0 comments/ 8236 views/ 0 favorites Dealerv Ch. 02 By: The Pharoah Acitore Afternoon sunlight leaks through closed curtains. She fights to stay awake, sinking into the recliner's supple leather, socked feet against the rug. Remote in hand snaps the widescreen television on. CNN's prim-voiced newscasters are a welcome break in the apartment's quiet. Luxurious and still, the empty rooms had been napping with her. In her state of exhaustion the veneered walls resemble the inside of a casket, the relaxed waking death far too pleasurable. Her arrival in this chair marks the end of a two-hour crucible, which Ashley began in the master bedroom's bed. She had been lying sideways, tangled with jersey sheets and wool blanket, head confused among broad pillows. She'd been sleeping, yes, but is such rest -- the sort of rest we take in the middle of the day after complete exhaustion, the sort of rest in which our minds drink wetly inked dreams the way a man dying of thirst will drink water, the sort of rest where to move our bodies is akin to a move through thick syrup -- is such rest simply sleep? This is the sort of rest Ashley had been having, in complete darkness cocooned within a four-poster Victorian bed and flannel pajamas. While outside it has been at times near zero degrees, Ashley had been on the bed, cradled by the periodic hum of a fan blowing warm air into the room. The sound came from the depths of the building somewhere, the concept itself one of sublime calm: an unseen relay's response to the change of a few hundred billion electrons, closing the circuit for the fan's motor to spool up and scoop upon its blades warm, invisible air. She would wake, look across the room at bright blue digital numbers, realize the entire morning slipped by her and promptly go back to sleep. This clock awareness ritual occurred many times. The last time, Ashley slunk out of the bed's side and onto the floor, crawled into the living room where, squinting against shafts of light coming through the bay window's blinds, she eventually crawled into this leather chair. She now sits, legs slightly parted and hands wrapped about the remote control which is entirely too heavy. Ashley has no desire to open those blinds up to the late afternoon winter sunlight of Hoboken, New Jersey where she knows the air is frigid and restricting. Were it not for Stryker she would have taken herself immediately and without delay back to Tasmania a long time ago. Electronica filled the darkness; laser-lit and tobacco-smoked with neon billiard balls on black felt. She played well and time marched on. She gambled her body against the male cash dressed in expensive colors, silver and tattoos. She won so much; she nearly always won after taking care of the details with a cue stick rocking in one hand and the other draped over a muscular shoulder as she whispered into an ear the prizes she'd forfeit if she lost. (She had lost, once, third shot with nothing but the eight left it dangling just a bit too close to a side-pocket and the man with the denim and giant muscles gently took her to one of the sofas and she wrapped her lips around him, not at all unpleasant, as people hid them). The music sounded to her a mix of natures both carnal and spiritual. Church music, if desire were God and made sense to worship at two and three in the morning while smoking tobacco and warring on pool tables. She did not need the money. Stryker questioned nothing and handed her stacks of green hundreds whenever she asked. She often gave away entire rolls to homeless people on her walk home. Last night, she hadn't. Reeking of smoke, other women's perfume and dry ice as the sun rose over Manhattan she went into an Alphabet City diner, wearing stiletto-heeled boots, leather pants, a shimmering blue top and a biker's jacket. She ate slowly and to her fill. A cab ride back into Hoboken saw her home at close to seven in the morning. Immediately she stripped, showered and crawled into bed. Stryker wasn't back yet. Stryker returned not long after, she knew she hadn't been sleeping, exactly, but hadn't been awake anymore either. She could hear the thunder of his boots in the living room and heard him cursing under his breath. "Wake up," he said as he entered the room. "I'm awake," Ashley answered. He'd sat in the chair in the corner of the room and started to unlace his boots. "Then sit on your knees, face away from me and pull your pants down." Ashley's heart pounded and her mouth went dry. Shaking, she sat up in the bed and as a wave of dizziness threatened to topple her, she pulled pajamas and panties down below her buttocks and fought not to shake. "That's better." Whisper of cloth sliding off him. "Your pussy had better be wet by the time I get there." Ahsley tried to swallow; her vagina was as dry as her mouth. She heard him stand up and march to her; bare feet somehow more menacing as his weight fell onto the carpeted floor. Then his calloused fingers ran the length of her lips and his breathing turned deep, and desperate. And hungry. An arm surrounded her, its bicep thick and flexed. Smell of cigarettes and sweat and feel of his skin, hot against her own "Oh, that's just wonderful", he said, and Ashley knew, could feel the burn of his fingers against her dry flesh. But before his hand came down on her ass, stinging, her nether lips soaked the insides of her thighs and she cried. "I'm wet, Stryker...I'm wet now..." though she