Russell Twyce

Chapter 13 of Shiva’s Messenger

Beating on the Wrong Drum

“Did you think I’d forget about my disciplinary threat?” Judith sat in the back seat of her own car. Budget money for a driver and limo was earmarked elsewhere.

“I don’t want to go unless I can wear a chauffeur’s cap.” Allen didn’t really want to go at all. At the last minute, Judith included him in the obligatory session with the Secret Services liaison officer.

“You’ve tried a handful excuses to weasel out of this already and that one was by far the lamest. Now drive on James.”

The unwilling participant shifted the lever into gear. He knew the route as well as he did the running trail at his woodland home. The congresswoman’s assistant had been to the proposed presidential speech venue innumerable times already and had every inch of that site fixed in his mind too.

“I’ll wait in the car.” Allen parked on the far side of the square from the building where he now held a part-time maintenance job. It would be imprudent for him to be glimpsed by a co-worker.

“You’re sulking like a five-year old brat.” She admonished but in good humor. ‘If your mother were here, she’d warm the back of your trousers but good.”

“Okay.” Powers resigned himself to the seeming inevitability. He focused on the one slender positive of netting a covert peek at his principal adversary, the Secret Service. That could be constructive but not so much so as to be worth the risk.

The politician and her aid were expecting the stereotypical non-descript man in a black suit and dark sunglasses. Instead, a woman in her mid-twenties approached. She wore the customary eyewear and her deep charcoal suit was tailored to subdue her trim figure.

“I’m Beth Withers.” After the introduction, the agent wasted no time in pleasantries. She began explaining the pertinent protocols.

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Though a university had conferred a degree in political science, Judith planned on conducting a little experiment in sexual chemistry. First she had to decant the two test subjects into a suitable beaker. A quiet table at a restaurant might provide a nice environment for the human compounds to interact and hopefully combine.

“Goodness me! Just look at the time.” Judith broke off the tour prematurely by consulting her watch in an apparent panic. “I’m sorry, Agent Withers but I’m going to have to ask you to go over the balance of the details with Mr. Powers. Don’t worry, I trust him completely to give me the gist your presentation. Why don’t you two meet over dinner tonight to finish this briefing?”

“I’m fairly busy with my duties,” Beth resisted with an aside glance to see Allen’s reaction.

“I must insist. This material is crucial to me but I’m not certain when or even if I can reschedule.” Judith physically urged her driver towards the car while the agent scurried behind. She continued her ploy as they reached the curb. “I just realized, you have some extra time right now that was allotted for my use. You can simply redeploy those hours to tonight instead.” Judith posed an excuse and it was even a marginally valid one though the crafty woman had contrived it. “Busy people have to eat. Do you have another pressing engagement for tonight?”

“Well, no but—.” Beth watched the color drain from his face.

“It’s settled then.” Judith didn’t allow her to finish her refusal but went on to quickly supply them with a place and time to meet.

“Come along now, Allen.” Having achieved her objective, the meddlesome woman terminated further discussion. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to break some speed limits.”

“I didn’t know anything else was scheduled.” Allen’s thoughts swirled in a muddled spiral around a sinkhole.

“There’s no appointment, stupid.” Judith laughed out loud. “You obviously wanted to invite her out and she was dying for you to ask but since you were procrastinating, I took the initiative for you.”

“I didn’t say yes, you did that for me.” The downside to keeping his true thoughts hidden from his boss was having her misconstrue his intentions. Allen considered the prospect of an evening meal with the lovely Secret Service agent. His coffee with Jessica was an insignificant gamble compared with the highly explosive, deadly poisonous and radioactive danger that just standing an arm’s reach from Beth Withers was.

“So your refusing now would reflect badly on me.” She cinched in her trickery by one more grommet. “You can talk business for a few minutes to satisfy the pretense. Then you kids should just relax and enjoy each other’s company.”

“I have a pulsating headache and my stomach is upset.” This was the truth too but it stemmed his fear of a spike-embedded pitfall on his path.

“Then take a Midol.” Judith laughed at his latest excuse, which described the symptoms of PMS. “Now drop me off at the office and you can get spruced up for dinner. You might want to get a trim.”

