Choice Cut

By

George W. Parker

revised initial print edition

Copyright 2021 by George W. Parker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

in any form without the permission of George W. Parker.

Chapter 1

The night was moonless. A hot, gusting, wind from the Northwest carried South Plains dust in it. On the crest of a rolling hilltop two kilometers from a highway, near a small travel trailer and a long bed pickup truck, a single glowing pole lamp was the only evidence of life between the towns of Haskell and Throckmorton.

Along the highway, following a steel fence line, a mob of Living Dead worked their way down a hill. They could smell Living Alive in the trailer.

Pressed up against the fence railings, they staggered along until they reached a “Texas Gate,” a metal grid of pipes that allowed cars gateless entrance onto the property. They flowed through the opening, the leading LDs moving quickly toward the trailer. Behind the surging frontline several hicog LDs followed at a slower pace.

***

The trailer swayed with the gusts of the wind. Crowded around the trailer’s built in dining table Jerome, his wife Kay, their oldest daughter Kate and the younger girls ‘the Twins’ sat eating soup under the unshaded ceiling light.

Jerome and Kate were in jeans, tee shirts and boots. Kay and the Twins were in pajama bottoms and tees.

Kay said, “I hope that wind don’t flip this thing over.”

“Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz?” one of the Twins asked excitedly.

Kate laughed.

“No, honey,” Jerome answered. “No flying to Oz. We’ll be okay. I got a couple of tie downs staked before the dirt hit. They’ll hold us.”

“Darn,” both Twins said together.

Kay did not look convinced.

There was the sound of glass smashed outside.

Jerome jumped up from the table. “Someone’s breaking into the truck! Kay, get the girls out of here!”

“Girls! To the bedroom! NOW!” Kay ordered pushing Kate toward the front bedroom with her right hand as she pulled the Twins out from behind the table with her left.

Jerome rushed to the countertop drawer next to the door. He pulled out a Colt automatic and two extra magazines. He moved to the door and secured a heavy bar across it.

“Kate, leave the lights off and get the mattress moved over,” Kay ordered as she hurried the Twins into the front bedroom.

Kate pushed the corner of the mattress off its platform exposing an empty, shallow storage area.

“Kate, get that piece of plywood out of the way so you and the Twins can get down under to the front storage. Just like we’ve practiced. You can go out either way then if you need to,” Kay instructed. She smiled at Kate.

Kate slid under the mattress and into the narrow storage area. She moved a small section of plywood aside as her mother had instructed.

“Girls, follow Sissy and do what she says. No arguing,” Kay told the Twins as she helped them into the space under the mattress.

“Get on down into that bottom storage. I am going to move the mattress back now. IF, you stay quiet, no one will ever know you’re there. Love you. Now hush,” she added and pulled the mattress back into place.

Kay smoothed out the bedspread so it was neat and went to the closet for the twelve gauge.

Someone beat on the door with a fist.

“I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it,” Jerome shouted.

Kay came in from the bedroom with the shotgun.

“You should be with the girls,” Jerome whispered loudly at her.

“I can shoot better than you,” Kay answered.

“That you can,” Jerome grinned. “Cover the windows behind us.”

“Yes, sir,” Kay replied.

Someone beat at the door again. Several voices chanted, “Open. Open. Open,”

Kate wiggled her way down into the lower storage compartment and onto some boxes of winter clothes. She pulled her sisters down beside her. “Stay hushed, like Momma said.”

The Twins nodded.

The trailer began to rock left to right. Kate pulled her sisters close to her. The rocking back and forth became stronger. There was the sound of breaking glass from inside the trailer. Two shotgun blasts rang out. The trailer tipped over and fell onto its back side. Kate and her sisters were buried under clothes.

The outside access door to the storage area was forced open. Hands reached in and pulled out clothes until they touched one of the Twins. Hands pulled the girl out of Kate’s arms. Both twins screamed.

There were more gun and shotgun blasts. Then there was just the gusting wind.

Chapter 2

The sun was high in the cloudless sky. It was hot. There was no wind. The bus sped south on Buckner Boulevard through the Dallas suburbs. The name on the side of the bus read “Lake Highlands Collegiate Academy.” The bus was empty except for the driver. He was a young man dressed in dark clothes His hair was cropped short. There was a small tattoo on his right hand between his thumb and index finger.

The bus crossed over I-30. The driver gave a signal and moved over to the inner most lane. The lights at the Buckner/Samuell intersection changed. The driver slowed the bus and stopped.

