DARBY STANSFIELD THRILLERS
Chop Suey
Stroganov
Loco Moco
BONUS NOVELLA
The St. Petersburg Confessions
(Prequel for Ghostface who appears in Stroganov)
TY HUTCHINSON
DESCRIPTION
When disgraced sales associate Darby Stansfield discovers he has six months to save his job, he does what any normal person would do. He freaks.
Desperate to resurrect his career at Teleco Wireless, Darby conjures up an international scheme filled with the promise of endless, high-spending clients. It’s brilliant, it’s international, it would have his boss snooping and his best friend sweating, but it has Darby on a plane to Hong Kong where he signs his latest client, a Chinese gang.
Meanwhile, bodies are piling up in San Francisco and Darby has no idea that his brilliant plan has just put him on collision course with the killer.
To make matters worse, those closest to him find themselves caught up in his dangerous plan. Darby must now make a tough decision—give up on the one good idea he ever had or risk it all.
Chapter 1
San Francisco, California
All along the West Coast, arrogant men sat across from each other picking at their power bagel breakfasts while they hashed out multi-million-dollar deals. There would be no bagels at my meeting, but I didn’t care. I was determined to close my own moneymaker worth hundreds, possibly even thousands, of dollars. My advantage? Blackmail.
I had a half hour to get the deal done. To say I was nervous was an understatement. My palms looked like they were Sweatin’ to the Oldies with Richard Simmons. Even I didn’t quite understand how I ended up with my career at rock bottom…well I do, but it’s a long story. Right then I had a plan to fix things, so I kept wiping.
I kept a brisk pace as I walked into the heart of North Beach, San Francisco’s Little Italy. Pasta and cannolis reigned supreme on Columbus Avenue, but Fat Sal’s Pizza by the Slice was my destination.
Turning left on Green Street, I continued until I saw the large red and white pizza sign jutting out from the building. A smaller one hanging on the door read “Closed,” but I knew better. I took a deep breath, checked myself over once again and headed inside.
My black oxfords called out my arrival as I crossed the chipped, tiled floor. Click clack, click clack, click clack. I had put on my best that morning, a two-button windowpane black suit accompanied by a crisp, white dress shirt complete with French cuffs and a steel-striped tie. The entire ensemble was off the rack and a gift from my mother seven years ago.
I placed my briefcase near the bottom of the counter and cleared my throat. The fat man behind the counter turned and said, “Darby Stansfield. To what do I owe this visit?”
That’s Fat Sal, the owner of this one-man operation. He specialized in cheap slices heated to perfection in a microwave. Only the occasional tourist and the after-bar crowd ever thought to set foot in this dump.
“You forgot so soon? We had a meeting.”
I had been a sales rep for Teleco for almost three years now. Selling wireless business solutions to small businesses was the game. And I was the pawn getting my ass kicked. Pizza parlors needed a couple of cell phones, maybe a website. Anything else was complicated, or so Fat Sal believed.
One by one, I plucked extra-thin napkins out of the metal dispenser and dropped them onto the dirty countertop. The outer edges of the napkins turned bright orange as they soaked up the grease left over from the late-night rush, when Fat Sal did most of his business. I doubt that these counters ever saw a bottle of cleanser. And I doubt that Fat Sal ever saw what was coming his way today.
There’s no turning back now.
I stabbed the small mountain of napkins with my pen and navigated the countertop. Grease trails and a rogue hair followed the makeshift mop wherever it went.
Fat Sal already told me on the phone that he had no interest in the deal. Too bad––I did.
I removed the product from my briefcase and placed it on the counter, officially putting my plan into action. What I was about to do would change my life. I was sure of it. No turning back. Are you ready, Fat Sal?
“I present the R-450 Teleco Wireless Router. It’s got a powerful reach and impressive download speeds. Free Wi-Fi is exactly what you need to increase sales,” I said.
Fat Sal raised his shoulders like it was part of the English language and said, “Darby, people come here to eat. That’s it.”
The wife-beater he wore was stained beyond repair and hugged every roll around his mid-section. And he had more exposed hair on his body then his head. Why he even wore a hair net baffled me.
“I get that, but nowadays you gotta have an edge on your competition. Wi-Fi is––”
“Aaahhh-chooooo!”
Fat Sal’s sneeze interrupted my spiel. I watched a light mist settle on the counter and my router. And it pissed me off a bit.
Fat Sal then said to me, “This ain’t a library. Understand?”
Oh, why thank you, master of the obvious. I watched Fat Sal back away from the counter and over to a wooden table where he picked up a flattened piece of dough and tossed it high into the air above him. The pasty white disc spun in a perfect circle effortlessly until it smacked against his forested arms. Again, smack. Again, smack. I hate to guess how many of those tiny black hairs would be absorbed into the dough.
“People come, they eat, and they leave. I have five tables, Darby.”
I nodded as I watched Fat Sal place the twelve-inch flat pizza dough on the table in front of him.
“You know Darby, every time you come in here you try and sell me something. Maybe if you help out around here, sweep up a bit… I’ll think about buying something.”
“That’s what you said last time Sal. And I did sweep up a bit––for almost a week.”