knew it to be too late. He smacked her buttocks over and over again and she clawed at his arm with her hands and couldn't move the solid muscle there and the harder she got hit and the tighter he squeezed the more aroused she became. And the harder she cried. Her mind stopped gripping reality, somewhere, and came back just as the air against her buttocks stung and he swung her around and pointed at his hard, erect penis. "Suck it," he said. Eager, tired, in need beyond anything she dared examine with intellect, she took the head of his penis into her mouth and caressed it, working at it slowly and wrapped her hand around the shaft. She tried (now as always) to pay attention to the moment, the sensation itself, of his penis entering her but lost track as she nearly always did and soon she laid on her back, wrists immobile above her head in his hands and orgasms simply a constant part of her innards. She'd slept, then, remembering Stryker's muttering something about a meeting in less than an hour, much to his dislike. "So who we waiting on, again?" Stryker asks, using his fingers to pop another piece of the smoked salmon into his mouth. The subterranean room is dark, with forest green walls and a shag black rug. There is every type of food available on a back table, from the smoked salmon Stryker is gorging on to pastries, egg and cheese vretád and benedict, sliced meets, and fresh fruit. The men sit on burgundy leather covered furniture, the lighting coming from green-shaded brass lamps. A monolithic desk of dark wood and recessed leather blotters is against the back wall, its high-backed leather chair empty. Bill coughs, Mathew mutters and Rick adjusts in his char. Stryker shakes his head. "Yeah, whatever." Another piece of salmon. "Anyone even know what this is about?" More coughing, muttering, and adjusting. Then it hits him. "We're waiting on Dramius. He's the only one not here." Carlos Ignacius Dramius, second in command of the NYPD's narcotics division and unofficial general of the BLOODS. Stryker likes Dramius, aside from the guy's constant need to appear so god awful mysterious. Like now. It's no mystery he's the one who's called this meeting, but Christ lease out his cross before Dramius admitted to it. Luckily for Stryker, Dramius likes him back. Stryker is certain the other three men in this room live in constant fear of the big black man, and for good reason: Dramius has a habit of killing those from whom he feels even a minor threat. The thought leads Stryker to the nine millimeter Smith & Wesson Dealerker-clutched under his nylon flight jacket, as though such a weapon would be remotely effective against whatever organization of human sociopathic monstrosity Dramius would send to kill Stryker, were Dramius to feel the need. For that matter, Stryker has never fired the gun at anything but paper targets. The gun is just another part of the game; another bit of the excess characterizing his chosen profession, not dissimilar to the gigantic array of gourmet food on the back table which would in its overwhelming majority end up in the garbage. Stryker is also the only one dressed as he is, in black cargo pants, black leather infantry combat boots, a long-sleeved black thermal stretch top, the nylon flight jacket and the logo-less black baseball hat. The other three clowns are in wool suits, each purchased at a cost near or equal to a brand new compact automobile. Stryker eats more salmon in an effort not to laugh. "Good morning, gentleman," Dramius says as he enters the room, filling it with both his presence and his bass voice. The three men stand. Stryker doesn't need to; he hasn't sat down yet. "I hope everyone is enjoying the holidays. Stryker. Glad you could make it." "Like I had a choice," Stryker says, and smiles when Dramius laughs. None of the other three could have said it. "Very well then," Dramius says, sitting behind the desk, "let's get down to it. A few loose ends to clean up and we'll all be able to return to our loved ones for the holidays." Dramius simply folds his giant hands, his wedding ring and NYPD ring glittering. There's no paper for meetings like this. "Everything delivered?" "Everything's delivered," Rick answers. "The guy from the D.E.A," Dramius says, staring at Mathew, "he bought yet?" "We're set up," Mathew answers, "but we're a day late. He couldn't clear the last slip before the sixth. Is that acceptable?" Dramius pauses. "Do we have a choice?" Mathew shrugs, "Always," he says, "but it'll take a lot more money, and another week to set up." Dramius stares at his desk. After a moment, he starts nodding. "No, the sixth is acceptable." Then, "Bill. What's the current status with Alonzo shipping?" "Mr. Alonzo cashed the check, himself, this morning." Dramius nods again. "Then we're finished." He stands. "Gentlemen, have a very Merry Christmas and a wonderful new year. Stryker, I'd like to see you before you leave. The rest of you, I appreciate your time and attention." Great, Stryker thinks as the other three leave the office as quickly as they dare, fucking great. Dramius comes out from behind the desk and sits on it. "How is everything, Stryker?" "Everything's fine, Sir," he says, "except that my girlfriend is waiting for me in Hoboken and I'd really like to do something with her for Christmas this year." Dramius chuckles. "I understand. I haven't seen my wife and daughters for a week. Listen, Stryker, I have a small favor