The intersection air was filled with the smells of fast-food hamburgers and fried chicken. People were busy entering and exiting the Sam’s Club on the right. The driver quietly watched the lights, waiting. The orphanage was just ahead on the left.

The light changed; the driver moved forward toward the left-hand turning lane. He signaled and eased into the center lane and stopped across from the orphanage entrance. He turned on his left turn signal and waited for an opening in the oncoming traffic.

When the opening came, he cut across traffic and pulled into the orphanage. He stopped in front of the “Administration Building.”

A lean woman in a sleeveless dress came out of the building. Her hair was loosely pulled back into a ponytail. She walked quickly to the driver’s side window and tapped on it with her right hand. There was a small tattoo between her thumb and index finger.

The driver opened the window.

“You’re late!” the woman said.

“I got here as fast as I could after I got the pickup call,” the driver answered. “Should have given us some warning.”

“You get what I get,” she snapped back. “We never know when we’ll get the word to clear ’em out.”

“Where are they?” the driver asked.

“Back in Admin,” she answered. “They’re ready to tear the walls down. They can’t wait to go somewhere, anywhere.”

She pointed up the road with her left hand. “You can turn around up there and stop here. We can load ’em from the curb then.

“Okay,” the driver said.

“I told them they were going to the rodeo,” the woman added.

“Cool,” the driver answered with a grin.

The woman did not comment. She stepped away from the bus window, turned and headed back to the building. The driver put the bus in gear and went to turn around.

***

The woman followed the last child up the bus stairs. “Just sit anywhere,” she said to the little girl. The bus was two-thirds full of elementary age kids. They were bouncing and jumping around and talking excitedly.

“Is that all you got?” the driver asked.

“That’s all I’ve got that won’t be missed.”

“Almost a waste of gas,” the driver noted.

“Almost.” The woman clapped her hands loudly three times. “All of you have to sit down and put on your seat belts. Ben, here, won’t move an inch until you settle down and act like human beings. Do you want to be late to the rodeo? Do you want to just stay here?”

Most of the kids shouted “No” and quickly settled down into their seats.

The driver turned around and faced the kids. “Anyone need help buckling up?” he asked.

More shouts of “No!”

“Okay then,” the driver responded. “Let’s go to the rodeo.”

The kids put up a cheer.

“Are you going with us?” the driver asked the woman.

“No,” she answered with a head shake.

He winked at her. “You’re welcome to come.”

“No thank you,” she restated.

“Then you need to hop off. We’re ready to roll,” the driver laughed.

The woman spun around and headed down the steps of the bus and out onto the sidewalk.

“See you next week, maybe,” the driver called after her as he closed the bus door. The woman did not seem to hear him as she walked away.

The driver watched her through the glass in the bus door for a couple of seconds before he put the bus in gear and pulled away from the curb.

Back on Buckner the bus continued southward. After a few minutes, the kids became more animated. The overall volume rose. The seven-year-old girl in the seat behind the driver shouted, “Mr. Ben! Are we there yet?”

The driver looked up into the long mirror above the windshield and made eye contact with the girl.

“We’re not there yet,” he answered. “But it’s not much farther.” His eyes went back to the traffic around the bus.

“I’ve never been to a rodeo before,” she said with a wide grin. “Have you?”

The driver looked back up at the girl and smiled, “This won’t be my first rodeo.”

“They don’t hurt those babies when they rope them, do they?” the little girl asked.

The driver’s eyes came back up into the mirror. “Sometimes the calf gets hurt,” he answered. “But not often. They take care of it pretty quick.”

“They have doctors there for the cows?” the little girl asked.

The driver’s eyes were back in the mirror looking at the girl. “Yeah, kind of,” he answered. “Now let me drive. We turn left up at the next light and then we’ll almost be there.”

“Okay, Mr. Ben,” the girl answered. But then she quickly added, “Will you set with me?”

The driver looked up and smiled. “I’ll sit with you.”

“Super,” she said with a squeal.

The driver made a left-hand turn onto a smaller street. After a couple of blocks, he made a right hand turn unto a still smaller street which went through a light industrial area.

He pulled into a graveled lot that backed a large sheet metal building. He stopped the bus near the building’s overhead garage door.

One of the bigger boys at the back of the bus shouted, “That don’t look like any rodeo to me.”

The driver stood up and looked to the back of the bus, “Do you know what an indoor rodeo looks like?”

“No,” the boy answered. “But it don’t look like that.” Several of the bigger kids laughed.

