Asking For Trouble (3 page)

***

Richard awakened in a hospital bed. Molasses-thick memories trickled back into his consciousness. Progress was slow, but he knew he had been in the hospital for a week. He tried to move, but he only managed to move his head.

Suddenly, with the intensity of a thunderbolt, he remembered and began to cry. The accident had left him a quadriplegic, but he wasn’t crying because he was incapacitated for life. He was remembering what Michelle had said to him the day after the accident.

“We’ve all decided,” she said. Standing on either side of her, Ted and Eleanor nodded and smiled. “There’s no point in buying a second home. Mom and Dad can live with us. They will look after you while I’m at work. Just think, honey, we can all be one big happy family. It’s the safest solution, too. Did you know there were two murders near their home last night?”

T
he bar fight was over. Matt staggered to his feet. The loudmouth was down and he wasn’t getting back up without assistance. None of the barflies volunteered to help the guy on the floor, even though they closed in to examine Matt’s handiwork. Matt ran the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving it blood streaked.

Police sirens wailed in the distance. Matt’s heart rate quickened again, just as it had started to slow down. He couldn’t afford to be busted again. As everyone swarmed for the exit, Matt went to follow, but someone held him back. He shook off the hand gripping his shoulder and whirled around with a readied fist to face his new challenger. The middle-aged guy held up his hands in surrender. A lucky thing since he had six inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Matt.

“Easy, pal,” he said. “I’m not trying to stop you. Back door, before the cops get here.”

The sirens intensified. Matt didn’t argue; he followed the man out the fire exit and into the service alley.

“C’mon, this way,” the man urged.

He jogged down the alley, sidestepping busted trash bags and puddles containing more than just water. Matt followed him into a side street, then into another alley lit by a thumbnail moon.

“We’ll hang here until things are cool,” he said.

Matt didn’t reply. What was his guardian angel’s motive? He didn’t trust him. But then, Matt didn’t trust anyone.

“Get into a lot of fights, don’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you handled yourself in there. You didn’t learn those moves in a boxing ring or a dojo. You’ve had a street education. Besides, I recognize a bottle scar when I see one.”

Instinctively, Matt touched the thin scar beneath his left eye with his thumb. Although faint after so many years, he remembered the fight like it was yesterday. He’d been eighteen at the time, and it had been over a girl. Frank Tremaine hadn’t liked the idea of losing his Susie. Matt had thought it would be easily settled, but he hadn’t expected Frank to go for him with a bottle of Bud. He’d nearly lost his eye that night. There’d been a lot of Frank Tremaines over the years and a lot of fights over lesser reasons than Susie. Tonight was no exception.

“Have you done time?” the man asked.

“Once.”

“Carry on like you’re going and it’s easily going to be twice.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Harry Sharpe.” He thrust out a hand.

Matt looked at the hand warily. This attempt at an introduction could be a stunt to take him down. He ignored the proffered hand and said, “Matt Crozier.”

Harry let his hand drop without showing any sign of being insulted. “Good to meet you, Matt.”

“What do you want? Why are you helping me?”

Matt backed up a step as he asked the questions. He’d rather take a chance with the cops than this guy if something went down. At least he knew what to expect with the cops.

“I represent a group that helps young and wayward men like yourself. We try to turn their skills toward more positive outlets and keep them out of trouble.”

Matt was already shaking his head. He knew where this was going. A dark alley, a sensitive older man and a misguided youth, a cry for attention and a sympathetic ear, leading to a tender moment. It was pathetic, really.

“Sorry, dude, you’ve dialed the wrong number. I don’t answer those sorts of calls.”

The older guy rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to pick you up,” Harry snapped. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”

Matt backed up toward the street. “Okay, whatever you say, Reverend.”

Harry lunged and snared Matt’s arm. Matt took a swing. Harry blocked it and slammed Matt up against a Dumpster.

“I’m not a priest. I’m trying to teach you something. If you want to end up dead or serving a life sentence, then carry on doing what you’re doing, because believe me, you will overstep the boundary of a bar brawl to manslaughter one of these days. But if you want to change that, learn something, make yourself a better man, you’ll call me.”