to ask of you." "A favor?" Stryker asks, "that means I can say no?" Laughter, this time, actual laughter with an accompanying smile. "Yes, Stryker, you can say no. My feelings won't be hurt. It's a simple thing." "What is it?" "I've purchased a painting for my daughter. It's in New Orleans. Cynthia is still in school, in Ohio State. I'd really appreciate it if you could deliver the painting to her and bring her back to New York for me. You'll be home by tomorrow night." "That's it?" "That's it," Dramius says. "Since you could have said no, I won't pay for anything but your fuel and rental cars. Upside is, since it's legit I can give you all the information now." Dramius pauses, opens his hands. "Look, Stryker, I'd hire someone to do it-" "No, no," Stryker says, amazed, "I can do it. No problem." "Thanks," Dramius says, clapping Stryker on the shoulder, "I really appreciate this." Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a small leather book. "First page is the address of the gallery in New Orleans, the painting's name and serial number. Second page is my daughter Eliza's information. I'll call her and let her know you're coming." Stryker unzips the book. This again, is funny. The thing is a hard-backed journal; gold leafed, with a Mont Blonc pen ready to go. The two pages Dramius mentioned are the only two written on. Dramius is nearly out of the room when Stryker notices a check for three hundred thousand dollars, written out to him, towards the back. "Sir?" Dramius turns around. "I thought you said you weren't going to pay me?" "Merry Christmas, Stryker," Dramius says with a huge grin. "Merry Christmas, Sir. And thanks." "Thank you," and he's gone." Okay, Stryker thinks, all right. JFK to New Orleans International, then Dayton International, and then back to JFK. Twelve hours, max. Stryker looks at his watch. It isn't nine yet. Home first. Ashley is still asleep in the living room when Stryker gets home. Maybe, he thinks, the poor girl will just stay asleep- "Hey gorgeous," she mumbles as he goes into the bedroom. Maybe not. "Go back to sleep Baby Doll," he whispers. He walks to the couch, cradles her head. She smells like bad breath and sleep. Stryker inhales deeply and kisses her. "You don't have to go back to work, do you?" Stryker sighs as he walks into the bedroom and sits down to get undressed. She's followed him and sits on the bed. "Yeah," he says, "I do. But I'll be back by nine tomorrow night." He hopes he's estimating on the late side. "It's not a run, I'm just delivering a painting to Dramius' daughter and her to him." She stretches out on the bed like a cat, and purrs. Stryker has a pair of thick wool slacks and a freshly ironed white broadcloth shirt on. "Thanks for this morning," she says, "I needed that." Stryker can't resist. He goes to the bed and kisses her again, deeply, hugging her to him. "So," he says between lip smacks, "did I." He stands up and is fumbling with a red silk tie when an idea hits him. "Baby Doll, I been thinking. Instead of eating dinner in the city and staring at that stupid fucking tree, why don't we fly to Vermont tomorrow night?" Ashley's eyes light up. "You won't be too tired?" "Nah," he says, knowing he'll be exhausted, "and we'll rent us one of those sleigh rides in the woods. At night it'll be awesome." Ashley sits up. "I'd love that!" "Yeah so would I. You make the reservations while I'm gone. I'll call you and tell you when to meet me at Newark tomorrow night." "You sure you don't want me to come with you?" "I want you to," he says, knowing having her there would help keep him awake, not to mention the fact that over the past two weeks they've probably spent a total of five hours together, "but it's just a little trip. I can handle it. You call around, get us one of those bed and breakfast places." "All right," she says, running to him and kissing him, I will. "Be careful, Stryker." "Always, Baby Doll," he says. Washington Street is an explosion of red and green and gold, lamp posts and park benches alike neatly gift-wrapped, massive wreaths hanging from store windows. Stryker loves Christmas; the decorations and the music and the mood, but most of all the cold. For the first time since he can remember, he's actually hoping it doesn't snow. He's got to remind himself to get Ashley something amazing before he sees her tomorrow night. Stryker opens up the Hummer and turns the engine on. It's still warm. This, he thinks as he heads towards the Holland Tunnel, is going to be the best Christmas ever. The Hummer is emerging from the tunnel when Stryker's cellphone rings. He looks at the number. Rick. Fucking Rick. Stryker hits the send button. "What." "I lied to Dramius, Stryker." "Your funeral man, not mine," Stryker says. "I'm busy." "I didn't finish the last delivery. Fucking pilot got caught in Miami, he's in jail." "Why didn't you tell Dramius?" Silence. Yeah. "Can't help you, man, sorry." "Stryker! It's a simple fucking run. Fifteen kilos, that's it. You'd be coming back to New York, anyway. Newark International." Dragon, Stryker thinks. "You missed a delivery to Dragon?!" "Yeah, man. Look, Stryker, I'll pay you fifty thousand. That's twice what I was going to pay my guy." Stryker sighs and misses his turn onto the East Side Highway. "Fuck! Rick!" "Stryker, please? Fifty thousand dollars, man. Down and back." No, down and back and down and back. He cannot, of course, tell Rick he's doing a personal