“Let’s wait and see before we pass judgment, okay?’ said the driver. He bent down slightly to look out the window beside the little girl.

The garage door lifted creating a dark opening into the building. A man stepped out and waved at the bus.

“See, there’s a cowboy,” the driver said loudly. “Wrangler jeans, ugly cowboy hat and an untucked cowboy shirt. He’s probably got on Larry Mahan boots and that ugly hat is just ugly.”

All the kids on the bus laughed.

“Looks rodeo to me,” the driver added. “All of you stay in your seat and let me go see where he wants us to park.”

The driver opened the bus doors and walked down the steps. When he was out of the bus, he pushed the doors closed. He walked around to the front of the bus and met the cowboy.

“Howdy,” the cowboy said, and he reached up with his right hand and touched his hat brim in greeting. There was a tattoo on his hand between his thumb and index finger.

“Where do I unload them?” the driver asked nodding back at the bus.

“All business, aren’t you pardner?” the cowboy laughed.

“I have other stops to make today,” the driver answered.

“I hear ya. Just pull inside. We’ll unload in there. No prying eyes.”

“Okay,” the driver answered.

“You gonna stay and have a bite with us?” the cowboy asked grinning.

The driver looked through the windshield and saw the little girl watching him. He turned back to the cowboy. “No, I’m not that far yet.”

“Pity. Nothing better than fresh, body temp, ‘Choice Cut’ meat,” the cowboy said still ginning.

“I’m sure,” the driver answered. “Are they going to suffer?”

“No, dude. We run a humane slaughterhouse here. Besides, it can ruin the meat. What do you think we are?”

“Just had to ask,” the driver said. “Let me get pulled in and unloaded. I got more stops to make today.”

Chapter 3

The wind had picked up downtown. The dirt in the wind blowing through the high rises gave the sun a dull halo. Through lowered Roman blinds the dulled light lit a back room in an old office building. The wind whistled in around the loose sashes. Seated at a table Bill Keaton drank coffee. His dark suit was cleaned, pressed, out of style.

A bell tinkled above the noise of the wind. Keaton shifted his vision from his coffee cup to the closed door to the front office. The bell tinkled again.

Crisp footsteps moved across the office. A chair was moved. Then, except for the whistling wind, there was silence.

Keaton, looking at the door, took another sip of coffee. He set his cup down and used the edge of the table to carefully push himself up and out of his chair. He stood for a few seconds, adjusted to the orientational change, then walked to the connecting door. The doorknob rattled as he turned it.

The man seated in the client chair at the desk turned his head at the sound.

He was a medium sized LA dressed like a Victorian gentleman in double breasted frock coat. A black mustache, wavy black hair and big sideburns finished his look.

Keaton pulled the door open and stepped into the small, windowless front room. The unshaded tungsten bulb in the ceiling fixture cast a harsh light across his face.

The man stood up. “Ah, there you are, sir,” he said with a nod toward Keaton. “I was about to leave a note.”

“Sorry, I don’t move as fast as I used to,” Keaton answered. He started across the room toward the guest. When he was near, he continued, “Afternoon. I’m Bill Keaton.”

The guest was a little shorter than Keaton. He clicked his heels together, nodded his head and stretched out his gloved right hand.

Keaton demurred.

“Quite right, sir,” the guest said pulling his hand back. “Old habits.” He introduced himself, “My name is John G. Hobson.”

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Keaton smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hobson. Please, have a seat. Hot outside?”

“It is August,” Hobson answered.

“Yes, it is. What can I do for you?” Keaton waved the guest back towards a seat in the client chair.

Hobson did not return the smile. He sat back down.

Keaton moved behind the desk and eased himself down into the desk chair. A small glass bowl filled with red hots was the only item on the desktop. Keaton picked up the dish and offered it to Hobson.

Hobson shook his head no.

Keaton pulled the dish back and extracted a few.

“Do you live here?” Hobson asked.

Keaton popped a red hot into his mouth. “No, I live in that room,” he answered, cutting his eyes towards the back room. “This is the office.”

“Oh. I see, sir,” Hobson replied.

“No one back there. Just a restroom, a beer frig, a hot plate, the couch I sleep on, an armoire, and a table and chair for drinking coffee. What more do you really need?” Keaton popped another red hot into his mouth.

“Yes, sir. I see, sir,” Hobson answered.

“I’m glad you can see,” Keaton said, smiling again. “I’ve lived alone too long to still enjoy it.”

Hobson was silent.

Keaton repeated, “What can I do for you Mr. Hobson?”