Harry released Matt and jammed a business card in his palm. Matt watched him leave and turn the corner. Once he felt Harry wasn’t coming back and the police weren’t waiting for him, he stepped out into the street. He examined Harry’s card under the streetlight. T
ASKMASTERS
, it read, followed by a local telephone number.

***

Matt spent the following day mulling over what Harry Sharpe had said. He didn’t need some do-gooder telling him where his life was heading; he already knew. He just couldn’t keep from getting into fights. He wasn’t a kid anymore. At twenty-eight, he was fast approaching thirty with nothing to show for it except calluses and scar tissue. He’d eventually cross the line, and it would end his life one way or another. Harry had handed him a timely reality check.

He hadn’t heard of the Taskmasters, and neither had anybody else he asked. The consensus was they were some organization similar to the Toastmasters or the Rotary Club. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but a public speaking group wasn’t it. Harry and his pals didn’t seem the type to sit around over a pleasant meal, challenging each other to speak on a subject suggested by one of the other Taskmasters. How this would make him a better person he couldn’t imagine, but he’d heard they were connected with the business community and helped members find jobs. He could do with a boost in that direction. He’d go and try it out—just this once.

He dialed the number. Harry picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Yes.”

“It’s Matt, from the bar last night.”

“I remember you. I wasn’t sure you’d call, but I’m glad you did. You want to join, then?”

“I thought I’d check it out.”

“Good. We’ll pick you up at nine. What’s your address?”

Matt was waiting outside his apartment complex when the SUV pulled up in front of him. Harry was driving, with three other men in the vehicle. Matt wandered over, and the guy in the back flung open a door. Matt got in.

“Guys, this is Matt,” Harry said. “Okay, quick introductions. Riding shotgun with me is Brett Chalmers. Sitting next to you is Frank Tripplehorn. And taking up too much room in back there is John Stein.”

The Taskmasters smiled and nodded. Matt tried to do the same, but they were nothing like he’d imagined. Matt had taken the trouble to dress up, nothing too fancy, but then again, he didn’t have anything too fancy. Irrespective of his effort, he was the overdressed one. Everyone else was in jeans, a polo shirt, and a windbreaker. They all had Harry’s muscular build, except John Stein, who was another X-size up. His head scraped the underside of the SUV’s roof.

Harry drove off. The Taskmasters bantered easily with one another, talking about nothing much. Matt interrupted them.

“Where are we going?” He hadn’t intended the level of fear in his voice. It didn’t go unnoticed by the others.

“We have a clubhouse where we meet,” Tripplehorn said.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Chalmers asked.

Matt shook his head, and the Taskmasters returned to their conversation.

The “clubhouse” was an exaggeration of mammoth proportions. Before Matt had called Harry, rich Corinthian leather and dark mahogany had sprung to mind. But way before they arrived outside the derelict building on a street consumed with derelict buildings, he knew they weren’t heading for a fancy downtown address.

“Home sweet home,” Stein said, sliding out of the SUV.

Harry popped the padlock and opened the chain-link gate. They filed through the opening and over to what had once been an Italian restaurant. While Harry relocked the gates, Stein unlocked a graffiti-daubed side door. The Taskmasters had put minimal effort into the restaurant. It was rainproof, but the air reeked of decomposing sheetrock and urine. A startled rat scuttled across the floor to hide in a darkened corner. Tripplehorn deposited a cooler at the center of a collection of raggedy La-Z-Boys.

Something was very wrong, and Matt started planning how he was going get out of this. He knew when he was out of his league. Harry and Co. weren’t the kind of guys he could punch his way past. He wondered if the Taskmasters were connected to someone he’d hurt but couldn’t think of anyone with that kind of muscle on tap. Harry dropped a heavy hand on Matt’s shoulder and guided him toward the circle of easy chairs.

“Don’t be put off by the surroundings. Take a load off and have a beer.”

Tripplehorn flipped open the cooler and tossed Matt an MGD. “You’re in good company.”

Matt did as he was told and sat down.

Harry took a beer from Tripplehorn and flopped into a chair next to Matt. “I declare this meeting of the Taskmasters now in session.”

Harry raised his bottle and so did the other Taskmasters. Matt shifted in his seat.

“Only two items of new business tonight,” Harry said. “The first being our new member, Matt.”