favor for Dramius. "All right, Rick. I'll be in my usual place in South Beach in three hours. You email me the info." "Thanks, Stryker, you don't know much trouble you're getting me out of." "Yes I do. And Rick?" "Yeah?" "If the fifty kay isn't in my account when my wheels hit the ground in Miami? I cut and run, period." Stryker presses the Off button and resists the urge to throw the phone into the back seat. Of course, the money will be there. It'll probably be there before Stryker is finished pre-flighting his Lear and Stryker knows it. "Fuck," Stryker says to no one, "son of a fucking bitch." As he's running a gloved hand over the seams of his white jet, Stryker is thinking. The safe thing to do would be to pick up the blow, run it back to New York and then go on to New Orleans. Of course, that will take a lot of time. What he's thinking of doing is just keeping the crap in his jet. Through New Orleans, through Dayton until he gets back to Newark. Not only is this ridiculously dangerous in terms of law enforcement, but Dramius will kill him - literally - if he finds out Stryker had blow in his plane at the same time his daughter was in it. "Shit," Stryker says. The turbines cycle up as the cockpit lights flicker. He takes his gloves off and puts the thin, wireless head set on. Once he's checked his flaps he toggles the radio on. "JFK tower this is Lima niner six eight three two five requesting take-off on runway zero four." "Good morning, Lima two five. Proceed to parallel four zero and follow Bravo four seven." "Good morning, thank you, Lima two five proceeding." Once he's got the Lear behind the jumbo jet Stryker picks up his phone. He checks first his bank statement and then his email inbox to discover that he has in fact been paid for a run about which he knows nothing. "This," he says, "sucks." It's his turn to take off. Stryker cranks the air conditioning inside the all-white hotel room and checks his inbox again. Nothing. "Fuck!" he screams, pounding on the desk. "God motherfucking damnit!" He's pacing the room as he dials Rick's cell phone, who doesn't answer until the fifth ring. "Hey! Where the fuck is the info, Rick?" "I don't have it yet." "What do you mean, you don't have it yet? This fucking run is already a week late! Where am I going?!" "Calm down, Stryker." "Fuck you, calm down!" When Stryker realizes he's screaming, he does calm down. "All right, Rick. What are you waiting on?" "An email, Stryker, same as you. They had to move." Stryker sits down and opens the fridge. He looks at his choices before drinking off a quarter can of Coke and pouring an airplane bottle of Jack Daniels into it. "Rick do you have any remote clue where I'll be going? Tell me it's not the keys-" "No, man, nothing like that. Probably a warehouse somewhere in Miami itself." "You pay already or you got these fuckers on credit?" This is a legitimate question; picking up narcotics for which the client has not paid often presents problems, and Stryker doesn't need any more problems. "Paid for in full, Stryker. Look, I'm getting off the phone. Sit tight. It shouldn't be long." And Rick is gone. Stryker takes another swallow of his drink, turns the television on, lights a Marlboro. He looks at his watch. Quarter past two. His mind wanders to Ashley, who he should be here. Especially given her talent at turning the male mind into oatmeal, if he should run into problems in New Orleans. Or Dayton. Or JFK, Jesus H. Christ what am I doing this for? Dealerv Ch. 02 Stryker closes his eyes. At least, were she here, there'd be less of a need to fight the clock. She'd be involved; probably keeping Stryker's cell phone in her jeans pocket, refusing to give it to him no matter how much he screamed or cursed or banged on tables. 'As soon as they call,' she'd say, 'we'll know.' Stryker takes a deep breath. December 23, 2005, Stryker thinks. Can he, really, have been doing this for three years already? Stryker smiles as he remembers trying to study computer science at University of Wisconsin. The concept of 'ADHD' existed back then, certainly...ah, but what's the use? No one, Stryker thinks, really wants to know what the thing is. They want to simply label it a disorder and then prescribe drugs for it. Ah, yes, Stryker thinks with a smile, drugs. The modus operandi of an entire species, the balm of human existence, the opposite side of religion's coin, the gateway to paradise, the cure for the common cold and ultimately a cold cure for the common. Not to mention – lest Stryker forget – the chemical engine behind his own wealth. But I digress, Stryker thinks. U.W. Madison. Stryker had been having a blast, for about two and a half semesters. He'd been on academic probation every semester since the first. How the hell were you supposed to pay attention when there were nine coffee houses, eight used bookstores, and an athletic club that did everything from ice fishing to sailing to skiing? That is, assuming you could stop frequenting the bars and the clubs; little architectural jewels in the darkness, richly furnished in leather and wood and brass where the women dressed and acted like they were at a Caligula Halloween Party. Stryker loved the women. He loved Mary with her burning cascade of red curls who taught him how to ride a motorcycle and Amy with her short-short blond hair and blue eyes the color of a frozen lake who taught him how to dance and later the same night screamed in