The Jigsaw Man (4 page)

guy like you for weeks, and you're perfect for what we

have in mind. It's simple really. Let's go have a drink

and I'll tell you about it. There's more money where

that came from, Fox, a hell of a lot more. Come get your

self some."

Without another glance, the muscular bald man

quickly retraced his steps back to the limo and disap

peared inside. He left the door to the car open, an obvi

ous invitation for me to join him. Was I prepared to do

that? Was I really that stupid? Sure, he'd helped me out

in the bar and he'd given me two hundred bucks for

nothing, but was that enough to risk trusting him? I

had no idea who this guy was or who he worked for. I

didn't have a clue what he wanted with me or what this

offer was all about. This had all the makings of a big,

big mistake.

What did I have to lose, though, really? The worst

thing that could happen was it was all a sham and he was

inside, the limo with a knife, waiting to slit open my

throat when I entered. That might be a nasty way to die,

but was getting run over by a freight train any better?

Maybe he was queer, out trolling around for a date? No,

if that was his game, he could buy it for a lot less than

the four hundred he was offering me. He wouldn't have

been following me around for days either.

My feet were walking before I'd even made a con

scious decision to do so. I suppose they knew that when

it came to the prospect of money, I was a weak-willed

jellyfish at heart and would cave eventually, so why

not get it over with. Maybe it was crazy, but to me at

least, it was worth the risk. Besides, I could always catch

the train again twelve hours from now if things didn't

work out.

I was near the bottom of the bridge, maybe ten feet

from street level, when the Erie freight rounded a cor

ner, speeding into view. I had lots of time to hurry to

the bottom and step out of harm's way, but for a second

I hesitated, thinking maybe I should just stick to plan A

and find out if things were any better in the afterlife.

The thought of the additional two hundred bucks was

something I just couldn't resist, though. To hell with it,

it was stupid to die with all this money in my pocket,

especially if there was a chance of—how had he put it—a

hell of a lot more.

How much more?

I made it onto Carver Street in plenty of time and

watched as the train rocketed by me like a huge metal

lic serpent snaking its way toward Rochester. When it

was gone and there was nothing left to hear, save for

the normal loud din of the chaotic city, I turned to find

the limo door still open. It was too dark inside to make

anything out, but I had the feeling the bald-headed

roan was watching me with a big icy smile on his face.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

Two thoughts swirled through my head as I ap

proached the fancy vehicle. The first was that if I got

into the back of this car I'd probably be dead by mid

night, and the second was that up on the bridge, I'd

missed my chance to cream Puckman in the yap with

the rubber hockey puck in my pocket. I must really be

in a weird mood because the second thought upset me

far more than the first.

"What the hell am I getting myself into?" I won

dered aloud, but as the cliche goes, there was only one

way to find out.

I climbed into the back seat.

PART TWO

T H E OFFER

While it's true we all have to choose our own paths in

life, it's fair to say that other people we meet can heav

ily influence those choices.

And so can their snazzy cars.

The spacious interior of the white limo was, in a word,

amazing. There was seating for ten on the softest, most

comfortable leather I'd ever had the pleasure of touch

ing. A fully stocked bar, complete with an ice-making

refrigerator, sink, and hanging glass racks. A 14" color

television, a DVD player, and a killer stereo unit with

surround-sound speakers and a five-disc revolving CD

tray.

To the average Joe, this beautiful car symbolized

status, glamour, and delightful extravagance, but to

me—considering the seedy places I'd been spending

time lately—this excessive luxury was an assault on

my senses. The odor of expensive leather mixing with

the smell of brand-new plush carpet was incredible,

almost intoxicating. I took deep breath after deep breath,

savoring the sweet aroma like a rare treat, which to me

it was.

It smelled truly wonderful, but what it smelled the

most of was money. Cold hard cash. It was impossible

to sit in this magnificent vehicle and not realize that its

owner had to be not just rich, but rolling in the bucks. I

felt weird sitting there, stunned. It was like a

heavyweight's punch to my gut of all the things I had

lost in this world but still secretly desired. Like I'd en

tered a forbidden fantasy place, a land as strange and

foreign to me as a space shuttle trip to the surface of

the moon.

Obviously: I was impressed, but I was smart enough

to realize these people wanted something from me and

this show, of obscene wealth was a part of their game

plan. It was bait—dangle the money in front of the pen

niless bum's nose and see if he'd bite. Admittedly, it was

working. I liked what I saw and wanted more of it. Not

ready to swallow the hook quite yet, but getting mighty

hungry.

