The First End (4 page)

He looked at her, openly admiring her beautiful
form. Her skirt fell past her knees, but couldn’t hide how
beautifully shaped her legs were. Bill leaned over and kissed her
on the cheek again. She shifted to stare into his eyes.

“Are you going to stay?” asked Karen.

“I am afraid not. I’ve got a lot of work to do.
My current client is a bear. Honestly, I would rather be working on
the other side.”

“Bad day?”

“Oh yes. I’m representing the company Wastend.
I’m just concerned, that’s all. The president of the company is
both fishy and arrogant. He could be extremely dangerous too.”

An hour later, Bill tore himself away from his
girlfriend and said goodbye. Both knew that this new case could
dominate his time and neither knew when the next time they would
see each other. Not happy, at all, he left determined to see this
through.

Bill paced in irritation. He knew somewhere in
his subconscious that his resentment of the turn of events that had
kept him from closing out the deal between the workers of
Wastend
and the CEO of the company, was the source of this
act of immaturity of walking back and forth for no apparent reason.
Still, he paced.

His assistant, Cassie, came in carrying a
folder, causing him to slow down and stop behind his desk. “Sir,”
she began, “Rita is on the phone again. What shall I tell her?”

“I have nothing to tell her,” he said, waving
his hand. He wished he
did
have something to offer the union
representative. “Mr. Vellore still won’t see reason. The man is a
first rate narcissist if you ask me.”

“What should I tell her? This is her third
call.”

“Tell her I’m not in,” he shot back.

Cassie raised one of her pretty eyebrows.
“Sir…”

Bill rolled his eyes. Cassie’s impeccable
honesty was both a source of refreshment and irritation at times.
“Oh very well.” He grabbed his jacket, his briefcase, and the
folder from Cassie’s hands. “I’m leaving.”

“Sir?”

“Tell her that I just stepped out of the office.
By the time you get to the phone, it will be true.”

She frowned at him, and his own irritation
caused him to frown back. “When will you be back?”

“When I step back through that door,” he shot
back. Storming out, he closed the main office door none too
gently.

At street level, he almost hailed a taxi to take
him home, but thought better of it. He needed a different
environment to shed his irritation. A popular bar was located a
street over and, at this odd time of day, shouldn’t be too crowded.
He decided to go there. The brisk walk helped some, and once there,
he found the place practically deserted as hoped—except for a few
loafers with nothing better to do than waste someone else’s hard
earned income on booze and cheap beer.

Bill sauntered up to the bar and sat about two
stools away from a pair that looked to be regulars, judging by the
way the bartender ignored them and their pleas for additional
refills. They were clearly drunk, so Bill decided to ignore them
too.

“What’s yer pleasure?” the bartender asked,
placing both hands on the bar between them.

“Straight rum,” the lawyer answered.

Shrugging as if to say that it was Bill’s
funeral, the bartender pulled a bottle off the rack and poured a
shot into a glass. He slid it across to Bill, who caught it deftly
in one hand.

“No napkins,” the barkeep mentioned. “No
waste.”

Bill nodded his understanding, and silently
cursed the Wastend strike. Even here, in his solitude, the blasted
thing rose up to haunt him. Deciding to sip the rum instead of
downing it, he hunched over the bar and tried to block out every
other sight and sound.

Never before had he failed to sort out a
problem. He had won every case in his career, including a couple of
high profile ones that had gained national recognition, but nothing
like this case would have. This case would have been a needed
feather in his cap. But that idiot CEO just wouldn’t set aside his
own pride and ego for the betterment of his company or the city. He
snorted in disgust and shook his head in mock self-pity.

The barkeep noticed. “You good, buddy?”

“Yeah, just getting tired of all the trash lying
around.”

“You and everyone else.”

One of the barflies, a seedy looking individual
with speckled hair, turned toward him. “I’ll tell you who the trash
really is; it’s them blasted lawyers and uppity-ups in Westend that
are the real trash. I say we should throw
them
into the
garbage dump. Maybe then they’ll understand what they’re doing to
the rest of us.”