his ear while Stryker deftly stroked her while they hid in a bathroom stall... ...but it's never enough. Jason's friend Zef was a psychology student and accused Stryker of being a 'satyr,' a male version of a nymphomaniac and that was bullshit because Stryker may not have known that much about psychology but he did know that nymphos really didn't enjoy sex; they got no satisfaction from it for someone with an actual sexual disorder it was like a big black hole they could never fill that isn't, Stryker knows, me. When Amy held me that night and put my hand at the small of her back and the music absolutely bumped and she grabbed the back of my neck and whispered, "Short-short...l o n g ..." into my ear and made my hips match the movements of hers, I was past satisfied. I was on another planet, I was so happy. When she took me home that night and stroked me and kept telling me what a gorgeous cock I have while Madison's lights turned her living room into a surreal artscape; when she bent over to lick my head and said, "I really, really want this hard cock inside my aching wet pussy" and I came so hard I thought I'd pass out? I was satisfied. Nah, Zef was just another neo-hippie 'sex isn't physical' moron. But still it wasn't ever enough. None of them wanted what Stryker wanted. What that was, exactly, Stryker didn't know. Something along the lines of Mary pulling over to the side of a dark road, pulling her jeans below her ass, putting his hands between her legs and then kissing him the way she did that one time but constantly, always. Stryker never wanted it to end... Some guy named Farley did some study on people who require a lot of stimulation just to feel awake, connected...and the ones who needed the most simulation often appeared to 'normal' folks to have obsessions, with things like sex and violence...that, Stryker knew when he read it off of one of Zef's handouts. That's me. If I need a label, that's it. ...but it turned out not to matter. He spent more and more time with Jason, got worse and worse grades in school. One frigid February Saturday morning Jason asked Stryker for a favor. "Hey man," he'd started, "I'm taking a little trip out to the country tonight. Come with me? I'll pay you six hundred dollars. Cash." Stryker holds the phone in front of his face, staring at the little graphic of the envelope in the corner. He nearly falls off the bed trying to get back to the desk, where he put the leather-bound journal. Finally it's open and Stryker's writing the address down. Stryker takes the rented SUV well past the manicured beaches of South Beach. The beach becomes public, and then sand gives way to concrete and the road pulls away from the water as Stryker keeps driving, South, watching the seven-digit numbers tick off the buildings (where they're still legible). The building Stryker stops in front of looks completely deserted. A squat trailer, which may have once been aluminum sided in blue, dilapidates onto the gray asphalt where it sits on cinder blocks. It's afternoon and the sun plays little tricks on Stryker's eyes; dazzling broken bits of glass in the wide expanse of parking lot in front of the waterfront warehouse, its massive sliding doors shut tight with rusting chains. Stryker parks his truck behind the trailer and waits. And waits. And he's just about to talk himself down, tell him self to relax, when a white Hummer not dissimilar to his own pulls directly in front of him. Its driver, a bald man of about fifty with a pot wearing crisp blue jeans and a virgin white to shirt, gets out of the car with a .45 drawn. Stryker puts his hands up. He hates these. There's no need for this sh- "Name," baldy says as he taps the glass on Stryker's truck with his gun's muzzle. Stryker lowers the glass. "I'm Stryker," Stryker says. He doesn't look up to see what Baldy does to confirm this; he doesn't care. In Stryker's own experience this kind of crap is just theatrics. "Hey," Stryker finally says, "I'm in a hurry. Do you think-" the gun's barrel pushes into Stryker's temple. "I told you my fucking name!" Stryker says, and pushes the gun away. "I carry one too, you know." "All right," someone says. Someone Else is out of the Humvee now. Stryker opens the door of the Ford and pushes Baldy out of the way, not gently. Stryker shields his eyes from the sun. Tall and slim this time, in a shirt, tie and slacks. Typical, if you can consider Armani typical. "That's enough, Henry." "Just trying to do my job, Sir," and Stryker knows 'Henry' is staring at him but refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking. "We good, Sir?" Stryker asks. The guy in the suit nods. "Yes, we're good, Stryker. Come to the back of my vehicle. It's all in a single trunk, I'm sure Henry will be happy to help you carry it." Stryker does and doubts Henry is happy about it, but he does help him move the trunk. "Now all of it's packed inside about an inch of freeze-dried coffee, which is wrapped in aluminum foil. You should get past dogs, if you need to." Stryker nods, closes the Ford's rear door behind him, crawls into the driver's seat and drives away as calmly as he can. The trunk is a hard one, blue with gold-colored metalwork. Just like anyone would use. Stryker glances at it once more, strapped down with nylon roping before he enters the cockpit, sits down and gets his head set on. But what it most resembles, Stryker thinks with a smile, is the sort of trunk a college