“Women!” The females of the species were doomed to be the bane and occasionally the blessing of Allen’s existence. Maybe they represented the same duality for all men but for the messenger the stakes here were deadly high. He wasn’t certain if he was more furious with Judith or frightened of Beth. “My spending intimate time with a Secret Services girl is like a fireman kissing an arsonist!”
Allen viewed himself in his bathroom mirror. He had passed at least four barbershops but defiantly drove on in protest. If a way existed to make his form less appealing, he would have done so. “I should paint on chicken pox and pretend to be contagious.”

That wouldn’t work and every pretext that he could think of wasn’t plausible either. “What if I pretend to be gay?” His father’s advice was now working against him. ‘Never lie if it’s one destined to fail.’ “I’m shy? I’m sick? I’m a jerk?” He stumbled on a delicious idea. “Yes, I am an idiot.” With a cunning smile, the self-satisfied reluctant suitor snatched up the daily newspaper.

…

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Chapter 12

Becalmed in Political Doldrums

Like a buyer at a stock auction, Brian Bain carefully looked over the boy who’d responded to the employment ad. A very good looking young man he was with a face and body that would have housewives squirming to pee themselves. Their moderately jealous husbands would buy a life insurance policy simply to prove they were responsible providers. Brian had started in the business that way so he knew very well how a lad like this could produce. Still, it took more than visuals to be a top life insurance agent.

“Why,” Brian glanced back at the résumé, “have you left your previous employment and come to Ohio to seek work?” Not actually reading anything on the paper, it made the interviewer appear to be studiously evaluating.

“I was in a dead-end rut and wanted to change my prospects. My friends there were working class guys and being unfettered will make my transition to white collar work much easier.”

“Why are you interested in selling insurance?” Looking up from the application form he watched to appraise the apparent honesty.

“I believe in the product and I can sell anything that I’m sold on. My father died without coverage some years ago. His unexpected death left my mother in difficult circumstances. I also want a career that builds as I work and pays me compound interest for my efforts.”

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“You’re an exceedingly attractive man.” Judith observed. “Supposing I was to indulge my libido and invite you to my boudoir. This is just a hypothetical question.”

“Then you and I would play the beast with two backs under a blanket.” Allen smiled and then added. “Of course that’s simply a theoretical answer too, until you choose it to be otherwise.”

“Young men don’t jump into bed with old women unless there’s a compelling reason for it.” Judith dangled the bait. His response to this one could be the crux, unless he evaded the issue—again.

“When you were younger, did you never entertain speculations towards a much older man? A strong societal precept discourages that behavior and perhaps you missed an enjoyable encounter in the flesh.”

“I had a number of adolescent crushes and you’re correct about the reason being the taboo. But that one exists to stop people from making mistakes at an impressionable period in their lives.”

“I could debate its true intent and its value but that’s a sideline issue. I suggest that if you had succumbed to the temptations, then even if the tryst turned out fully gratifying, you would’ve still felt a remorse because in societies eyes you’d been shameful.”

“That’s correct. I would’ve felt terrible. But those societal precepts as you called them, are also a beneficial basis to extend outwards to form the rule of law.”

“I don’t want to discuss the footing of the law either. That’s another tangent.” He paused to demark the shift back to his crux. “You allowed society to decide your morals but that was your choice and I can’t fault you for it. I’m the reverse. I have my own rules of honor and I’m comfortable with them. If I wanted to do something that fit with my personal ethics but didn’t because a group though it unmentionable, then I’d feel I’d let myself down just as strongly as you would if you’d lustily banged your chicken-hawk.”

“That sounds vaguely libertarian but what’s your main point?”

“The core lurking beneath the surface,” he grinned knowingly, “is that I’ve eluded another probe because you wrongly discounted the possibility that pure allure, in whichever its form, could be that compelling reason for a virile man’s ardor. This is still hypothetical.”

“Touché!” Judith laughed heartily. The crafty little shit got me again and it was a good one. He’s been wise to my explorations.

“There’s really only one succinct question remaining.” Allen took two relaxed breaths to allow suspense to build before lighting the fuse. He looked into her eyes and asked. “Shall we have sex?”

