BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(8)

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.”

“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.