student would use to get his or her stuff from college to home. Especially a female college student, like the one I'll be picking up in Dayton. Stryker turns up his engines, still considering taking the product currently sitting in his Lear jet straight back to New York before continuing on to New Orleans. Then, everything is done. He asks the tower where to go. "Limo Two five, where is your destination?" Stryker thinks, looks behind him at the closed door. Fifteen kilograms of pure Columbian cocaine. Enough to put him away for the rest of his life, assuming he didn't give up those above him, which would be useless because none of them would fold. A hop back to Newark would virtually ensure he couldn't get caught; Dragon was prompt, always heavily armed, and often had either Newark or Jersey city police officers as escorts, sometimes in their uniforms. "Lima Two five, this is MIA Tower. Where are you flying to?" New Orleans, on the other hand...anything could happen. Fucking anything. Stryker holds his watch up. Two thirty, PM. Twenty seven and one half hours to go. If he goes to New Orleans he'll be hours early. If he goes back to Newark it's a gamble. Of course, Cynthia will be expecting Stryker, and soon. A cell phone call to her saying 'Hey I get held up' might not sit well with Daddy. Of course, neither will his daughter sharing a cabin with fifteen kilos of blow. "Fuck!" Stryker yells. He keys the comm toggle back on. "Tower, this is Lima two five. Sorry. I'm headed for," Stryker swallows, squints hard, "I'm headed to New Orleans, NBG." "Roger that, Lima two five, taxi to taxiway zero six. You're next to be cleared for take off." And that, Stryker thinks, is a good thing. This way I can't change my mind. Stryker walks his jet to thirty thousand feet and then puts his sunglasses on as he heads into the setting sun. This leg won't be quite so difficult. No bullshit, nothing to wait on. Stryker's mind wanders, back to that bitter cold Wisconsin winter and Jason. One Saturday afternoon Stryker and Jason sat together in the student center, drinking strong coffee and discussing movies by the fireplace. Stryker enjoyed the conversation immensely, as his best friend hadn't been around much over the past two weeks. Out of nowhere Jason asked Stryker for this 'favor.' "Sounds like a pretty big favor," Stryker had asked. "Jason, what the hell are you into?" Jason shook his head, no. "What I'm into isn't what you're helping me with, man." Stryker looked at him. "Stryker, all I need is...a bodyguard. Someone I trust." Stryker kept looking at him. Jason leaned in closer. "Look, I've ordered a certain woman's...services, okay? I'm a little freaked out. All you have to do is come with me. You'll have your own room and everything. I just want you there, you know? Just in case." Stryker's stomach dropped. For a moment, he could smell the detergent they'd used to wash his mug out before putting coffee in it alongside the creosote in the fake logs burning in the fire. Stryker could see the brushstrokes in the giant Alpha Phi Epsilon banner hung over the archway; he could clearly hear the conversation at the next table over. He could also feel his adam's apple trying to escape into his nose as his breakfast followed it. "Are you insane, Jason? I'm no bodyguard, I don't know how to fight or anything-" "You don't have to, man! If anything goes wrong, you just call the cops, that's all." Jason bit a thumbnail and looked around. "Come on, Stryker, please?" Stryker stared at him and sipped his coffee. "Where'd you get the money for this?" Jason looked at the table. "Don't worry about it." "No," Stryker said, "I won't do it." Jason's eyes came up, wide. Nearly terrified. "Why not?" "Because you won't tell me where you've been lately, what you've been doing." Stryker now felt blood coursing through the veins at his temples. "You tell me where you're getting the money to rent a car and hire call girls, I'll do this for you." "Not now," Jason said, "after." And Jason did tell him, though the information had proven useless. Stryker had no skills involving either drug trafficking or computer coding, the latter of which is what earned Jason the money he'd saved. The experience, that night, in a Holidome on the outskirts of Racine, Wisconsin, was a different story altogether. Stryker brought himself a bathing suit, a change of clothes, and a package of Marlboro Red cigarettes, though he hadn't smoked since high school. He sat by the pool, which had a view of the third-story room Jason stayed in and waited and pretended not to know Jason. The girl showed up just when Jason said she would, in pink hot pants and a tight lycra shirt underneath a fur coat. Even from the distance, Jason could tell she wasn't at all haggard looking or wasted; she bore no resemblance whatsoever to the burned-out, used-up streetwalkers he'd grown up used to in Soho. This woman with her long brown hair and expensive clothes and understated voice (Stryker couldn't even hear her from where he sat) was gorgeous, and professional, and Stryker envied Jason the time he'd have. Stryker thought about going back to his own room and calling an escort service out of the phone book – Jason had already paid him – but Stryker's work ethic prevented him from doing so. He'd told Jason he'd watch, and at some point go into his own adjoining room and listen carefully. He'd promised, essentially, to provide Jason with a service