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Chapter 11 of Shiva’s Messenger

Catwalk Away from the Russian Guns

“I require beautiful models for a one-day video shoot with blatant nudity.” Yuri called some of Toronto’s premier modeling agencies with a brief synopsis and just examining portfolios was a banquet for his eyes. Finally, he settled on a company that offered him one-stop service. Six girls that looked perfect for the job plus a makeup artist and manager were booked and the logistics were arranged.

He found the required video cameraman and photographer in a husband and wife team. One did still photography and the other video, with each assisting the other. With cast and crew assembled, Yuri only needed to set the stage back in Windsor.

The owner of the warehouse space was more than happy to do a short-term lease for a cash payment of several times the normal rent. The landlord smiled—without paperwork, how would he ever remember to report it on his taxes?

Yuri spared no expense on his lavish leasehold improvements. He hired an aggressive building contractor to bring his vision into reality. An unlimited cash budget and the promise of very generous performance bonuses are amazing motivators and his set took flawless shape almost magically before his eyes. As he peeled off the final tally to the delighted supplier and inspected the finished masterpiece, Yuri knew he was ready for the next phase.

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“I’m wondering,” Dr. Smart sat down for a late breakfast with her new best friend and put a newspaper on the table, “if a certain person went from Manitoba to Ontario?”

“The same thought occurred to me when I saw the television coverage.” Jessica didn’t have to look at the headline to know what the doctor was talking about. “It immediately struck me as his style. It appears only disgusting men were killed.”

“What would be his point for these murders though? I’m sure the prostitution scene is only marginally, if any better after the fact. Even with the biggest floaters scooped out, it’s still a septic tank and new ones will pop up to the top.” Having recently purchased a rural acreage, not connected to a municipal sewage system, Cindy had been compelled to acquire some rather unwelcome insights into the decidedly nasty subject of sanitation.

“Barf!” The analogy evoked a crappy image that swam in Jessica’s mind. “I was planning on eating something.” The lawyer grimaced as she spooned up her teabag.

“Oh don’t squeeze it dear.” Cindy captured the girl’s hand before Jessica could squish the liquid from the soggy pouch. “That just makes it bitter and then you have to add extra sugar.”

“Maybe Romero just removed some dregs because there really isn’t enough honey to give the sex trade a sweet taste.” Jessica took a sip of her tea and savored it. “He’s up to something though and it keeps getting bigger each time out. It’s like he’s practicing for something and except for Winnipeg, he has a tendency towards places closely bordering the U.S.A.”

Chapter 10 of Shiva’s Messenger

All Eyes on the Class Action

The Winnipeg city police responded to the emergency call after tracing the dead air connection. They were slightly baffled by what they found. There was no sign of a struggle. The register hadn’t been jimmied and the cash was still inside it. The victims had been killed in mostly a professional manner. From the blood scuffs, it appeared that one had been allowed to suffer a leg wound before being murdered. One man had been armed but he had been killed before his weapon could be drawn.

The nightshift wasn’t equipped to solve this mystery. They took photos and then sealed off the area. A contingent of investigators arrived on Saturday to process the cadaver evidence. The remains were then transferred to the morgue before the odor became even more ghastly. The specialists in different aspects of criminology would have to examine this crime scene after they reported for work on Monday morning. Yellow ‘police line – do not cross tape’ fluttered in the biting wind and Frosty the Car Man’s lot remained closed for the weekend.

A watch was posted and the guards were pleased with what should have been an easy assignment. They might have even had time to read or just relax but they were kept busy fending off the dead owner’s obnoxious wife. When not present and whining for admittance, she could be found trying to sneak in by the back alley. While they could understand her desire to salvage the remnants of her husband’s livelihood, she couldn’t be allowed in to possibly remove or tamper with the evidence.

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“Phew!” The flamboyant hairdresser wrinkled his nose as he ran slender fingers though the black hair with the light roots. “Did a butcher shop do this or did you use a bottle of shoe polish all by yourself? Let me clip off everything that isn’t your beautiful natural color. You’ll look so butch that all of the boys will chase you.”

“You go, girl!” Doug treated him to a suggestive wink. He didn’t have the heart to break it to barber that he wasn’t gay. His head was cropped military short with all hairs bristling fully erect: this was a drastic shift from his original shoulder length style.

