BAKER

by Scott Hildreth

  “He doesn’t make drops.”

  A drop was when a business took their cash to another location and made a deposit. Typically, it was done every day – and never at the same time – which made knowing when they were going to be flush with cash difficult. For someone to have tremendous income and make infrequent drops meant that they’d have an inordinate amount of money on hand.

  Money that could be ours.

  “Everyone makes drops,” I argued. “What do you mean he doesn’t make drops?”

  “He doesn’t make drops.”

  My interest was piqued. I straightened my posture. “Ever?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Define rarely.”

  “One-eyed Pete went in there two weeks ago after that guy in Henderson paid him back on that loan.”

  “For the slot machines he reconditioned?”

  “Yeah. The owner of that underground casino paid him with a gold bar. So, he goes into Pat’s and Pat agrees to buy it--”

  “A hundred-gram bar, or a four hundred troy ounce bar?”

  “How the fuck would I know? All I know is that Pat paid him four hundred fifty grand for it.” He arched an eyebrow. “In cash.”

  He’d garnered my interest. All of it. “You’re telling me he keeps that kind of cash on hand?”

  “I’m telling you what I know.” He extended his index finger. “He’s gettin’ a new alarm.” He raised his middle finger. “And, he paid One-eyed Pete damned near half a million in cash.”

  “Any word on why he’s getting a new alarm?”

  “Told Pete he’s gettin’ some state of the art system. He keeps all his shit in a vault, and doesn’t have a safe. He’s gettin’ one at the same time he gets that alarm. Sounds like he’s gettin’ nervous that someone might break in one day.” He shook his head. “The dumb fuck just offered that up while Pete was in there.”

  “When’s he getting the new alarm?”

  “Not sure. I told you what I know.”

  If Cash was right, the take from the job could easily be in the millions. The thought of it filled me with nervous energy. I needed to calm down, devise a way to disable the alarm, and develop a plan to rid Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange of its wealth.

  “Reno and Goose are downstairs pulling the motor out of Goose’s Shovel,” I said. “Tito’s supposed to be here in an hour or two. When he shows up, bring him up here. We’ll see what we can figure out with the alarm.”

  “So, you’re interested?”

  “Fuck yes, I’m interested.”

  The ear to ear grin returned. “Headache’s gone, huh?”

  Miraculously, it was. I nodded. “It is.”

  “I’ll holler at ya when Tito makes it in.” He stood and turned toward the door. “You should really try whacking off, though. Do it while you’re staring out that window of yours.”

  “I’m doing just fine, thanks.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I whack off twice a day. Can’t remember the last time I had a headache.”

  “I doubt there’s a correlation.”

  He shrugged as he turned toward the door. “Never know.”

  Anxious about Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange, I went to the window and peered down at the street. As I gazed blankly at the morning traffic, Ray Lamontagne’s Jolene played softly over the sound system. Like Ray Lamontagne, I needed something to hold onto, I just wasn’t sure what it was.

  I’d solved countless problems staring out at the San Diego skyline, but by no means all of them. The window was my place of refuge, and the men knew it. When I was there, I was off-limits.

  As the song ended, my eyes came into focus. At that same instant, a woman on a bicycle rolled to a stop at the bike rack by the corner. After locking her bike to the rack, she removed her sneakers, put them in her purse, and slipped on a pair of dress shoes.

  From my vantage point, she looked cute – and had a fabulous ass – but I had yet to see her entire face.

  She removed something from her purse, gathered her hair in her hands, and then looked right at me as she pinned it into place.

  Oh, my fucking God.

  Her hair was a few shades lighter, but there was no denying who she was. My stomach twisted into a knot. Frozen, I stared back at her in sheer disbelief. It had been six months since I’d last seen her, but I never forgot the faces of our club’s victims.

  I took a quick step away from the window, blinked my eyes a few times, and then leaned forward.

  The sidewalk was empty.

  I hoped that my migraines were causing me to hallucinate. I stumbled to my desk, sat down, and pressed the tips of my fingers against my temples.

  The odds of it being her were astronomical.

  If it was her, I had more problems than I was ready to admit. The first of which was making sure Cash didn’t see her before I figured out a way to get rid of her.

  FOUR - Andy

  Moving from my apartment in Indio to my cousin’s home in San Diego was embarrassing at first. I now viewed it as a godsend.

  To many in Southern California, riding a bicycle was a way of life. Throughout my job search in Indio, it was belittling. Each block I pedaled through, it seemed people turned and stared. Their glares and gestures stood as a constant reminder that I’d been fired, couldn’t find a replacement job, and was one of the city’s population that assembled California’s five percent unemployment rate.

  Thrust into the melting pot of San Diego’s Prius and Tesla driving millions, however, I became invisible. I was simply another eco-friendly traveler.

  I locked my bike to the rack and debated what to do with my hair. While clipping it into a managerial messy bun, I tilted my head back for one last look at San Diego’s clear blue sky before I entered the building.

  Sweet fucking Jesus.

  Sex on a stick was peering out of the third story window directly above me. It only took an instant to realize he was tattooed, wore an awesome beard, and was handsome as hell. Paralyzed by the thought of the sexual journey he and I could take together, I stared back at him with an open mouth.

