Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  “Nope, for what you’re doing for me, it’s not big enough.” Feeling better than he could remember in a long time, he left the diner and headed around the corner.

  Eighteen

  “You look familiar.”

  Mark shook his head, at a loss. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall ever meeting you. I did have a photography business a few years ago, but I used a different place to process my photos.”

  The manager of the camera and film store shrugged. “Maybe it’ll come to me. So, your application looks impressive, but…” He paused and cleared his throat. “I gotta admit; I’m a little leery of the big break in your work history.”

  Mark scratched the back of his neck. He’d known this could be a problem, but didn’t know how to answer. He’d never been convicted of anything, let alone a felony, so he truthfully answered no to that question, but the whole truth was complicated, and he didn’t think he should reveal it. Not if he wanted to be hired. He sighed and met the younger man’s eyes. “I know. I totally understand your reluctance. All I can say is it was a personal issue. It won’t happen again.”

  His leg bounced as he waited for the man to make a decision. “Mr. Parker, I’d appreciate if you gave me a chance to prove myself to you. Please.” He didn’t want to sound like he was begging, but when it came down to it, that’s what he was doing. His future rested on the shoulders of a guy ten years younger and with half the experience.

  “Gary.”

  “Excuse me?” Mark leaned in, his hands resting on the store counter.

  “Call me Gary. It feels kinda weird being called Mr. Parker. Makes me feel like I’m your ninth grade English teacher or something. And if you’re gonna be working here…”

  Mark’s fingers pressed against the glass, and his leg froze mid-bounce. “You mean I got the job?”

  “Yep. You’re hired. You know it doesn’t pay much? Just ten bucks an hour, but if you take up photography again, you can use the equipment to develop your prints.” Gary smiled and stuck out his hand. “Free processing is one of the perks. Not much of one anymore though.”

  Mark shook the offered hand. “Why? Sounds good to me.” Right now, everything sounded good. He had a job. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  Gary shot a look around the store. “I shouldn’t say this ‘cause it’s probably gonna put us out of business one day, but if I were you, I wouldn’t even bother with film anymore.”

  “You think digital is going to be that big? The quality of the prints isn’t nearly as good.” He’d looked into digital a few years ago, but hadn’t liked the fuzziness of the photos. It was fine for family snapshots, but not professional photos.

  “I know you’ve been out of photography for a year or so, but haven’t you kept up at all?”

  Mark tensed. What if the kid withdrew the job offer? “I’m afraid I haven’t. Tell me what I missed.” He hoped his appeal to Gary’s knowledge would flatter the guy.

  Gary grinned and came around the counter. Apparently he liked the role of teacher. He pointed to a row of cameras on display. “My pleasure. These babies are going to be the future of photography.” He picked one up and showed Mark. “All digital. You’re right, it used to be that pictures printed from digital looked bad, but that’s changed.” He tapped a framed photo beside the display. “See how crisp that looks?”

  Mark picked up the photo. The colors were bright, the image sharp. “You’re right. This is gorgeous.” He glanced at the camera in Gary’s hands. “One reason I didn’t switch was because I had lots of different lenses. I couldn’t see investing in all new ones just for the digital cameras.”

  Gary held up a finger. “Ah, but now they fit. They wised up.”

  “No kidding? That’s great.” He set the photo down and picked up another camera on display. It felt good in his hands. Automatically, he raised it and looked through the viewfinder. His finger twitched on the shutter button, and he accidentally snapped a photo. “Aw, shit. I’m sorry.” He set the camera down and stepped back.

  Laughing, Gary set the one he held down and grabbed the one Mark had used. “It’s not a big deal. We can just erase it. That’s the beauty of digital. No more expense of paying to process bad shots.”

  Mark wiped his hands on his thighs then shoved his hands in his back pockets to keep from touching anything else. “Yeah, I guess that could be a good thing.” It had only been a little over a year, but he felt like so much had changed. Would he ever get caught up with all that he’d missed? “So, when should I start?”