“Good to have you, Matt,” Stein said and raised his bottle to him.

“I think Matt can be an asset,” Harry said. “I believe he has a good heart, but he’s a little misdirected. I hope becoming a Taskmaster will straighten him out and put him on the right track.”

Matt found Harry’s character assessment embarrassing. It made him feel like a kid at parent-teacher night forced to listen to his teacher give a report about him. He hid his embarrassment behind his beer, drinking it too fast.

“I don’t know if Harry has explained what we do here at the Taskmasters,” Tripplehorn said.

“Not really,” Matt said.

“Well, once a month, we challenge each other.”

“One person from the group is given a specific task chosen by the others,” Chalmers added.

“Which must be completed by the next month,” Stein added.

“Which brings us nicely to our second piece of new business,” Harry said. “This month’s challenge.”

Tripplehorn fished out a pack of playing cards from his pocket, but Harry stopped him.

“No low-card winner this time.” He looked at Matt. “Taskmaster rules state that the new Taskmaster member is automatically assigned the challenge.”

Tripplehorn nodded and put the cards away. Stein and Chalmers grinned at each other. An invisible noose tightened around Matt’s neck, and he shrank into the damp-smelling La-Z-Boy.

“Harry, you’re right. I forgot the rules.” Tripplehorn did nothing to hide his smirk. “Matt, you’re this month’s automatic winner.”

“Don’t let these goofballs scare you, Matt,” Harry said. “There’s nothing to worry about. As fellow Taskmasters, we’ll make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

“What do I do?” Matt said, his fear bubbling to the surface.

“Didn’t I tell you Matt is a born Taskmaster?” Harry asked.

“You guys give speeches, right?” Matt said, answering his own question. “Like Toastmasters, right?”

He already knew his assumption was wrong, that this was no conventional organization, but their burst of raucous laughter confirmed the fact.

“I think you need another beer,” Chalmers said and tossed another bottle at Matt.

“No,” Harry said. “We do things a little differently. Stein, why don’t you tell Matt here what you did for the Taskmasters last month.”

“Surely.” Stein reseated himself, making himself comfy. “I killed a no-good pimp. Put a bullet”—Stein made a popping sound and put finger to his own forehead—“right between his eyes.”

Stein handed around half a dozen Polaroids of a stick-thin Hispanic man lying dead in a gutter with a small hole in his face. He went on to describe how he’d stalked the pimp, whose name was Hernandez, and finally lured him to his death with the promise of a big score. The Taskmasters laughed and joked with each other as Stein walked them through the story. Matt didn’t laugh. He was too busy trying to hold it together as his worst fears struck him with freighttrain intensity. When he’d said that he could help Matt turn his life around, Matt had thought he would help him straighten up his act, not teach him how to hone his violent tendencies.

Chalmers fished out a letter-size manila envelope from inside his jacket and tossed it over to Matt. Matt opened it, failing to hide his trembling hands. The Taskmasters glanced at each other, exchanging naughty schoolboy smiles. Matt scanned the details on the plain typed sheet and the handful of photographs.

“That’s Terrance Robinson,” Chalmers said, confirming the details Matt had in his hands. “He’s a hit-and-run driver. Killed a young girl six months ago.”

Matt examined a surveillance picture of Robinson crossing a downtown street. He was twenty or thirty pounds overweight. According to the “CliffsNotes,” he was the same age as Matt, but his extra bulk aged him a good ten years.

“Why haven’t the police arrested him?”

Stein snorted. “A friend is giving him a bogus alibi.”

“So what do you want me to do? Get him to confess?”

Harry laughed at Matt’s suggestion. “We don’t give anyone a shot at redemption.”

“We eradicate the problem,” Chalmers said.

“You’re going to kill this guy,” Tripplehorn said.

“Don’t worry about the cops. We’ve got it covered,” Harry said.

Stein handed Matt a small semiautomatic. “It’s untraceable. Just use and lose.”

Harry went into fine detail about how Matt should stalk and kill his prey. Matt nodded, taking in the words, but he was too numb to comprehend the A-B-Cs of killing a complete
stranger. When Harry finished his speech, the Taskmasters drank and joked about themselves for a while. Matt drank but didn’t join in the hilarity. He waited for everyone to have their fun and take him home.