for six hundred dollars, and planned to do just that. Years later, he'd realize that his work ethic was at least partly responsible for his success in a cut-throat business in which most failed. Stryker sat by the pool with his hard-on and imagined what was going on up in the room and read his Stephen King novel and almost three hours later, the woman came down by the pool and sat. "You know," she'd told Stryker, "the book gave you away." "What?" Stryker asked her. She looked even better up close, flawless skin and gigantic green eyes and all her hair... "Oh come on, honey," she said, "I wasn't born yesterday, you-" "No, no," Stryker said and folded the book in his lip, "I'm watching him, you're right. How did the book give me away?" "No one your age reads," she said, "unless they're in college. And I know Jason's in college, because I do extensive background checks on my clients. Did you go up and press your ear to the wall at all?" "Yeah," Stryker said, "I did." "Well then you did that good," she said, "because I didn't hear you. You own a car, honey?" "Yes," Stryker had lied, "I've got a brand new Jeep." The minute the lie had escaped his lips he regretted it for no other reason that it was turning his cheeks red. She smiled. "I need a good driver," she said, "thirty an hour, plus your gas and whatever hotel rooms we stay in. It's twice what regular drivers make." Then she stood up and put her fur coat back on. "So take whatever he paid you and go buy yourself a car, I won't ask questions if it's not 'a brand new Jeep.'" And she handed Stryker a business card and she left. Stryker sat in his chaise lounge and looked at the card. Tricia, the card said, and had a phone number. He and Jason rode back to UW in silence and when they got back to the dorms, Jason even asked what was wrong. "Nothing," Stryker said laughing, "nothing at all." He didn't quit his job pushing popcorn and soda at the movie theatre, he didn't rush out to try and rent an apartment. Stryker didn't even quit school (that he failed out wasn't entirely his own fault; his study habits changed not a bit). What he did was get a cab to the newest used car dealer and buy a used Jeep Cherokee with a five-hundred dollar down payment at thirty-one and a half percent interest. The thing was clean, with an AM/FM receiver, crappy speakers and a six-cylinder transmission. Before Stryker called Tricia he bought a book on engines and, though it took him nine days total, Stryker made damned sure the heat was working. The French doors are all open to the late afternoon air and sunshine, people walk past with packages in their hands. Stryker watches them until his steak lands with a ceramic on wood thunk in front of him, the smell of Cajun spices and freshly cooked meat causing his stomach to rumble and his mouth to water. Carefully, he sips from the goblet of Chilean cabernet sauvignon before cutting the first piece off his steak. Stryker takes another bite of steak. . Somehow, Stryker thinks, Christmas in New Orleans is even more colorful than in New York. Not as...Christmas-y, but more colorful. He's tempted to just to stroll down Bourbon street and purchase glassware and clothing and some chicory root and a bunch of books he probably won't have the time to read, but he won't. Stryker is going to sit here and let this steak become an event and then perhaps order dessert, but he's called the art gallery and she's already staying open late for him. Dramius called just to inform Stryker that his daughter had Stryker's phone number in case she left her dorm for some reason. So it's dessert, Stryker thinks, and then back to work. Stryker eats a slice of 'death by chocolate' which could really be considered a geographical feature. Finished New Orleans style in a hard layer of chocolate and topped with chocolate mousse, Stryker tastes it more than eats it with a glass of Port. He thinks briefly about that club a couple blocks off the French quarter...what's it's name? Collette. Yes, Collette. A 'swinger's club' which costs ridiculous amounts of money to get into, and don't go as a single male. Stryker had made that mistake, a year after he'd started working for Tricia. Saved up all that money, for one trip here, just to be disappointed. Stryker finishes the last bite, remembering belaboring over his decision not to ask Tricia about what had happened. They had an excellent professional relationship and Stryker didn't want to muddy it with anything, so he ended up not asking. Stryker pays his check in cash, puts his shades back on and with a wide grin re-takes Bourbon Street. Anyone looking at me, Stryker thinks, probably thinks I'm nuts. And maybe I am. No, Stryker says to himself, I could not have been more wrong. Not that Tricia could have helped, she couldn't. Stryker strolls, looking for the cross-street the gallery is on. Stryker drove Tricia around Wisconsin on weekends for three months, until he failed out of college. "Sorry," he'd told his father, "I really am, Dad." Miraculously, there hadn't been a fight. "I'll pay you back if you want-" "You're working?" his father had asked. Stryker's fingers dropped the rip in his jeans he'd been playing with as he pictured the long and silent drives with Tricia. "Yeah, Dad," he said, "I'm working. Driving limos on long trips. I'm doing just fine, in fact." His father sighed. "All right. You need anything?" Tears hotly jammed up in the back of Stryker's throat; he