“I am sorry, sir. I do not mean to offend. I am just trying to be thorough,” Hobson replied. His eyes fixed on Keaton’s.

“No offense. Let me see if I can be thorough,” Keaton answered. “I don’t make a lot of money. Not a great call for my services these days. I rent these two rooms. I’ve had them for years. The two floors above us are empty. The rest of this floor and the one below are full of lawyers and dentist, LA and LD. You saw the restaurant on the ground floor. You had to almost walk through it to get to the stairs. Alice’s, the best chicken fried steak in Texas. That’s about it.”

“Yes, sir. I saw the sign,” Hobson answered.

Keaton reached for the red hots and tossed more of them into his mouth. He looked at Hobson and waited.

“We are looking to hire a bodyguard,” Hobson continued.

“I’m a little old for bodyguard work, Mr. Hobson. It implies a need to get physical. You know, my hand/eye coordination is still good. But my foot speed and punching strength leave a lot to be desired. Now I try not to get into races or slugging matches. And I haven’t been physical in ages,” Keaton laughed. Hobson did not.

Keaton tilted his head a little toward Hobson and added a small smile, “Please excuse my soliloquies. I also don’t get a lot of visitors.”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir,” Hobson answered again. Then he continued, “What we are looking for is someone with good judgment.”

“I don’t remember being accused of that one before,” Keaton grinned. He picked up more red hots and popped them into his mouth. He gestured at the dish again. Hobson, again, shook his head no.

“It’s not part of an abduction or a heist is it?” Keaton asked.

“No, sir. It’s more of a chaperon situation. Ms. Ruth is going to a rugger match tomorrow night. You know how rugger matches can be. We would like someone with experience there with her.”

“The Living League match?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a tough ticket.”

“Yes, sir. It was.”

Keaton looked at Hobson for a short spell.

He asked, “You said, ‘...we are looking for someone with good judgment.' Who are the ‘we?’”

“That would be Mr. Raymond Davies. Ms. Ruth is Mr. Davies daughter,” Hobson answered.

“You’re not included?”

“I am merely the butler, sir,” Hobson replied.

Keaton nodded.

“Are we talking about THE Raymond Davies?” Keaton asked. “I didn’t know he had a daughter?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Davies does have a daughter and he is very protective of Ms. Ruth. But she is of the age when young ladies want, and need, to get out of the house.”

“Hire an army to guard the girl,” Keaton offered.

“We have tried that, on occasion, Mr. Keaton. I’m afraid Ms. Ruth does not approve of Mr. Davies’ army. She and her father were able to agree on one interloper in addition to her usual accompaniment for this occasion.”

“An ‘interloper.’ Okay,” Keaton replied. “What is her usual ‘accompaniment?’”

“Her driver Phillip and Tristan.”

“And Tristan is…?”

“Tristan Martin, he is Mr. Davies’ personal assistant,” Hobson answered. “He lives with us.”

“That must be convenient,” Keaton offered. “That’s not much protection for anyone. Much less for someone like your Ms. Ruth.”

“I concur, Mr. Keaton. But such is life. We have to manage with what we have available,” Hobson stated.

“Why me?” Keaton asked.

“You come highly recommended from several areas.” Hobson paused for a second with a shoulder shrug. He continued, “And Ms. Ruth thinks you have a kind face.”

Keaton laughed, “Okay. I haven’t heard that one in a very long time. Where did she see my face?”

“The internet, sir,” Hobson answered.

Keaton grimaced. “I thought I cleaned all my pictures out years ago.”

“No, sir,” Hobson replied. “There are several images of you. Most of them are quite flattering.”

Keaton did not respond immediately. When he did, he asked, “Okay, so what’s the play?”

“‘The play?’ sir?” Hobson asked.

“Sorry,” Keaton smiled. “Detective talk, Mr. Hobson. What I meant to say was; I am available to accompany Ms. Ruth tomorrow night. What do we do next?”.

Hobson smiled, “Wonderful, Mr. Keaton. Excellent. Mr. Davies and Ms. Ruth will be so excited that you can help.”

“Great. I’m glad that I’m available,” Keaton answered.

“Mr. Davies wishes you to come to dinner this evening. If you can?” Hobson continued. “He believes it would be good for you and Ms. Ruth to familiarize yourselves with each other.”

“Sure, dinner would be great, Mr. Hobson. When and where?”

“We will send the car for you, if you wish. We will pick you up downstairs at say, Ten?” Hobson added.