My muscular host was the only other occupant in the

back of the lima and he was seated across from me with

his right ankle draped over his left knee, relaxing casu

ally while talking softly on a tiny cellular phone. He

pretended to ignore me, concerned only with his phone

conversation, but I kept catching him sneaking a peek,

observing me checking out the surroundings. I didn't

hear much of his call as
I'd
come in near its completion,

but I did hear him say "Yes, sir" a few times so he was

presumably talking to the boss he'd referred to earlier.

Probably assuring his employer how I'd be an easy mark,

what with the way I was staring around with wide-eyed

wonder like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Sorry about that," he said, clicking shut his phone

and slipping it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

"Had to check in with the office, so to speak. Anyway,

let's get the introductions out of the way. I already know

who you are: Michael Benjamin Fox. But I'm not sure

what name you'd prefer I use?"

"Most people call me Mike. That'll work."

"Fine, Mike it is. I told you who I was last night in

the bar but obviously you don't remember. No big deal.

My name's Drake, Alexander Drake, but I prefer just

using my last name. Fair enough? Good. Let's have

that drink and we'll get into this."

Drake tapped twice on the smoked glass partition

separating us from the driver and the car immediately

started to roll. I had no idea where they were taking me

but it really didn't matter. Anywhere was better than

here. Without bothering to ask what I wanted, he poured

us both three fingers of single malt scotch over ice and

handed oneto me. To someone used to drinking cheap

gin or Homemade Screech, the single malt went down

like it was nectar of the gods. Realizing it made me

look like the proverbial bum but not caring, I slurped

the whole glass dry and held my hand out for more.

Drake smiled knowingly and topped me up without

saying a word. Managing to control myself this time, I

only took one small sip before setting the glass into a

built-in cup holder beside me. I settled back in the

plush seat and tried to relax.

"So now that we've been introduced," I said, "what's

this fabulous offer you have for me?"

Drake took a tiny sip of his scotch—barely wetting

his lips^then set his glass aside and began his spiel.

"As I've already hinted, I'm employed by a very

wealthy and important man. His name is Nathan Mar

shall, Dr. Nathan Marshall, to be more precise. He's

one of this country's top neurosurgeons, the holder

of twenty-seven medical patents for various surgical

and research related innovations. The man's a genius,

no doubt about it, Mike. His work on brain stem inju

ries and spinal column nerve regeneration is second

to none. ,

"Dr. Marshall has made a fortune on his medic#f

patents, not to mention the private and government

grants that came pouring in after all his success, but

he was filthy rich before his career even started. His

family had money coming out of their wazoos from

way back. He never needed a nickel right from day one,

which is why, when he became furious with the medical

community and fed up with their restrictive rules and

regulations, he simply dropped completely out of the

public eye to devote his time and vast wealth into his

own private research.

"He's one of a kind, Mike, you'll like him, I know

you will. What's not to like? He's got the four G's."

"The four G's?" I asked.

"Yeah, he's good-looking, he's a genius, he's gener

ous with his money, and he's got gazillions of it to

toss around. The four G's, man. He's Bill Gates, with

a scalpel!"

It was obviously a line Drake used often, but he still

managed to laugh at his own joke. Personally, I didn't

find it very funny, but I chuckled anyway to play along.

When Drake settled, I decided to get down to business.

"And. what does this rich and famous doctor want

with a broken-down bum like me?"

Drake's smile disappeared immediately, as if it had

never existed, replaced with a condescending scowl.

"Now, Mike," wagging his finger, in my face, "that's

not a nice way to describe yourself, is it? You're for

getting I've been following you around and I know

you better than you think. You're not a bum. I don't

think so anyway, and I don't think you believe it either.

You're a guy who's down on his luck, that's all. A guy

who knows there's more to life than living in a Dump-

ster. Even though you were getting ready to kiss the

front grille of that freight train, I dunk you still want

to get back up on your feet and live again. Not this

pointless existence you're so sick of, I mean
really
live.

Am I right?"

Drake had no idea about my plan for helping out Ar-

lene, but what the big brute
said-did
stir me a little.

Then again, words were cheap. It was way too early to

answer his question and sometimes my mouth gets me

in more trouble than I'd like to admit, so I decided to

just shut up and listen to what my host had to say. He

apparently took my silence as an affirmative and car

ried on.

"I knew it, I just knew you were the right guy, Mike.

That's why Pm here today, to help you get back on your

feet. On my recommendation, Dr. Marshall is prepared

to offer you a great deal of money for helping him con

tinue his research. What he wants you to do is perfectly

legal and no one is going to get in trouble. Everything

you've lost, you can get back, and more. Everything

you've ever dreamed of or desired, you can have it. It's

simple, Mike* If you're willing to give Dr. Marshall what

he wants, he's willing to make you rich."

I

amount of money would get me my wife and son back,

which is what tdesired most, but this big steroid mon

key would never understand that. Money was the only