  * * *

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I need first and last months’ rent up front.” The landlord held out his hand.

  Mark reached for his wallet. That would take almost all of his money. “Can I give you the first month and then give you the rest when I get my first paycheck?”

  The landlord folded his arms across his ample chest and scowled. “I don’t run no charity house here, buddy.”

  Mark forced a smile. “I realize that, sir. It’s just that I’ll need to eat in the meantime.”

  “Try the soup kitchen around the corner.” The man rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign that meant money.

  Mark, hands on his hips, surveyed the dingy walls and cracked floor tiles. Roach motels decorated the corners of the studio apartment. A layer of dust covered the windowsill and the glass was so smudged with dirt that the bright sunshine only supplied a dim murkiness to the room. A battered sofa matched with a scratched end table were on one end of the room, an old chest of drawers on the other. The dining area consisted of a rickety table and chairs pushed up against the wall by the kitchen.

  The apartment was a shit hole. It galled him that the greasy little guy had the nerve to act like an ass. Mark’s jaw tensed as he tried to check his anger.

  “You know what? I just changed my mind. I think I’d be better off sleeping on the streets.” He shoved his wallet back in his pocket and turned for the door.

  “You ain’t gonna find nothin’ better if ya can’t afford this.”

  Mark lifted his hand and waved it dismissively. Whatever. He was down the steps and had his hand on the door to leave when the landlord came puffing down the stairs.

  “Wait. I’ll let ya have it for the first month and only half the second month.”

  Mark released the doorknob. “First month’s rent, and I’ll paint the place, clean it up.”

  The guy cocked his head, considering. “You buying the paint and supplies?”

  “We split the cost, but I get a hundred bucks off the second month’s rent for my labor.” Mark calculated that even with the price of the paint, he’d still be ahead. He didn’t think he could live in the place looking like it did. The ugly, drab little room wasn’t much better than his cell had been and in some ways, worse. At least the cell had been relatively bug-free.

  “Fine.”

  Mark paid the agreed amount. “I can get started cleaning this afternoon. Is there a broom around?”

  The landlord handed him a receipt. “I might have one in the basement. I’ll check.” He reached in his pocket and took out the key. “Here ya go.”

  The key warmed Mark’s palm. He took a deep breath, easing it out as he squeezed the piece of metal. He had a home. Not much of one, but he had the key and he could come and go as he pleased. “Thank-you, sir.”

  * * *

  The landlord had surprised him by dropping off not just the broom, but sponges, a bucket and a mop. The rest of the day, and into the night, he scrubbed walls, windows, and floors. Finally exhaustion and hunger brought him to a halt. Scrounging into his meager stocks he came up with a couple of peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches and a glass of milk, which he ate sitting on the floor so he could survey his progress. The window sparkled, the floor was clean, and the walls weren’t quite so dingy, although they still needed paint. That would have to wait until the next night.

  There were a number of things that would have to wait their turn and the list grew.
He had taken so many things for granted his whole life. Now, he was happy for the sliver of soap he’d found stuck to the shower caddy. He should have thought to take the soap from the motel, but at least he had snagged the shampoo.

  The mattress in the sofa bed looked suspicious so he slid the mechanism back and replaced the cushions. The couch would do just fine. It would feel as luxurious as a bed at a five-star hotel. Before settling in for the night, he went to the refrigerator and poured milk in his lone glass. Tilting his head back, he downed it in four satisfying gulps. Gasping, he swiped his arm over his upper lip, and grinned despite the brain freeze.

  Easing down on the couch, he kicked his feet up, wrapped his coat around him and tucked his head into the crook of his arm. For the first time since his release, he slept through until morning.

  Sun glinted through the windows, filling the apartment with a warm glow. He blinked at the brightness and rubbed his eyes. A surge of adrenaline shot through him. Today was his first day at work. The thought propelled him off the sofa, and he rummaged through the clothes in the dresser, pulling out his least faded jeans and a plain black sweater. He made a mental note to ask the super about the closest laundry facilities. It would be too much to hope there was one in the building, not that he was complaining. As an afterthought, he grabbed a clean pair of sweatpants to use as a towel. It was one more thing to add to the growing list of necessities.