“That’s a little past my bedtime. But since I don’t have to drive...” Keaton paused with a smile. “But Ten would be great. Formal?”

“Oh, no, sir. Casual. Mr. Davies is very casual at home,” Hobson answered.

“Great,” Keaton repeated.

Hobson nodded. “Mr. Davies has authorized me to tell you, ‘Spare no expenses.’ Nothing is more important than Ms. Ruth’s well being. He will cover any and all of your needs.”

Keaton smiled broadly. “Great. Will you be there this evening?”

“Yes, sir. I will be serving.”

“Super,” Keaton said pushing up from his chair. “Can I get you a car?”

Hobson, very gracefully, rose from his chair and said, “No, thank you, sir. Phillip is waiting for me.”

“Oh. Well, great,” Keaton answered.

Hobson turned and left the office. The little bell above the door noted its opening and closing.

Keaton stood and looked at the door for a long time after the bell had gone silent.

Eventually he shook his head and said, “Rich people. And their butlers.”

Chapter 4

Keaton sat on the couch in the back room. The room had darkened. The air around the sashes whistled a lower note. He checked the time on his wristwatch.

“I’ll never make it to Ten. I’m starving.”

Pushing himself up from the couch he teetered for a second before catching his balance. He took a deep breath, slowly inhaling. “Damn, Alice’s smells good. Always smells good.”

“I’m a big boy. I can eat two suppers if I want. Who’s to stop me?” He moved toward the connecting door.

Out in the hallway the low, night lights were on. Keaton turned left and moved passed quiet, closed offices towards the stairs. The elevator doors beside the stairs were marked with yellowed ‘Out of Order’ tape.

He walked down the stairs slowly, holding onto the handrail, watching his step in the dim light. On the second floor landing he stopped and inhaled deeply.

“Damn chicken fried steak.” Keaton shook his head and started down the next set of stairs.

On the ground floor he turned right and opened a frosted glass door that opened onto the lobby of the building.

The lobby was ten meters square with checkered flooring. The double glass doors to the street across the lobby from Keaton let in a dusky light.

The right wall of the lobby was glass brick, looking into the restaurant. Set in its center was a revolving metal and glass door. To the right of the door was a small, script neon sign, Alice’s. Keaton moved toward the revolving door.

Before he got close to it a couple from inside Alice’s stepped in and gave the door a turn. Two of the glass sections slid around before the couple stepped out into the lobby.

He was a desiccated LD businessman, his skin shrunk tightly against his cheekbones. His upper lip pulled up a little above his teeth. In his mid-fifties and a thin build when the change came, he wore a dark serge suit, wingtips, and a C-crown snap brim hat.

The businessman looked at Keaton and nodded as he and his date stepped out of the revolving door.

Her make-up was heavy. She wore six-inch heels, a next to nothing polyester skirt and a diaphanous blouse that showed more than the skirt. The small, pillbox hat on her head canted to the left. A little bit of black veil hung off the hat and covered her left eye. If she had been ten years older, she would still have been young enough to be the man’s daughter. She was a Living Alive.

She did not take notice of Keaton.

The man took hold of her right hand and hurried her across the lobby.

The revolving door was still moving slowly around as Keaton reached it. He waited for the next slot to open and stepped in. Without adding any force to the door, he follow it around into Alice’s.

The restaurant was loud with diners. Brightly lit booths and tables stretched ahead and out to the right with a short, stand-up bar in the front left corner. Two old LA men in worn, three button suits with menus in their hands, greeted Keaton as he stepped out of the revolving doors.

Keaton asked, “Is Paul working this evening?”

The LA on the left smiled and answered, “Yes, sir. This way, sir.” He turned to the dining room and took off between the tables at a quick clip. Keaton had to move fast to keep up with him.

They passed tables and booths of LD and LA diners and several mixed tables of LDs and LAs enjoying their meals together.

At the far end of the room, near the kitchen, the host stopped before a small table up against the exterior wall, “Will this be alright, sir?”

“Yes, it’ll be fine,” Keaton answered. “As long as it’s in Paul’s station.”

“It is, sir,” the host answered and laid a menu down on the table. “Paul will be right with you, sir,” he said and left.

Keaton moved around to the back of the table and eased himself down into the chair and pressed its back against the wall. He surveyed the room.

A small, thin LD busboy pushed out through the swinging doors from the kitchen. He carried a glass of water in his left hand and a napkin wrapped knife and fork in his right. The back of the right hand had a tattoo on it. He headed slowly toward Keaton.