Yuri would have a different sense of style than either Romero or Garcia but he wouldn’t dress down either. A black lamb leather jacket was a must and Armani jeans to wear under it. He picked out some expensive gold rings, chains and a very good Swiss watch. Alterations completed, he gazed into the mirror and a Russian man stared back. “Hello, Yuri Malenkov.”

Chapter 9 of Shiva’s Messenger

A Nifty Twist on the NAFTA

After enjoying a meal in the Via Rail dining car, he went back to his seat. The young traveler reclined and watched the scenery for a few minutes. The tracks went through industrial sections of urban areas but between centers, he could watch the rugged Canadian landscape slipping by. With a berth to sleep in, this was definitely better than driving. As Sam had predicted, he arrived in Winnipeg well rested.

Shiva’s Messenger took a taxi to an address only one block from the car lot. Renting a stretched limo and putting Mexican flags on the hood had been an option that he’d considered briefly but he didn’t want quite that much attention.

“Hello Garcia Monterey,” the impeccably dressed man viewed his reflection in a shop window as he walked by. Garcia adopted a swagger in his step that only prestige can purchase or practice may imitate. With an air of aristocracy, he strode onto the lot and stood still in the exact center. Taking out his video camera, he began to pan it about, while providing a Spanish commentary.

After only a few seconds, a grinning salesman emerged from the office. His step was lively and his polyester suit flapped as he walked. Garcia gave the man a disparaging look from head to toe and didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“I do not deal with underlings.” Garcia turned curtly away to dismiss the salesman entirely.
He remained in place and continued to view the cars. It only took another brief moment before Garcia heard a heavy shuffle of feet coming up behind him. Turning, he saw a grossly obese man approaching him in a waddle. His ensemble was better made than his salesman’s was. To find something off-the-rack to encircle his expansive girth, the man would’ve been in a tent and awning shop as opposed to a big and tall men’s wear one.

“You are the owner of these automobiles?” Garcia asked with only a slight trace of a Mexican accent. He had also dropped the contractions in his speech. A man of Monterey’s noble breeding and classical education would not use them.

“I do. In fact, I own the whole lot.”

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Garcia Monterey phoned Frost’s car lot on Friday morning. “Are the transfer documents ready?”

“I’m really glad you called.” Andrew puffed slightly like picking up the phone had put him out of breath. “I was just about to call your embassy in Ottawa.”

“They would have just patched you through to me here.” Garcia was fortunate this was a phone call. His hugely relieved reaction might have shown in person. “Is there a problem?”

“No. I’m just calling to set up a time for our meeting.” Andrew seemed to forget that he hadn’t been the one that dialed. “I also wanted to ensure that you had the exact figure to put on the check.”

“How about eight thirty?” Garcia then jotted down the amount.

Garcia Monterey hung up the phone. Then after a quick glance at the wall mirror, Roger Connors picked it up again to dial Darcy’s cell phone. “Have you read the file yet?”

“Yes.” The lawyer then went on to excitedly report her finding something bemusing. Audrey had sold the cars to different people, but the same sales lot had filled out all the paperwork. “I expect I’ll have an interesting discussion with the owner.

“That intriguing.” Roger feigned surprise. “You might consider getting a search warrant first or he’ll have an opportunity to destroy any evidence.”

“Please, Mr. Connors,” she chuckled at his presumption of her nonexistent naïveté, “I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night.”

Shiva’s Messenger keyed in the numbers and an imprinter Sam had provided cranked out a perfect check. He minutely examined the finished product under the desk light. From the intricate logo of an import & export company to the embossed dollar amount and certified stamps, the forgery was a masterful piece of work. Of course it had to be, Sam Levi was a peerless craftsman. Tossing away the other beautiful blanks was almost a dirty shame. Still, having too many was always better than not quite enough.

He donned the same slightly oversized suit jacket that Romero had worn and strapped on the same shoulder holster. The identical Ruger model to the one from Creston was again the right weapon for the task. It was quiet and deadly. Again the fit was invisible and he practiced his draw a few times until the motions were engrained into his muscle memory. He looked in his mirror.

“Hey there Garcia. Why don’t we go and put a new clause into the North American Free Trade Agreement.”