  After showering and shaving, he stood in the kitchen, a glass of milk in one hand, a granola bar in the other. As he crunched the bar, he gazed out the window onto the street below. Mornings in his loft, he’d often awakened early, catching the first rays of the sun as they gilded the waves on Lake Michigan. He’d loved that loft. By some stroke of luck, the view of the lake from his windows had been unimpeded. He missed sipping a cup of strong black coffee as the city stirred awake. It was his time to think, to let his creativity take flight as he planned the day’s photo shoots. Taking the last bite of the bar, he washed it down with the milk.

  Between getting the job and finding the apartment yesterday, he’d gone to his old apartment building. The super was a different guy, someone Mark had never met. The man had checked the records, and confirmed the eviction.

  “It says here that since nobody came to claim the belongings, they were put on the curb.”

  “What about my car?”

  The guy had simply shrugged.

  “So, that’s it? There’s nothing left?”

  “Sorry, buddy. It was all legal.”

  It was all gone. His apartment, his equipment, his photos, his business, his old life.

  A taxi blasted its horn, and Mark started. He blinked, dragging in one long breath and then another. Life marched on. There was nothing to do but stumble along and deal with it. His earlier eagerness faltered with the memories. Trying to regain it, he glanced around the kitchen. Sure, it wasn’t his old loft, but it was his new home and things could be a lot worse. He set about making sandwiches for lunch. Peanut butter and jelly was quick and cheap, and he rounded his meal with an apple, tossing it all in a bag.

  His spirits perked up as he stepped into the crisp morning air and took a deep breath. Above the smell of exhaust and stagnant puddles scattered on the pavement from melting snow, came the scent of spring. Bicyclists sped past, seemingly unfazed by the early morning chill in the air.

  A bike would be great. He wondered what had happened to the one that he’d kept in his loft storage area. He hoped it had gone to a kid. He mentally added a bike to his wish list. Food, shelter and clothing were the priority. He had those three now even if the clothing and food weren’t in abundance.

  After work, he’d stop at the store and get some more basics for meals. He planned to hit the thrift shop again, see if he could afford some sheets and towels. So much to do, so little time. It hit him how much he’d missed having plans. To having a purpose to each day. It was what life was all about.

  The walk to the camera shop only took about twenty minutes. At an intersection, he stopped for traffic and took a moment to turn his face to the sun. It didn’t have much heat, but the light against his eyelids warmed him. Opening his eyes, he smiled at an old lady waiting beside him. She scowled and tottered off the curb, muttering something about young people on drugs. His smile stretched to a grin. Life was good.

  * * *

  The next week passed quickly. During the day, he fed film into the processing machine, tended to customers and sold a few cameras. After work, he put a fresh coat of paint on the walls of the apartment. He painted one wall a deep blue, and the other three cream-colored. He’d found an area rug at the thrift store. It wasn’t a necessity, but as he laid it on the floor in front of the sofa, he knew he’d been right to purchase it. Even with a couple of tattered corners, it added a homey air to the room. It was a cheap replica of an Afghan rug, which he thought somehow fitting. Or ironic. He wasn’t sure which.

  A week after moving in, he’d fallen asleep on the sofa while reading when he startled awake, disoriented and unsure of what had awakened him. The book he’d been reading slid from his chest to the floor. Nothing looked out of place, so he reached for the book, the movement freezing when someone pounded on the door. Heart thumping, he crossed the room but didn’t touch the doorknob. “Yeah?”

  Why wasn’t there a damn peephole? He put an ear to the wood. It was silly to think that there’d be men in dark suits lurking in the hall.

  “It’s Bud. I came for the receipts.”