The busboy did not move in a straight line. His left leg moved erratically veering him off in random directions.

The door from the kitchen opened again and Paul, a tall, thin, LA, stepped out carrying a loaded tray of food with one hand and a tray stand in the other. He stepped around the busboy and headed to Keaton’s table.

“Good evening, Mr. Keaton,” Paul said as he got close. “Give me a second and I will be right with you.”

“No problem, Paul,” Keaton answered. “I’m in no hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” Paul answered and looked back over his shoulder at the busboy, then at Keaton. “Timing should be good, sir. I will be right back,” he said and took off with the loaded tray.

The boy was about five feet away from Keaton when Paul came back by with the empty tray and stand in his hands. He stopped, set up the stand beside Keaton’s table and set the tray down on it. Then he stepped over and took the water and flatware from the busboy and set them down in front of Keaton.

“The usual, sir?” Paul asked.

The busboy gave Paul a look.

Keaton looked up at Paul. “I wouldn’t turn my back on him, Paul.”

Paul smiled. “He is alright, Mr. Keaton. He’s the cook’s nephew. No one else would hire him. He forgets everything. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so, Paul. That’s a Harlequin tat on his hand,” Keaton replied. The busboy was moving back toward the kitchen at his same deliberate speed.

Keaton continued, “I am really just looking for something to tide me over until late tonight. I’ve got a big meeting. Maybe just a half order and some coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” Paul answered. “I’ll make some fresh coffee for you and have it right out. And I will keep an eye on that Harley,” Paul replied and winked. He snatched up the tray and stand and moved quickly back into the kitchen.

Keaton looked over the room. At the far end the hosts were handling a short line of incoming that had formed. Keaton’s eyes roved over them.

Paul returned with the coffee.

“That was fast,” Keaton smiled.

Paul set the large, steaming, mug down in front of Keaton. “Someone had just started it. They must have seen you walk in. Enjoy,” he said with another wink and headed back to the kitchen.

Keaton pulled the mug over close and wrapped his hands around it. He looked back out over the room and the people. Eating, laughing, working their tables, the LDs or LAs, they all behaved the same. Keaton picked up the coffee cup and sipped from it.

The cook’s nephew came out from the kitchen twice to clear tables that were not in Paul’s station. He did not look at Keaton as he passed by.

Paul buzzed by Keaton several times but not with Keaton’s food. Keaton worked on the coffee until he sat the empty cup down and pushed it away. Paul stopped the next time he passed.

“More coffee, Mr. Keaton?” he asked.

“Yes, please. Thanks, Paul.”

“I’ll check on your order. It should have been up by now.”

“Thanks, Paul. Maybe they had to go hunting for it,” Keaton joked.

Paul did not smile. He acknowledged the comment and headed to the kitchen. He was back in a couple of minutes carrying Keaton’s order and a pot of coffee.

“Your order was just up, Mr. Keaton,” Paul explained. “I gave the cook a piece of your mind.”

Paul grinned as he sat the plate down and then refilled the coffee cup. “Does everything look okay?”

“Everything looks great, Paul. Thank you,” Keaton answered.

“Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Keaton,” Paul responded. He headed back to the kitchen.

Keaton ate about half the meal, emptied his second cup of coffee and stood up. Paul was not around. Keaton tossed some money on the table.

Chapter 5

Sitting in the office chair Keaton checked the time for two hours. When it was time, he stood up slowly, then crossed to the door.

Downstairs Alice’s was still open. One host was working the door. Keaton walked past the revolving door and exited out onto the street.

The streetlights were on with a haze around them. It was windy but manageable and cool. Keaton stepped away from the building and turned up his collar.

A black limousine cut across the empty street to the curb in front of Keaton and slid to a stop. A burly guy in a very nice black suit, white shirt and black knit silk tie opened the driver’s door and slid out from under the steering wheel.

“Mr. Keaton?” he asked.

“Yes,” Keaton answered.

“Mr. Davies sent me. I’m Phillip,” he explained moving back to open the passenger’s door.

Keaton smiled and walked toward the car. “Thank you, Phillip. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, sir. Just a couple of minutes,” Phillip replied returning the smile. “Mr. Hobson instructed that you would be punctual.”

“I’m glad I didn’t disappoint,” Keaton answered. He looked Phillip up and down. “You look like you played some football. Should I know you?”

“Probably not,” Phillip’s smile grew into a grin. I played some pro when I was younger.”

“That could not have been that long ago,” Keaton answered. “You only look about twenty-six right now.”