  He rubbed his tattooed fingers against his temples and turned away.

  As fate would have it, the building he was in adjoined my new place of employ. The series of buildings were joined in a lengthy line of three-story businesses that extended the length of the block. Each had a different address, but they were all part of the same complex.

  I filed his likeness in my dildo dossier and wondered if gawking at him would become a permanent part of my morning routine. If not, I’d at least pleasure myself to a mental image of him until my recollection faded to nothing.

  Or until one of my cousin’s screaming kids banged on the bathroom door.

  I ducked through the doorway and hustled up the two flights of stairs. A steel door with a Manager’s Office sign on it let me know I’d reached my destination. Anxious to start my new job, I eagerly pushed against it, but it didn’t budge.

  I thrust my hip into it. It swung open with a bang!

  “Jesus!” A nondescript man spun around and looked at me with bulging eyes. “You scared the fuck clean out of me.”

  He wore clothes that had suited garden-variety men for decades, had ho-hum brown hair, an average build, wasn’t short, and was by no means tall. I scanned his face for a distinguishable feature and found not one thing that separated him from the masses of middle-aged men I’d met in my life.

  He studied me while I tried to decide how and where to categorize him. He was in his late fifties and was wearing faded jeans. A powder blue button-down shirt that fit much tighter in the stomach than it did in the shoulders topped off his ensemble.

  I looked at his feet.

  Loafers.

  I had encountered the male version of me.

  Mister Average.

  He stood in front of an awesome display of office furniture that was situated along a brick wall. I pushed the door closed and smiled. “Hi. I’m Andy. Andy Winslow.”

&nb
sp; “Just about shit myself when you slung that door open.” He extended his hand. “Mort Hicks.”

  I gave him a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” He turned away and walked toward the large desk that was behind him. “I’m the senior property manager. He told me you’d be here this morning. Said you were a scotch drinker.”

  “Mister Greene?”

  “His name’s Pale,” he murmured.

  I scrunched my nose. “His name is Pale Greene?”

  He faced me and laughed. “Kale. With a K. Kale Greene. Always liked saying it. Beats the shit out of Mort.”

  “Mort’s an awesome name.” I tilted my head to the side and peered beyond him. Contemporary office furniture fashioned out of weathered wood and stainless steel lined the far wall.

  “Who uhhm.” I wagged my finger toward the desk. “Who works here?”

  “Property manager.”

  “Property manager you, or property manager me?”

  “That’d be you.” He stepped aside. “Do you like it?”

  “The office?”

  He waved his hand toward the wall. “The new furniture. Kale had that shit delivered this weekend. Said he didn’t want you using that stuff that was in here. Good call, far as I’m concerned. Never know what that last dip-shit wiped on it or snorted off it. He was a real winner.”

  “The last property manager?”

  He leaned against the front edge of the desk. “Went by Preston, but his name was Todd. Cops came in and got him three weeks ago, Wednesday. Feds. That’s why that door’s so hard to open. They busted the old one off the wall, frame and all. New one fits like a saddle on a pig. That’ll be your first project. Get someone to fix that.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “Wow’s right. I come in this place maybe once a week, and I’ll be dipped in chocolate and rolled in roasted nuts if I wasn’t standing right here when that screaming bunch of bastards came bustin’ in here. Blew one of those flash-bang things right there where you’re standing. Made me blind and deaf at the same damned time. Peed a little, too, but it was unintentional. Next thing I know, there’s thirty angry fuckers in here with machineguns.”

  The thought of standing in the exact spot where the flash-bang grenade went off was pretty awesome – the machineguns and screaming feds only made it better. I wondered what Preston-Todd had hidden in the old desk, and wished they hadn’t hauled it off yet.

  “Holy crap,” I said. “Kale didn’t tell me that.”

  He stood up straight and stretched. “Suppose not.”

  “So, I work in here, and you don’t? I’m here alone?”

  He looked me up and down. “Don’t seem like the type that needs your hand held.”

  “I’m not. I was just--”

  “I drop by once a week. On Wednesdays, unless you need me for something. Kale owns about ten times this much property, and I’m the senior manager of it all. Shit. I go from Chino Hills to Chula Vista, and everywhere in between. I’m the guy you call if you can’t figure out who to call. Doubt you’ll need much, though. We’re at ninety-nine percent occupied now. Only place left to lease is the one Todd was in. 3-A.”

  “It’s in this building?”

  He pointed at the ceiling. “Right above us. Had the door fixed on it, too. Busted it at the exact same time they busted this one. Guess that’s how they do it. Keep a fella from gettin’ past ‘em, I suppose.”

  “I imagine so,” I said, my tone dry. Police tactics fascinated me. I could have talked about the raid all afternoon, but I guessed he didn’t want to.

  “Andy your real name?” he asked.

  “It is. Is Mort yours?”

  “Everybody asks. Sure is. Weird, huh?”

  “Your name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like it,” I said.

  He scoffed. “Makes one of us.”