  Mark ran a hand through his hair as his heart settled to a normal rhythm. He opened the door. “Sure. Come on in while I get them.” He strode to the dresser, opened the top drawer and withdrew an envelope.

  “Jeezus, this looks damn good, Taylor.” Bud touched the blue wall. “Not sure if I like the blue-it’s gonna be hell to paint over someday-but, it looks good.”

  “Thanks. Here’s the receipts. I deducted some of the stuff that I bought for myself.” Mark pointed to where he’d subtracted the cost of a can opener and a few other things.

  Bud shrugged. “I trust ya. Just tell me what I owe you.”

  Mark swallowed, feeling stupid for the gratitude that washed through him. “I circled it there at the bottom. It came to forty-three dollars.”

  “What’d you do? Steal the paint?” Bud chuckled as he flipped open his wallet.

  “Uh…no, I got it cheap because it was a return. Not the right color for someone.” Mark shuffled his feet and jammed his hands in his pockets. “It’s all there on the receipt.”

  Bud paused as he counted out some bills. “I was just jokin’.” He gave Mark a questioning look, then handed him the money. “All I have is two twenties and a five-”

  “Sorry, I don’t have change right now. I’ll just run down to the mini-mart and get some.” Mark knew without looking that he didn’t have change. He’d spent his last two dollars on milk.

  “Nah, don’t worry about it.” Bud waved him off. “Hey, I was thinking. You got any more of that paint?” He jabbed a thumb at the blue wall.

  “Sure. It didn’t take much to cover the one wall. Just a couple of coats. Why?” Mark put the bills in his wallet. Grocery money. He’d worked for himself for so long, it hadn’t occurred to him that first paychecks were delayed a week or two. Now he could eat.

  “I got another empty apartment below this one. You think you might be interested in painting it like this one?”

  Surprised at the request, Mark shrugged. “I guess. I could probably paint it this weekend.”

  “Great! Same rate? A hundred bucks?”

  The job was worth more, but it was money and he was desperate. Working around cameras every day was torture. His fingers itched to try them, and every moment he wasn’t processing film, he played with the digital models. Gary had let him test one at a park and then uploaded the pictures to be printed. A few of the prints now decorated the shop. He wanted to save enough to buy his own, but at ten bucks an hour, it would take forever. “How about one twenty-five?�
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  Bud narrowed his eyes, but then grinned. “Deal.”

  After that, Bud called on him with other jobs. Mostly painting, but when he found out Mark knew a thing or two about photography, he asked him to take some pictures of the newly painted apartments to put in a brochure for the building. He even admitted that he’d been able to raise the rent on the units.

  Some jobs, Bud paid him cash, others, he knocked a few bucks off the rent. Either way, Mark felt like he came out ahead. The weather eased from brutal cold to spring dampness, and when he wasn’t working at the camera shop or fixing up apartments, he jogged. The freedom of running wherever he wanted never got old.

  Nineteen

  Jim leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the Chicago skyline. Relief at getting through the first week as head of the new FBI Counter-terrorism task squad swept through him. The two months of preparation that had gone into accepting the position had been worth it. Standing, he plucked his suit coat off the back of his chair and draped it over his arm. It was too nice of a day to wear it home. The office was mostly empty, but he nodded to the few agents still putting in time at their desks.

  A couple of guys nodded back, and one told him to have a nice weekend. Jim smiled in response. Maybe there was hope that they would eventually accept him. His reception by the agents had been guarded, and he’d sensed a bit of resentment that their task force was headed by a CIA officer. It made no difference to them that some CIA offices were headed by FBI agents. The cooperation between agencies wasn’t new, but that didn’t make it easier for the agents under his authority. He’d already discovered that FBI and CIA had different ways of looking at things, and he’d made a point of emphasizing that as strength in his first staff meeting.

  The weekend loomed and he had absolutely nothing to do. Maybe he’d go out and have a big juicy burger at that pub he’d seen a few blocks from his apartment. The game was on and he’d be able to catch a few innings.