Fat Sal wobbled from side to side as he came out from behind the counter. He reached around the back of my head and pulled me into the underworld of his smelly armpit. The left side of my forehead tucked in perfectly under his large man-boob.
He lowered his voice and his tone turned serious. “Darby, am I not one of your few customers?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think you should treat me better, no?” Sal said. Then he erupted in laughter causing his boob to jiggle on top of my forehead.
The more I struggled to free myself, the tighter his arm clamped down around my head. This had become a common theme over the last year or so. The headlocks, the false promises to buy product, the expected ass-kissing––this bullshit would end now.
Are you ready, you fat Mortadella? I am.
Chapter 2
Fat Sal had stepped right into my trap. So predictable was this man-sow, it was laughable. My head was the perfect bait.
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. With a flick of my wrist, I snapped it opened. I practiced this the night before over and over again until I had it just right. The downward movement, the amount of crispness to the paper… all of it was methodically thought out.
“What about this?” I yelled.
Printed on the paper was a picture of Fat Sal picking up one of those crackhead twinks always cruising Broadway Avenue near the strip clubs. Mr. Tough Guy here likes playing ball with the other team.
Fat Sal snatched the paper from my hand. “Where did you get this?”
“Take it––I got plenty. I might even drop them accidentally around the neighborhood? Hey North Beach, get a load of this.”
Stage three of my plan had arrived.
I needed it, considering stage two was all about revealing Fat Sal’s secret.
I was still in the headlock––it was expected. So I locked on to my target, balled up my fist, and swung with all my might right up between his legs. Fat Sal let out a wail that sounded like a moose giving birth.
Predictability will get the dumb ones all the time. It’s easy to hunt a creature of habit. Close your eyes, count to ten, and pull the trigger. If the timing’s right––bull’s-eye. And so far, my timing was impeccable.
My other clients were also retail establishments. I had the Beauty Spot Salon and Tanaka’s Kendo Dojo on contract. None of them needed anything I had to sell. How am I supposed to make a living if all I’ve got to work with are mom-and-pops? Give me an IBM and I’ll sell a million dollars a year, no problem. Then maybe I’ll be back where I should be: on top. But guess what? I don’t have them, so blackmail it is.
Fat Sal was the guinea pig and so far things were going well. I considered hitting all three of them today. I already gathered proof of their misdeeds. I could if I wanted, too. I might.
And if things took a different turn with the others, in my back pocket I had a foot-stomp for Master Tanaka and a roundhouse hairdryer to the head for Ms. Siu. Wham, bam, thank you, gang.
Fat Sal released his grip as he yelped in pain. I pulled away and grabbed the R-450 Teleco Wireless Router off the counter and whacked the side of his head, sending him down to his knees. That got his attention quickly.
“Listen up,” I said. “I expect you to buy ten of these bad boys. You got that?”
The truth is, I only intended for him to buy five routers but seeing how easy this was, I called an audible right before the hike and upped the quantity. If I could register ten sales, it would take some of the heat off me at the office. My sales had been in a coma long enough.
Fat Sal was still hunched over when he looked up at me. His face flushed red with embarrassment; perhaps a little anger was mixed in. I wasn’t worried, though. I expected this sort of reaction. Fat Sal got turned out by this here pimp.
And then the unexpected happened.
Chapter 3
Like a mother hippo protecting her young, Fat Sal moved decisively back around the counter. His stare never left me except for the second he disappeared below the counter. Deep down inside I prayed that blubber man wanted to put a swift end to this.
Before I knew it, he was barreling down on me with a wooden Louisville Slugger cocked back behind his shoulder.
“You little prick,” he said between gritted teeth.
Wait…whose plan is this? Fast-moving fat man with a wooden bat was definitely not mine. I quickly kicked one of the cheap aluminum chairs toward Fat Sal, toppling him. I darted over to the counter, snatched my briefcase off the floor, and shoved the router inside.
Fat Sal had already recovered by the time I turned around. He stood like Hogzilla, blocking my path to freedom. “You screwed up,” he snarled.
I kicked another chair toward him, but he was ready for it. His leg sent the chair smashing into the wall. I was running out of options as the distance between us started to close. Tables on either side of Fat Sal blocked an easy escape. Think, dammit, think.
And then he was upon me, bat swinging down with crushing force. I managed another lucky side step as the slugger hit a home run on the table behind me, destroying it. I nearly escaped having my head caved in but now I found myself standing near the end of the counter. Trapped between heat lamps and a stack of industrial-size cans of red sauce, there was no place to go but straight.
I focused on Fat Sal. Surely by now he was locked and loaded for another explosive swing. But he wasn’t lurching. No forward approach. No flanking. Nada. He stood there, bat down by his side as he swayed a little. Moaning, he held the left side of his face with his hand.
PIZZA OWNER KNOCKS HIMSELF OUT WITH NAPKIN DISPENSER.
This would be the headline on the front page on the North Beach Examiner had he actually gotten knocked out. Stunned was more like it. It looked as if the force of the bat hitting the table sent the metal napkin dispenser straight up into Fat Sal’s eye––the equivalent of him socking himself. It was all I needed to slip around him.