At the mention of lawyers, Bill had stiffened,
but quickly forced himself to relax. He didn’t need any more
pressure. An idea struck him. He looked over at the challenging
expression of the bar bum and wondered if the drunk was one of the
Wastend employees on strike. He was on the verge of asking when he
changed his mind before his mouth could open. He didn’t want any
trouble. He turned away, nursing his drink.

“Hey, what do you do?” the barfly demanded of
Bill. “All dressed up and looking so important. You important,
fellow?”

Just wanting the idiot to leave him alone Bill
said, “I’m a lawyer.” It was the wrong thing to say.

The man started to guffaw. “You? A lawyer?” He
slapped the top of the bar and stood unsteadily to his feet. “You
one of them lawyers that is making this strike last so long?”

Sighing, Bill shook his head. “Go back to your
drink, friend.”

The man turned a bit redder. “You telling me
what to do, shyster?”

“I’m asking you to leave me alone,” Bill
snapped, growing irritated.

“You ambulance chasers are all the same. You
milk situations like this Wastend mess just to line your pockets
off the pain and troubles of others.” The man moved closer, jabbing
a finger towards Bill. “This wouldn’t be a problem except for
people like you!”

“What?” the lawyer demanded incredulously.

“You hear me, you—” the barfly started to poke a
finger towards Bill’s face.

Without thinking, and irritated beyond normal
limits, Bill’s old military training reared up and took control of
his body. His hand flashed upward with the speed of a viper,
snatching the foolish barfly’s finger in a vice-like grip. Bill
twisted violently, sending the man spinning to slam into the bar
face first. Exerting excruciating pressure on the man’s hand to
keep him from moving, Bill bent over and whispered. “Return to your
drink, foolish man. You have no clue what you are talking
about.”

Shoving the man away so that he fell heavily to
the floor between two of the stools, Bill returned to his drink.
That should have ended it, but the barfly’s friend, a portly man
with red cheeks and two chins, took exception to the rough handling
of his drinking partner. “Hey now,” he bellowed, standing up and
starting towards the lawyer. “You don’t mess with Mickey or his
friends!”

The burly man took a giant swing at Bill, who
saw it coming from so far away that he figured he could finish most
of his drink before the larger barfly could actually deliver the
punch. With another sigh, he leaned away and watched in fascination
as the meaty fist swung past his eyes. His attacker grunted when he
didn’t make any contact, his swing turning him partially
around.

It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
With a well-placed kick, Bill sent the portly man stumbling forward
to fall head over heels when his body got all tangled up in one of
the tables.

“Hey!” the bartender protested. “Don’t break
anything!”

Bill grinned, suddenly feeling good. The
bartender was more on his side than the two bums attacking him. The
lawyer just needed to be considerate enough not to break anything.
Well, he could do that.

Standing up for himself, Bill delivered a
powerful punch to the first barfly - who had just regained his
feet. The blow lifted the man several inches straight up off the
floor. He came down, eyes crossed and swaying dangerously. Bill
shoved him onto one of the stools, from which the barfly proceeded
to slowly slip off.

By then, the bigger friend had regained his
feet. With a bellow that seemed more bull than man, he charged
Bill, lowering his head as if he would ram the lawyer right through
the bar. Bill waited until the last second and then spun away,
catching one of the fellow’s arms as he barreled by. He waited for
the man to slam painfully into the bar—which held against the
impact, thank God—and then with a deft twist, pinned it painfully
behind the man’s back. Using leverage and pain to control the
larger man, Bill had him laid out on the floor in a choke hold.

“Now,” Bill said in a jovial tone of voice. “You
have a choice. I could break this arm, and then continue breaking
bones until you decide to quit, or you can quit now. What will it
be, my friend?”

For a moment longer, the portly man struggled
against the lawyer’s grip. Finally he relaxed and chuckled. “You
ain’t no lawyer man.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Mickey knock lawyer good. You ain’t no lawyer.
You knock Mickey good.”