Phillip continued to grin. “That’s right, sir. But Mr. Davies pays much better.”

“I am sure he does,” Keaton smiled and lowered himself down into the back seat and fixed his collar.

Phillip looked in. “Do you need anything, sir. A blanket? A drink?”

“No, thank you, Phillip. I’m fine. It’s a short hop.”

“Yes it is, sir,” Phillip answered. He shut the door and moved back into the driver’s seat. It was quiet in the car. There was no wind noise. Not a sound from outside.

Keaton said, “It’s quiet in here.”

“Yes, sir,” Phillip replied. He looked into the review mirror. “Would you care for some music?”

“No, the silence is fine,” Keaton answered. “Just unaccustomed to it.”

“Yes, sir. It does take some getting used to,” Phillip answered. He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

The car drifted through Downtown and into Oak Lawn, then headed north on Preston Road. Money lay deep along both its sides.

“Nothing ever changes along this road,” Keaton said.

Phillips eyes lifted up into the mirror.

“When the change came the property along Preston Road didn’t,” Keaton continued. “The owners’ respiration was altered, not the deeds. Money is the elemental force.”

“Yes, sir,” Phillip answered. He lowered his eyes back to the street.

Shortly Phillip turned off the street through a not very ornamental iron gate onto a gray gravel driveway. The car crunched its way forward along a sweeping curve through a forest of elms toward an oversized Tutor Revival home. A single light was lit over the ornate oak front door.

“This really is the Edsel and Eleanor Ford house, isn’t it?” Keaton asked.

“Yes, sir,” Phillip answered.

“I read your boss brought crews over from England to move it piece by piece from Detroit down here. Took them three years to tear it down and another two to rebuild it.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what Hobson told me,” Phillip responded.

“Did Hobson come with the house?” Keaton laughed.

Phillip’s eyes were in the rearview mirror looking at Keaton, “Hobson did not say anything about that,” he answered.

Keaton laughed.

“It takes a lot of money to move a lot of money,” he added. “Synthetic meat has been good to your boss.”

Phillip’s eyes were back on the driveway as he nodded his head. “Yes, sir. And some of it has been good to me.”

“Trickle down economy,” Keaton stated.

“Yes, sir,” Phillip answered.

“For such a high profile, Mr. Davies seems to not have much security around here,” Keaton offered.

“Try spitting on the driveway when you get out of the car, Mr. Keaton,” Phillip suggested with a grin, his eyes back up in the mirror. “There’s a Navy Seal team on alert, just looking for an excuse to fire their weapons.”

“Really?” Keaton asked looking at the smiling eyes in the car mirror.

“Really,” Phillip answered. “The government watches after Mr. Davies.”

“Obviously Hobson was incorrect about Ms. Davies hating the Army watching over her. She hates the Navy,” Keaton said.

“Yes, sir,” Phillip responded without a laugh. He stopped the car at the front door and climbed out to open the passenger door for Keaton.

Keaton stepped out onto the driveway crunching the gravel. “Sorry, that was loud. This is the quietest place I have ever been?”

“Yes, sir. This way, sir,” Phillip instructed motioning toward the front door where Hobson waited.

Keaton inclined his head towards Hobson. “Hobson got to the door fast. Do you think he was just standing there waiting?”

Phillip did not look towards Hobson. He answered quietly, “He’s like that.”

“Maybe he heard the noisy gravel,” Keaton said. “It was loud enough to wake the dead.”

Phillip smiled but did not respond.

“Thanks, Phillip,” Keaton added.

“My pleasure, sir. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you when you’re ready to go home,” Phillip responded.

Keaton looked, “It could be late.”

“I hope it is, sir,” Phillip smiled.

Keaton headed towards Hobson. Phillip climbed back into the car and pulled away.

Hobson smiled. “Good evening, Mr. Keaton. We are excited to have you.”

“And I am excited to be here,” Keaton answered with a slight wheeze. “Sorry. Must be allergic to all this fresh air.”

Hobson did not comment. He smiled and said, “Welcome to Davies House.”

“Thank you,” Keaton answered. “This is the Ford House isn’t it?”

Hobson continued to smile as he answered, “When it was in Detroit it was, sir. When Mr. Davies bought it and moved it here, it was rechristened.”

“I suppose kind of like renaming a boat after the divorce,” Keaton replied.

“I suppose,” Hobson said as he stepped to the door and opened it for Keaton.