I was a step away from exiting the pizzeria when I felt a hand clamp down on my shirt collar and yank me back in.
In one quick movement, the bat swung around swiftly and lodged itself under my chin. Fat Sal grunted as he tugged back on the bat. I could feel hot snorts of air spray against my neck.
The pressure from the bat was so intense, a cough couldn’t squeak by, let alone an “F-U.” What was he thinking? What was I thinking? And then I realized I wasn’t breathing––nothing in, nothing out.
Fat Sal was going Cosa Nostra on my ass!
I grabbed hold of the bat with both hands and pulled down as hard as I could. It wouldn’t budge. I might as well have been doing pull-ups. I continued to yank on the bat, hoping it would give or a customer would walk in soon and see what was going on.
Someone? Anyone? Pizza at nine in the morning was perfectly normal, right?
The bat wouldn’t budge and I was running out of time. I lifted my right foot high off the ground and aimed best I could, slamming it down. The heel of my oxford cut into his shoe right on his big toe. Perfect.
Fat Sal let out another yelp, this time higher pitched, like an unlucky wildebeest caught daydreaming by a den of lions. The Tanaka Foot Stomp had been successfully tested in the field. Fat Sal dropped the bat and I began sucking wind.
I ran hard for three blocks before I was convinced Fat Sal wasn’t chasing me. My hands were shaking when I stopped to rest on the steps of the St. Peter & Paul Cathedral near Washington Square. This wasn’t what I imagined when I set out to blackmail my clients into buying wireless routers. Not only had I lost another client, but I would definitely have to avoid this part of town.
I stretched out on the stone steps and let the sun warm my face. I rubbed my sore neck, hoping there wasn’t any bruising. From my squinty eyes, I counted the geriatrics practicing Tai Chi in the square. Fourteen total. What an easy life they had.
With my roster now reduced to two measly clients, whose need for wireless products was essentially nonexistent, I began contemplating my options. I realized then, I didn’t have any to contemplate.
I looked at my watch––almost ten. I was sure my oafish manager at Teleco was busy conducting a head count. I stood up and brushed off my pants.
Another Darbytastic plan failed.
Something had to change. This wasn’t the career I was supposed to have.
Chapter 4
Life at Teleco is much like life at any other massive corporate blob. Two thousand people enter the revolving doors every morning between 8:45 and 9:30 a.m. They shuffle through like drones, two at a time, each of them sporting a Starbucks cup in their right hand and a Timbuk2 bag slung over their shoulders. Surprisingly, there are no left-handers at Teleco.
Stewie, the talkative guard, mans the morning shift at the information desk and has worked for Teleco for eighteen years, seven months, and twenty-three days. During that time, he has religiously said hello to every single Teleco employee. He greets them all the same way: “Mooornin’.” He holds the O and drags it out a bit. In return he receives roughly fifteen hundred monotone responses, most of them unrecognizable.
Of the two thousand people employed by Teleco, roughly three percent are what the company refers to as their heavy hitters. They are the earners, the ones who haul in the cashola by truckloads. Every single one of these moneymaking machines works in sales, and they make Teleco gazillions of dollars by selling wireless business solutions to Fortune 500 corporations.
Heavy hitters are the darlings of Teleco. They are admired by all and envied by most––and rightfully so. These so-called rock stars are privy to a life recognized with yearly monetary bonuses, gold-framed plaques reaffirming their position, and a whole lot of “atta boys” from senior management. Mitch and Murray from
downtown would pay a whole lot for these closers.
“If you work in sales, you can become a heavy hitter,” I was told.
Nothing could be farther from the truth. I, like most of the sales department, feed at the bottom of this spectrum. Our livelihoods at the company are not pedestal worthy. Yearly recognitions will never be lavished upon us, nor will we be worshipped as closing gods. Invisible is what we are.
I exited the elevator at the sixth floor. This was where the magic happened––or so I wished. I took a moment to survey the wasteland of sectional cubes. My fellow sales associates were already four to five calls in on potential gold mines.
Every five seconds or so a frenzied head would pop up from a cubicle. Whack! Whack! Whack-A-Mole! Back to work, you cogs. Only closers get coffee, remember?
We were told wireless business solutions could improve the bottom line of any company. Even a company with four employees needed phones that chirped. Instant connections increase worker productivity, and worker productivity saved money. And as long as I had accounts with a heartbeat, Teleco would never fire me. They wanted every business out there to be a Teleco customer. We worked on commission, so the company money belt didn’t care. I can survive on peanut butter, right?
I took a seat in my cozy cubi-cell. The décor was modern supply cabinet. A white penholder, a black stapler, and an empty tape dispenser all anchored by the centerpiece… a word processor running on archaic 2.0. I had plenty of ideas on how to liven up the place. I choose not to implement them.
I turned on my PC and settled in for the wait. Turnover in this department was ridiculous. The average bottom feeder lasted six months, tops. I had been here for almost two worthless years.
My screen flickered back and forth between blue and black as the beige box next to it wheezed itself to a start. Five minutes is what it took for my desktop to come back from the dead. How could I expect to be productive if I was forced to start each workday with an unproductive task?
Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella) Page 1