…

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Chapter 8 of Shiva’s Messenger

Woebegone for the Bag Lady

The BMW was stashed in the Calgary mini-storage and Roger was again driving his pick-up truck. Traveling east with no fixed destination, the Rocky Mountain foothills were soon left behind. The landscape flattened to a nearly featureless expanse of wheat fields. The highway pointed poker-strait and it rolled through shallow dips and over mild rises.

Shiva’s Messenger had selected another Ruger to replace the one that disappeared piecemeal into a string of dumpsters. His father must have also been partial to this model because he’d left a preponderance of them for his son’s use. The new gun was now in the hidden lock box under the truck bed along with another ID set.

“I wonder if I turned my steering wheel even once during the whole tedious highway drive across the Prairie Provinces?” Roger arrived in Winnipeg. Since he still hadn’t decided where he was going, he stopped here for the night. He rented a motel room close to downtown and took a brisk walk in the city core area.

Indian Summer was definitely finished here. If Manitoba had experienced the same mild day that he and Jessica enjoyed on the mountain, it was not in evidence now. A cold front had descended from an arctic air mass and gripped the city in a frosty precursor of the winter to come. Scattered snowflakes swirled in the buffeting winds that twisted about the buildings like skiers down a slalom run.

Winnipeg is often referred to as Winter-peg and where Portage Ave. intersects Main St. is bragged as the world’s coldest street corner. Roger couldn’t argue that assessment. He decided his walk was too brisk in both definitions and made it brief. A café advertised a hot bowl of soup special and it promptly arrived with a biscuit.

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On Tuesday, John picked up the things Sam had prepared. They were perfect. “You do incredible work. It’s no wonder my Dad kept coming back to you.”

“Only the best for my repeat customers.” The crafty old forger smiled wryly. “Come back for whatever you need or just for a chat.”

“Now, I have a long nasty drive ahead.” John sighed at the thought of the monotonous return journey.

“Take a plane and get there quicker.”

“That would be nice but airline travel leaves a trail that’s easy to follow and sometimes I have to pack along things that they would prefer I didn’t carry in my luggage.”

“Then take a train. It’s not as fast as by air but they don’t look at ID. People just don’t hijack as many trains as often as they did in the good old days, so the security is less stringent.” Sam chuckled, he was old but the age of the great train robberies was far before his time. “The trip is just as long but you’ll get there relaxed.”

“Yes, that’s an excellent idea.” John grinned as the prospect of another exhaustingly long drive vanished in a phrase. “Sam, you want a nice pick-em-up truck?

“Yee Haw! Does it come with a cowgirl seat cover?”

Chapter 7 of Shiva’s Messenger

Reflections of the Ferryman

There was room in the drive behind the two prestigious cars but Romero parked on the street instead. He pressed the doorbell and received an almost instantaneous response. Watson’s nose must have been behind a curtain. The young Columbian was ushered into the living room.

The lawyer already does quite well for himself but he obviously yearns for more. The whole house was luxurious and very well kept. Watson’s wife, whose striking face he could see in a picture on the mantelpiece, had done a nice job of decorating. They could be standing in a page pulled from a home décor magazine. Seated on the stuffed leather sofa was a balding, overweight, middle-aged man: he wouldn’t have been pictured in any stylish publications.

An enameled coffee table held a bottle of cognac, three brandy snifters and a huge ashtray. Four legal documents were arranged with caliper precision around a golden penholder.

“Mr. Romero Escobedo,” Watson began a formal introduction, “I’d like you to meet my very dear friend and business associate, Dr. Frank Thomson. Please call him Frank or just Doc.”

“I’m pleased to finally meet you.” Romero extended a hand still wearing leather driving gloves. “I’ve heard many things about you.” None of them were complementary.

“All good things, I trust.” Frank Thompson’s hairline appeared frontally assaulted by the opposed team of male pattern baldness. The few remaining hair follicles were protected behind defensive halfbacks of protruding ears leaving a tonsure like laurel wreath made of steel wool. The man obviously cherished what was left and allowed it to grow long and bushy. The wild tufts at his temples gave the doctor’s head an apparent football shape, with his joined eyebrows as the stitching.

Watson motioned everyone to sit. The lawyer took his seat on opposite end zone of the sofa from Frank. That left the large leather upholstered chair as Romero’s bleacher seat.

