Deliverer

Chapter 3

Alfred, a white-haired man and by far the oldest in the group, picked up Truman and Claber from the airport late in the evening. Lack of sleep made Truman cranky and irritable. By the time they reached the mansion tucked deep in the Canadian forest, he had a headache the size of Mt. Everest. It pounded like the steady beat of a bass drum.

Barley greeted him as soon as Truman opened the car door, the wet nose nearly knocking him back inside. Barley’s entire back half wagged back and forth with the force of his tail.

“Good boy,” Truman said, scratching behind his ears. He glanced up to see Grey descending the concrete steps into the garage.

Hey, Boyscout,” Claber sneered at Grey. “How was dog-watching? Earn another merit badge?”

Grey ignored the badgering. “He’s glad you’re home, Boss. Started whining as soon as he heard the car pull in. Knew it was you.”

“The only good thing my father left me,” Truman muttered.

Grey shrugged. “Well, the money’s nice too.”

Truman pressed a hand against his raging head. “Gentlemen, I’m exhausted. Claber, I’m leaving you in charge.”

“Take Barley for a walk, Boyscout,” Claber said.

“No.” Truman put out a hand, stopping Grey. “Come, boy.” Truman patted his thigh and Barley leapt to his side. “How are we on food?”

“We could use some food items,” Grey admitted.

“Then go get them. I’m sleeping. Do not disturb.”

“Out of here, Boyscout,” Claber grumbled.

Truman ignored them. He stumbled into the house and up three flights, pausing only to take a quick drink of tonic and gin. That usually helped. He climbed into bed. Barley jumped on beside him, the weight and smell of the dog comforting. Truman fell asleep before he’d closed his eyes.

At noon Claber walked in and opened the blinds. Sunlight poured over Truman's face, and he winced. "Claber. I did not request a wake-up call."

"Grey just phoned," Claber said, unperturbed. "He can't get up the hill. Says there's a cop staking out the driveway."

Barley jumped off the bed and exited the room, tail wagging the whole time. Truman sat up and directed his attention at Claber. "Where is he now?"

"He kept going. Pretended like that wasn't his stop. But if that cop decides to drive up the mountain..." Claber let the sentence hang.

Truman scowled. "Why is he here? Fayande is supposed to keep them away from here. Isn't that what I'm paying him to do?" Officer Fayande was Truman’s inside man to the Montreal police force. It was his job to keep the cops out of Truman’s business.

Claber grunted. "Maybe you better remind him."

Truman grabbed the discarded jeans at the foot of the bed and fished through the pockets for his phone. His hand closed around it and he pulled it out, hitting the speed dial for Fayande. Truman didn't worry about Fayande turning him in. Fayande liked the perks of being in The Hand's pocket. Sure beat the policeman wages.

Fayande answered, the French words purring through the telephone.

Truman interrupted. "Why is one of your men at my doorstep?"

Fayande switched to English in an instant, his voice laced with panic. "One of my men is at your house?"

"No, luckily for you. He is in my driveway."