  I was quickly coming to like him. His personality did what his features never would. It made me smile. I decided to categorize him with the father from A Christmas Story, and Clint Eastwood’s character, Walt Kowalski, from Gran Torino. He was funny without trying to be, and I really liked him so far.

  We spent the next two hours talking about my duties, what to expect, and how to resolve any issue that might come about.

  When we were finished talking, he gave me an old-school Rolodex that he’d listed all the important phone numbers in, and then brushed his hands against his faded jeans. “I’ll see you next Wednesday,” he said. “Won’t bother coming day after tomorrow, you’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything.”

  I was pleased that he seemed to trust me, and that he didn’t make me feel stupid for being a woman. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you will, too.” He yanked on the door twice before it opened. “See you Wednesday.”

  I took a seat in my new office chair. In no time, a chairgasm set in, and my eyes fell closed. I got up and looked it over. It was an awesome looking piece of furniture as far as chairs were concerned, but it didn’t appear to be as magical in appearance as it was in performance.

  I lowered myself into the cloud-like mesh, and swept my hand over the thick wood of my new desk. Irregular, yet smooth, the surface was cool to the touch. I glanced around the office. One wall was painted white, two were vintage brick, and one was nothing but windows. I wondered if decorating was allowed, and got lost in the possibilities.

  After deciding that black and white prints would look best, I walked to the glass wall and peered over the stone ledge. Across the street, a few people were walking in each direction. I watched them until they escaped my view, and wondered if they were fixtures in the neighborhood.

  A dull thud against the door caused me to turn away from the window. Then, it flew open and hit the brick wall with a whack!

  Just like Mort, I about shit myself.

  Not because of the door. Because of who stood there staring at me.

  Sex. On. A. Stick.

  FIVE - Baker

  When I’d seen her in the bank, it was through the eyeholes of a rubber Donald Trump mask. Having an unobstructed view from ten feet away shed a much different light on her appearance.

  She was attractive, no doubt. But her body was built for one thing, and one thing only.

  Fucking.

  We stood facing one another with our mouths agape. I swallowed a lump of sexual tension and blindly reached for the door.

  “The sign says manager’s office.” I pushed the door closed. “Are you the manager?”

  “I uhhm. Yes. I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

  Despite my desire to pull her pants down around her ankles and bend her over the desk, I maintained a somewhat professional posture. I raised my index finger. “I’ve got a few questions.”

  She was wearing wide-legged black dress pants, conservative heels, and a flowing white top. She wasn’t a tall woman, but the high-waisted pants made her legs seem unreasonably long. They also drew attention to her shapely hips. My eyes scanned the length of her body. From her dark gray toenails to her remarkably attractive face, she was very well put together. Her sun-streaked hair was off her neck and clipped into a bun.

  A bun that wasn’t quite centered.

  The hair bothered me, but her shapely body forced me to make note of every curve. My eyes shifted from the askew sprout of hair to her perfectly shaped hips and then back.

  Repeatedly.

  I had faults. Many of them, to be honest. Most I could conceal, leaving those who encountered me to be of the opinion that I was relatively normal.

  I wasn’t.

  I was somewhat of a perfectionist. There were many things in my life that could be out of order, but her bun didn’t appear to be one of them. Despite my attempts to dismiss it, I simply couldn’t keep my mind focused on anything else.

  She reached for it. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No.” I tore my eyes from the disaster that sat atop her head and met her gaze. “I
had a few questions about the availability of property.”

  She lowered her hands.

  My eyes shot to the bun.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  I needed to have a conversation with her. I knew myself well enough to realize doing so would be impossible if she didn’t fix her hair. I gestured toward the unsightly mess. “It’s not…” I waved my finger to the side. “It’s crooked.”

  “My hair?” She shrugged dismissively. “These things are impossible to get perfect, so I just wing it…”

  There was no way I could carry on any facsimile of a meaningful conversation with her hair in its cock-eyed state. I took a few steps toward her and raised my hands between us. “May I?”

  “Awk-ward,” she said jokingly.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  She let out a playful sigh. “Sure.”

  I opened the clip that held her hair in place, moved the mound over two inches, and clipped it in place. A quick inspection satisfied me that it was as perfect as it could be. As I stepped away, a wisp of her perfume caused me to falter.

  Hypnotized by the scent, I offered a compliment and a suggestive grin. “That’s wonderful.”

  She returned a confused look. “My hair?”

  “Your perfume.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” She curtsied. “It’s shaunce. It’s spelled C-H-A-N-C-E, but it’s French. It’s by Chanel.”

  I took every inch of her into view, taking time to pause at the parts that interested me the most. She was far too attractive for me to simply walk in, press her for information, and walk away. As much as I realized I needed to, keeping my hands off her would be difficult, if not impossible.

  I drew a slow breath. “It fits you well.”

  “Thank you.” She gave me a quick look. “You had questions about property? Here or somewhere else?”

  “Here. Do you manage other properties?”

  “Have a seat.” She gestured toward the chair positioned in front of her desk and turned away. Her ass was as remarkable as the rest of her. I fixed my eyes on it as she walked around the corner of the desk.

  As she sat down, I did the same.