The host poured cognac into the three snifters. They talked casually for the first few minutes. William and Doc each had several belts of liquor while Romero deferred. Instead, the Columbian in the audience attempted to steer the conversation to Dr. Thompson’s medical practice and his other exploits. Frank wet his mouthpiece with some alcohol and tooted his own horn.

“So I gave the guy the purgative,” in expounding some unsavory anecdotes, with himself in the lead role, Doc intentionally portrayed himself as moderately reprehensible, “and she had the aphrodesiac. Then the girl spent the night in my bedroom while her fiancé was back at the hotel seated on his toilet.”

“That’s interesting Frank.” Romero commented on the last story told but it was also to himself. Due to my being a drug lord, he believes that the worse person I think he is: the more I’ll like him. Doc Thompson was making the evaluation far too easy.

“Shall we get on with business?” Romero ended the small talk. Please cease the color commentary now Frank! The newest player had enough marks posted on the plus/minus board, for the ringer to happily zero the Doctor’s balance.

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“I’m Shiva’s Messenger.” On seeing a puzzled expression, John added. “At your final destination you’ll understand perfectly.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Even a cold wetness in his trousers was bliss compared to the prospects awaiting him. “I haven’t lived a very good life and I’m sure where I’m headed won’t be pleasant.”

“You don’t have to fear death or what’s beyond it.” John’s consoling voice was as unwavering as his gun hand. “We all go to a better place, no matter what we’ve done. I’ve been there and back, so I know this to be true. That is also comforting to me because I can hasten your mortality while still retaining my morality.”

“Can I talk you out of it somehow?”

“We both know how this conversation has to end. I doubt you would enjoy your continued existence very much, even if I allowed you to live. Two dead people are in your home and you’re the focal point of the drama. But I’m not speaking with you now to negotiate for your life. I’ve only given you an opportunity to prepare yourself.”

“Thank you.” William couldn’t quite rationalize why he’d just thanked the man who was about to kill him. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. He thought about the inevitability of his death. There was no way to dismiss the specter. It was now upon him. Would it be a good place—even for him? Why would the messenger lie now, when he had dropped his other pretenses?

Glancing one final time at the murderer, the lawyer thought about his money in the case. He’d paid a dear price for a smooth crossing of the River Styx. But as his fear of the unknown ebbed away, he felt the Ferryman was delivering a fair exchange.

“I’m ready now.” William Watson looked back down the barrel of the handgun. He briefly registered the first muzzle flash but was oblivious to the second.

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Chapter 6 of Shiva’s Messenger

Dipping into the Hot Salsa

Romero’s BMW Z5 arrived at the lawyer’s office at ten past ten. His being slightly late was accidental but it also fit the role. The drug store had been busy and then he spent some time fixing an addition to his manicure. His research into the role had found a peculiarity that fit well but yesterday it would’ve given an impression he didn’t want. Today though, it should be ideal.

“Did you kidnap my employee?” Watson joked but he was also wondering. Jessica was conscientious about work but this morning she hadn’t even answered a wake up call to her home—in fact three of them. “I sent her to coffee and I haven’t seen her since.”

“I clearly recall your saying that she could take all the time she wanted.” The Columbian smiled at the slightly peevish employer manning his reception counter himself.

“That was yesterday.” The lawyer suddenly wondered if his clever trick had worked better than he expected—but not actually as he wished. “Did you give her too much caffeine to sleep?”

“What I gave, in an overabundant quantity, isn’t your concern.” After what the boss had done, Romero enjoyed this but he spoke casually as they walked to the inner office. “Jessica will be back, without a ransom demand, either when she chooses or after the open-ended date you tasked her with, finally ends.”

“Oh.” William’s experiencing a major pang of jealousy cut off any possible reply. Now he wasn’t even sure if his clever trick would do him any good. Jessica was supposed to be promised lure not the already received reward. He certainly hadn’t expected his young intern to—on a first date. Watson’s envy flared even further as his mind pictured the incomparable young woman with the Columbian.

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“This is what I wanted.” Romero placed the documents on the coffee table. With a deliberate pause he allowed some tension to build before allowing the release. “So, what’s this other idea?”