Shaking his head at the absurd logic, Bill said,
“So what will it be? You want to go back to your drink?”

“Yeah. But what about Harold there? You knock
him good too. He out.”

“He would have drunk himself unconscious anyway.
I just helped him to it faster.”

The portly man chuckled. “That’s the truth of
it! Okay, we have a deal.”

Bill let him up and the big man ambled back to
his spot, still chuckling and talking to his oblivious friend, who
had slumped down unconscious between two of the stools.
Well,
whatever makes one happy.

The bartender nodded at the lawyer. “Thanks for
not breaking anything.”

“My pleasure.” Bill looked around. “But, I
should probably still leave.”

“That you should, friend. When Harold wakes up,
he’ll be out for blood. The fool could never control his
temper.”

“Thanks for not calling the cops,” the lawyer
said as he started for the door.

“They both needed a good spanking, anyways.”

Feeling better, Bill walked out of the bar. He
didn’t know what he should do, but an idea brought on by his
impromptu fight crept into his mind. Smiling, he hurried towards
his office.

General Hynes drummed his fingers impatiently.
He looked over at Major Dobb. “Well? Is he coming or not?”

Dobb glanced at his computer screen. “Security
logs say Frank Vellore cleared checkpoint Beta ten minutes ago. He
should be here shortly.”

Hynes went back to his drumming. He hated having
to even talk to the CEO of Wastend, but the President’s
instructions were clear. The ultra-stealth TACAIR prototype had to
be dismantled and destroyed. But Hynes would be hanged if he
allowed any of the technology to fall into the wrong hands. He
would see it destroyed completely or heads would roll. He had no
illusion as to what would happen if certain other governments got
their hands on the technology, and too often decommissioned
technology lying around in a warehouse somewhere just disappeared,
only to turn up in the hands of those who should have never even
known of its existence. No, it would be destroyed…permanently.

A knock on the door was followed by a plain
looking woman sporting silver lieutenant bars on her shoulders.
“Sir, Frank Vellore is here to see you.”

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Dobbs said politely,
his voice shifting to a softer pitch. “Please show him in.”

Hynes frowned. He absently wondered if a budding
romance was developing between the major and the lieutenant.
Shrugging the thought away, he focused on the task at hand.

Vellore walked in dressed in an expensive Kiton
business suit that Hynes felt sure had set the man back at least
$5,000.
Great.
There were fewer ways to say, ‘I’m better
than you,’ than by wearing an expensive business suit into a
meeting where the other participants wore $100 uniforms cut for the
air force.

“Mr. Vellore,” Hynes greeted the man, reaching a
hand out. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Frank shook the General’s hand and took a seat
without being asked to. “Well, your message spoke of something
important…and mentioned profit as well.”

Right to the point, I see.
Hynes seated
himself across from the Wastend CEO and clasped his hands together
in front of him. “Did you, by chance, see the President’s news
conference last week?”

Vellore pursed his lips together. “I saw it, but
to be honest, I didn’t pay much attention. As you no doubt know, I
am having some issues of my own.”

“Yes…well, that is part of the reason why I
asked you to come here. The President’s new appeasement
agenda—excuse me,
peace
agenda—requires us to dispose of
some rather sensitive technology.”

“How sensitive,” the CEO asked, leaning forward
eagerly.

“The item in question requires level 4 disposal
protocols.”

“Level 4,” Frank breathed, excitement showing on
his face. “Level four requires dismantling and melting in various
locations. Very expensive.”

“I understand the complications,” Hynes retorted
sternly. “Since you have an exclusive contract with the military in
matters such as this, we are forced to deal with you.” Now it was
Hynes who leaned forward. “But to be honest with you, I don’t think
your company is up to the task. Your strike is causing quite an
uproar in New York I hear.”

Vellore waved the comment aside. “It is nothing.
The workers will grow tired of not being paid and return to work
shortly.” His eyes shifted, a sure sign that the man’s greed was
rising to the forefront of his thoughts. “What sort of commission
are we talking about with this job?”