Keaton stepped through the front door into Elizabethan England except for the subdued electric lighting from an almost dimmed chandelier. The oak paneled foyer was twice the size of Keaton’s office space with a ceiling ten meters above. A large sweeping stairway to the left circled to a landing and hallway above. A five meter by four-meter tapestry decorated the wall above the landing.

“Just like home, except I like a little more light,” Keaton commented.

“It is a beautiful home, sir,” Hobson replied. “Mr. Davies feels that bright lights in the evening perpetuates the stress of the day. Mr. Davies would like to speak with you in private before dinner is served.”

“Of course,” Keaton answered.

Hobson motioned to his right. “Follow me, sir,” and headed to a double doorway at the back right of the room. The doors opened onto a barely lit, dark paneled hallway.

Hobson stopped in front of an oak door. “Mr. Davies is here in the study,” he said opening the door and standing back for Keaton to enter.

Keaton stepped in.

The room was unlit except for a fire in a grate to the left. Hobson closed the door behind Keaton.

“Mr. Keaton, thank you for coming this evening,” a deep, low voice to the left, intoned.

Keaton turned to the sound of the voice, “Thank you for asking me, Mr. Davies. I wish I could see better. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“I apologize for the darkness of the room, Mr. Keaton. I find the lack of visual stimulation calming.” Davies laughed a deep rumble. “I’ve seen a lot in my life and honestly, less is better these days. Don’t you agree?”

Keaton could make out Davies’ standing shape, a shade of dark against the low fire behind it. He looked medium height and thin.

“And I am afraid you also need to overlook my not shaking hands with you. I had a bit of a Howard Hughes type phobia about touching other people even before the changes came.” He raised both hands so that I could see them and added with another laugh, “But I do keep my nails under control.”

“Mr. Davies, I am old fashioned. I believe that the client is the boss. And as long as your checks don’t bounce, I am fine with meeting anywhere and anytime.”

Davies rolled another deep laugh. “I had heard that about you,” he said.

“If you don’t mind my asking Mr. Davies, where did you hear that about me? Marketing likes to know.”

“A couple of acquaintances at the golf club think highly of you,” Davies answered.

“I didn’t know that I knew anyone who played golf,” Keaton replied.

“Well, like me, they weren’t playing golf. I usually just drink and play business,” Davies responded.

“Drinking I understand,” Keaton laughed.

“Never trust a man who doesn’t drink,” Davies offered.

“And never trust a man who can’t hold his tongue when he drinks,” Keaton added.

Davies laughed in response. “I do think you are the man for me, Mr. Keaton.”

Staring at the vague, dark figure Keaton asked, “And what is it I can do for you, Mr. Davies?”

“Yes, playing business, Mr. Keaton. Well, my daughter Ruth is all I have in the world,” the deep voice replied. “She was just a baby when we lost her mother.”

Davies cleared his throat and continued. He did not move as he told the story.

“We were down in Barbados when the change came, the first wave of LD changes. We didn’t worry too much when we heard about it. We were in Barbados. We went to the beach every day. Drank rum drinks. Watched the stars. Listened to the warm, night wind, music of the wind chimes hanging on the porch.

“You know how fast it traveled, Mr. Keaton,” Davies stated. “The LD was on Barbados. In my wife. I found her standing over Ruth’s crib. That’s when I learned you have to shoot them in the head to kill them. I will skip the details of that learning experience if that is alright?”

“Of course,” Keaton answered. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davies,” he added.

“Thank you. But it’s okay. That’s life,” Davies replied. “I saved Ruth. That’s what really mattered.” There was a pause and what might have been a sigh before he continued. “And now she is all grown up and won’t let me protect her. She thinks she is a big girl.”

There was a pause Keaton did not fill.

Davies did not wait long before he continued. “I guess she is a big girl. But I still want to protect her. And that’s why I need you, Mr. Keaton. I need you to watch over her. She’s allowing me to have at least one person with her.”

“What about your assistant?” Keaton asked.

Davies let out a harsh sound that may have been meant as a laugh. “Tristan is just a big, square jawed kid. I suppose he might be good in a fight, but I doubt it. I need someone with Ruth who can avoid the fight in the first place.”

“I’ll do everything I can, Mr. Davies,” Keaton answered.

Before Davies could continue there was a knock on the door and Hobson announced, “Dinner is served, Mr. Davies.”

“Right there, Hobson,” Davies answered. “Mr. Keaton, are you hungry?”

“Yes, I am,” Keaton replied.”

“Maybe a drink?” Davies asked.

“I might try a sip,” Keaton answered