“I know you do require the corporation as I’ve outlined in the first brief.” As a toy propeller with an elastic band wound to knots, Watson’s tongue spun over-fast when freed. He had to consciously slow himself down but his whole delivery lacked the pace and poise he’d practiced in his mirror. “But I wondered if you required the additional expenses of a branch office. You’re not warehousing or distributing, so you don’t need a facility for that. As you indicated, most of the rental payments would simply have to be dropped off or mailed into an office. I know the market here and I don’t think your finding suitable premises will be easy.”

The Columbian client sat quietly looking impassive, even when the lawyer inserted a pause for question or quip. The performance was going poorly enough without further foiling required.

“Currently,” William took the pages from the second envelope but his stage cues were off on that as well. Instead of looking like his brandishing important evidentiary support, it seemed more as fanning a perspiring face. “I have enough space in my office area to hire extra staff to coordinate the collections, the banking and the disbursements. I’ve jotted down notes on a viable structuring.”

At an almost painfully expectant hesitation on William’s part, Romero deferred a comment again but he offered a hand for the notes. It was becoming too embarrassing to watch the exaggerated theatrics of the fluttering papers.

“As I see it,” William resumed and handed over the notes for Romero’s scrutiny, “having an infrastructure as I’ve outlined—” Watson stopped his presentation in mid-sentence as Romero held up his hand for silence. The jostle knocked a thumb-width of tobacco ash onto the lawyer’s carpet.

“A good cigar must be allowed to divest itself when it is ready, and not sooner.” Romero offhandedly explained without an apology. “Would you have one?” He pulled out another one of his stogies. The young Columbian read while Watson lit up.

After the long forced march of his monolog, now the lawyer was suffering an unnatural quiet. The young businessman methodically scanned the set of papers. He glanced up at each mildly dramatic page turn to judge the attorney’s discomfiture. The non-smoking William was chain puffing his cigar and a few hiccups showed he was inhaling some by accident.

Finally, Romero tossed the handwritten documents to a scatter on the coffee table, as if discarded. He stared into Watson’s eyes for a long interval. Poor withering William struggled uncomfortably to maintain a fixed return look.

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Chapter 5 of Shiva’s Messenger

Biting for Allure

“I’m here to see William Watson,” with an air of unconcern, that almost failed, the elegantly attired young man announced his arrival to an exceedingly attractive receptionist. The milk chocolate of her eyes and the smooth crème frâiche skin combined to make a tart so savory to look at, that his tongue nearly refused the words. My zone keeps attention on the task! Not keenly on distractions!

“Yes,” the spectacular girl looked up and flushed slightly. “He’s expecting you.” She led him to the office.

Romero may have been walking through a pea soup fog. All he could see was the swish and sway of her long brunette hair that flowed like a shining waterfall down her back.

After knocking with two sharp raps, she opened the lawyer’s door. As she ushered him in, the dazzling girl turned sideways in the doorway. Her firm upper chest under a silky blouse brushed one and then the other across Escobedo’s upper arm as he passed. His eyes closed in a prolonged blink as the stirring contact was made and he detected a small check in her breath. Romero felt a slight vacuum as she backed out and quickly closed the door behind him.

“Welcome.” William Watson stood behind his rich mahogany desk to greet his new prospective client. He wasn’t a short man but he still had to look upwards to meet Romero’s eyes. The lawyer was in his late 40’s or early 50’s. Though generally in fair health, he still didn’t spend enough quality time in the gym. He sagged about the waist and his hips had flared to a middle aged girth. He golfed often to keep in shape but always used a power cart and his club bag held a bottle of scotch that needed refilling more often than the spare balls pouch.

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“This crud is going to be truly vile.” The girl giggled as she followed the instructions—exactly. Unfortunately for the Hispanic heart-throb, though, he wouldn’t even notice the taste because he was going to be reeling from the shot of cleavage she intended to fire at point blank range. “Sorry, Romero Escobedo, but how can you be a playboy if some girl doesn’t play you like a boy?”

“You prefer your coffee strong?” The extra grounds were intended to make the coffee ooze out like hot tar but instead the vicious barista found the water didn’t flow fast enough through the overfilled basket. Chocolate brown slurry welled over the filter and washed some grounds into the carafe. “How about chewy too?”

