The Trust

Rory listened patiently, fingers laced together, shading his eyes. I told him about Karen and the deal with Jarmon's father-in-law, what happened and how she'd been fired. About How Jorge had punched out Jarmon and why. Not once did he lapse into one of his many characters all through my recital, instead, when I paused to enjoy part of my drink, he peered up from under his fingers and, shaking his head sadly, allowed as how it had been fun knowing me.

"What?"

"What ya been talking about." Sad eyes. Jowls jiggling, and a slightly thuggish Italian accent, "Christopher, what you done...you're a dead man."

I thought a second. "Luther Adler! Not bad Rory, not bad at all."

"I'm not joking, pal. You have stepped in what might be described as the deepest of do-do."

"Whatta you sayin'," I aped his Italian thug theme, "someone's gonna put a contract out on me?" I finished my drink and gave him a sorry look.

He wagged his head and dragged his hand slowly over his face, speaking with a sighing hiss, "The horror-r-r-r!"

"Piss off! I came in here for some positive suggestions and advice, and I get Luther Adler and a mediocre Marlon Brando." I slipped off the stool, dropped some coin on the bar and strode out. Rory might be my best friend but he made me pay for the privilege.

Consulting him had been a monumental waste of time, but his warning could not be ignored. Whatever this crazy crowd was up to, my stepping into the middle and causing some serious havoc would certainly not go unnoticed. My problem was still not understanding the whole story; it bugged the hell out of me.

Day 8 of 9 days

My whole day seemed wasted. From getting up with no fresh milk in the fridge and having to traipse down to the local convenience store, to missing another breakfast with my wife - now she was my wife - not even Nora any more since it had been so long. At Karen's, all I got was her answering machine, and I left her a brief message.

The one bright spot had been the arrival of my cheque by registered mail from Cynthia, three grand, as promised and an invitation to drop by for a thank-you drink. There was no mention of time, place or even date, so I just filed it away for the time being. My little file folder fattened slightly; most was designated for my mechanic.

Something about the entire matter continued to eat at me; I felt the spectre of bad things looming overhead. The phone rang and I grabbed it up. It was Karen.

"Hi, I was trying to get hold of you."

"What is it now?"

"I want to sit down with you and get an explanation of this whole trust business. I'm off the case but it's just something I need to know." I begged and pleaded, promising that I wouldn't pester her again.

There was a long silence and then she said, what the hell, and agreed to meet me for a drink. I suggested the only place I'd been to lately and gave her directions. As advised by Joe Cocker, I left my hat on and, giving Sigourney a toothy smile, I steered Karen into a booth away from the speakers.

Joe's grating voice wasn't conducive to intimate conversation. As far as that went, the whole atmosphere of the Avocado Grotto was wrong, but here we were. Better the devil you know. I beckoned my old friend over and ordered a couple of Vodkas with 7-up and a twist. She gave me her familiar flat stare and sauntered back to the bar. Jealous I bet.

"So, how are you making out jobwise?" I asked, after she settled herself in the booth.

Karen was torn between hating me for pestering her and hating me for pestering her. "Are you an employment counsellor now?"