected several spots where teeth previously rested.

“Mister Heel,” Redwood whispered, “you are under arrest for the crimes of breaking and entering, assault, and vandalism. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will . . .”

To be continued . . .

 You can catch my novels, such as Daughters of Darkwana, on Kindle.

I publish my blogs as follows:

Short stories on Mondays and Thursdays at martinwolt.blogspot.com

A look at entertainment industries via feminist and queer theory, as well as other political filters on Tuesdays at Entertainmentmicroscope.blogspot.com

An inside look at my novel series, its creation, and the e-publishing process on Wednesdays at Darkwana.blogspot.com

Tips on improving your fiction writing Fridays at FictionFormula.blogspot.com

Movie reviews on Sundays at moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com