She poured the noxious concoction into two of the firm’s mugs. After an adjustment of her female ammunition, Jessica switched off the safety selector by unfastening two more buttons. “It’s payback time for Mr. GQ magazine.”

“Ah, the refreshment is here.” Bill shuffled to the door to admit the fetching coffee girl in the pastel blouse.

She snatched a cup from the tray and pushed it offhandedly to her boss holding the door. Then, the girl walked with careful steps to arrive at a precise point near the coffee table. With her distance perfectly measured, she leaned in with malice and delivered the full double salvo out of the muzzle of her V-neck top. “Cream?” She waited a tantalizing pause before adding, “Or sugar?”

Romero tried his best to maintain an aloof composure as the girl sashayed in but she was simply too drop-dead gorgeous. Then the young woman bent down. Don’t look! His eyes rebelled and refused his mental command not to drop. His vision was transfixed by the heavenly cleft. His pulse spiked and his blood pounded into his ears so strongly that he could barely hear her sultry voice. She said “Cream” first. That was exactly the thought running along his currently one-tracked mind. “Or sugar?” Breathe! Now aware that he had stopped, Romero hoped it wouldn’t require a ventilator to restart his respiration.

“Black—thanks.” Having managed an intake of breath, his reply was after a slight pause. He wrenched his gaze up to her smiling face as she straightened. His face felt as hot as the steaming coffee. Will my tan obscure my blushing? Sitting back on the sofa, he crossed his knees and tried to appear composed while taking deep breaths. She couldn’t have affected me more if she had done that on purpose.

‘Deuce!’ Having caught the effect of her barrage, Jessica was pleased to note her brilliantly served ace had now brought the hormonal tennis match to level.

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Chapter 4 of Shiva’s Messenger

Nursing Mom and the Apron Strings

Returning from her late night mercy mission, Cindy found her worst fear confirmed.  The young man wasn’t alive.  She knew on only a glance but wouldn’t give up yet.

“Wake up!”  She yelled at his slack, peaceful face.

Cindy pinched his nose and tilted his lifeless head back.  Sealing her lips over his, she blew a breath into his lungs but felt the resistance of the fluid inside.  Her fingers groped his neck for the pulse point to prove his flat-line.  She pounded her fist down onto his chest in a hard pericardial thump.

“Breathe!”  Cindy resonated to the newly deceased.

She slapped his face and pinched him.  Listening to his chest, she could detect a flutter of a heartbeat.  She blew him another life-sustaining breath but this time she forced as much as she could into his lungs to dislodge some congesting phlegm.

“Where’s that will to live?”  Picking up the bucket used to wash him, she dashed it over his upper body.  The water had now grown cold.  He convulsed and the next shallow breath he took on his own.  Her fingers found the carotid artery again.  The throb of life was there but tentative.

“Show me some backbone.”  She spanked his cheeks hard enough to make them pink.  “You’re not going to die on my watch.”

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A visit to a hairstylist had his hair dyed jet black and groomed meticulously into a ponytail.  Spending some time each day in a tanning shop had darkened his skin tone to suit the role.  Outfitted, as a model stepped from a style magazine’s cover and pampered with a manicure, he now looked the part.

“Hello, Romero Escobedo.”  He examined his appearance in premier hotel suite’s mirror and deemed the effect was perfect.

One week earlier, a Caucasian bush rat boy arrived in Calgary with his beat up pickup truck.  Now a chic Latino man drove from a temporary base in Cranbrook, in his expensive BMW Z5 sports car.

Having already checked his hair in the car’s mirror and done a fast buff on his shined shoes, Romero tugged at his cuffs to smooth the fit of his charcoal suit.  His slightly pointed lapels and the tailored cut of his jacket lent a semi-formal hint of a tuxedo.  He took a deep breath on the sidewalk to enter his sphere of awareness and looked though the glass doors at the client service counter.

[The daughter of the mountain is Parvati.]

“Wherever that came from—knock it out of your head.”  I don‘t need the complications of a hitchhiking spirit, mooning for his consort from another life.  Blocking out any thoughts, Romero found his zone of perception and stepped within.  “Focus!”