The Trust

Peter Tolliver lifted his custom cut trousers by the knee crease and crossed his legs carefully, then sat back to contemplate his client. Everything about Tolliver seemed custom cut, from the elegant suit to the fashionably styled grey hair to the mannerisms and the baritone voice. He connected his manicured fingertips and placed the pointers against the tip of his nose.

"Bernard, it took a vast amount of legal and not so legal manoeuvring to limit your conviction to three years last time you became involved in a similar manner. This time they will not be as generous."

Bernie kicked at the ball he was putting on his carpet. "Generous! You call three years outta my life generous?"

"Considering the charge, I certainly do."

"Yeah, well I'm payin' you to see that it don't happen again, generous or not."

"I can only work within the parameters you set for me, Bernard. Murder accusations do not a cakewalk make."

"That was Jorge... the psycho. By the way, is he out?"

"Yes, but nevertheless, he takes his orders from you and that makes you just as guilty."

Bernie tossed his putter onto the sofa and jammed his hands into his pockets. He perched on the edge of his desk and scowled at the room and all its contents. "If that's the case, then what will a couple more matter?"

"Don't be naïve, Bernard." Tolliver dry washed his hands and straightened his perfect tie. "If this is a direction you're intent upon taking, I don't need to hear any more... it wouldn't be in either of our best interests."

"This is all privileged, this stuff, isn't it?"

"Knowing in advance of a potential crime removes that privilege in certain circumstances. It's better to not know, Bernard." Tolliver straightened his perfect jacket and extended a hand. "If trouble arises I shall be available as usual."

The two men shook hands and Bernie was left alone to ponder his next move. So far he had nothing to worry about unless the dame that saw Jorge whack Reg goes to the cops. That makes Jorge the center of attention, and Jorge leads right back to me, Bernie cursed to himself.

Jorge Starkman rarely responded well to authority whether it be the law or his employers and so when Bernie called him in began tearing strips off for killing above and beyond his mandate and then losing the woman called Karen, Jorge flipped him a finger and got up to leave.

"You better rethink that little gesture, Starkman."

"Yeah? I did what you wanted. Sometimes things don't go perfect, you know. Look at my head for Christ's sake. Twelve stitches."

"You didn't do what I wanted, you were seen, you idiot!"

"Screw you, Bonducci." Jorge shrugged his shoulders with attitude.

Bernie stood behind his desk with one hand behind his back and his left hand holding a huge automatic aimed at his man.

"You gonna shoot me, Bernie? You ain't gonna shoot me, you hire me to do the shootin' remember?" He wandered back to the front of the desk, shifting his shoulders under the big suit and straightening his tie. "Nobody tells me how to do my job. See this mess here," he said, pointing to fresh stitches in his head. "This is from doin' your work. You hire me, you get all of me, Bernie." His lips curled up in a defiant sneer.

The motion was a blur, and Jorge uttered only a surprised peep as the bat in Bernie's other hand connected with the side of his head in a sickening crunch, bursting open the fresh stitches. He flew across the room and slammed against the wall, sliding slowly down until he lay crumpled on the floor.