couldn't help it. He was absolutely sick of failing at things, sick of it and tired of it and frustrated by it and this was the first time his parents didn't scream at him and sit him in a chair and preach at him for hours on end. Somehow, his father's gentle disappointment, coupled with the knowledge of his son's ineptitude, made it worse. Had Stryker not been working, things might have been different. "No," Stryker finally croaked. "I'm fine." "It's all right, son," his father had said, "It really is. As long as you're working-" "I know, Dad," Stryker snapped, "I know. Look, I'm staying out here. I'm not moving back home." Silence. "Dad, I'll come visit when I can. I'm late, I've got to go." That night he told Tricia he'd failed out of school. "You want to work more?" she asked. "Yes," Stryker said, "I do." And work more, he did. Tricia taught Stryker how to screen clients, which she paid him for. She let him sleep in a spare bedroom of hers for almost a week before asking him what he'd been spending his money on. Stryker shook his head and laughed." Sorry," he said, "I'll look for my own place tomorrow." Which had been a converted storeroom off a farmhouse. The two rooms – bathroom and living space – were clean, warm, and utterly sterile. Instead of spending money on cheap posters and furniture, Stryker went to Goodwill and purchased a desk and a chair. He splurged on two things: his bedclothes (flannel) and his laptop, which had become necessary to work with. Stryker discovered Colette on the internet. Advertised as a dual floor s&m swingers' club, the pictures and text on the website made it look as though you could walk in and get laid. Stryker made it his vacation goal. That summer, he took off eight days and went to New Orleans. He visited Colette but once, paid his $90 entry fee and then followed a svelte, long-haired bouncer around to discover that they "keep a tight leash on single males." Stryker didn't get laid that night. Dealerv Ch. 02 What he did was get his appetite not so much whetted as rabidly enticed. Colette's naked girls giving blowjobs and leather-clad submissives getting spanked produced a desire in Stryker so strong it actually hurt him to think about. He left New Orleans nearly broke and with mixed feelings about the 'bdsm scene,' which on the one hand advertised adventure and rough play but emphasized consensual everything and safety and so many rules it didn't seem worth it. More money, Stryker concluded the next week as he waited in a five-story hotel room in Chicago, is the key. The idiots at Collette were still middle-class; that's why they had so many rules. The rich do what they want. One of Stryker's favorite movies played as he sat there drinking Coke and smoking cigarettes, but he paid no attention. His mind was reeling. If I could just, he reasoned, get into the right circles, I'll find what I'm looking for. The after-hours parties and the real players, that's got to be where it is. He knew he couldn't generate the kind of capital he needed by working solely for Tricia. On his off time Stryker went back into Madison's clubs and discovered Drugs. Cocaine, ecstasy, and of course marijuana. The stuff was in great demand. The key was to position himself as some sort of supplier. The number on the narrow doorway matches what Stryker wrote down, but nothing else seems right. He'd turned off of Bourbon into not so much a street as a named alleyway which opened, slightly, into back lot. Garbage steams and stinks in a dumpster crawling with feral cats. A single arc-sodium lamp just came on, causing its failing transformer to hum. The sun will set, soon. "It feels like a setup," Stryker murmurs to no one. Like I'm going to end up in that dumpster bleeding to death, just conscious enough to realize no one will find me. And my goodness, but did Dramius seem extra friendly? Stryker's heart pounds as the sun, arcing down below the buildings, casts the lot into blinding contrasts of shadow and light. Stryker puts his hand on the wooden door handle and pauses. Stryker looks around quickly before removing his gun from its holster. As quietly as he can he chambers the weapon, takes the safety off and then puts it back, without buttoning the holster. Not feeling better, Stryker opens the door into a hallway. The smell of garbage is gone, replaced by potpourri. The hallway is floored in wood, its stucco walls painted peach. Stryker spots a single door with an intercom next to it and pushes the ring button. "Yes?" the woman he'd talked to on the phone. 'Rebecca.' "It's Dealer," Stryker says. "Oh, come on in." A buzzer and a relay go on at the same time, and the door opens. Stryker steps into an apartment filled with art. His eyes look everywhere, trying to take it all in, which is impossible. The place looks like a cross between a warehouse and a museum. Rugs are stacked dozens deep, sculptures occupy every last flat furniture surface. Paintings hang from the walls and from wires suspended from the high ceiling; the spiral staircase in the room's corner is covered in stacks of printed paper and massive leather journals. "Hello," Rebecca says. Stryker isn't ready for Rebecca, either. Tall and svelte with chocolate-colored skin and braids hanging down to her waist, she's wearing cut-off camouflage shorts, beige work boots, a red bikini top and a white button-down shirt that's meticulously pressed, and stained with lots of different colors of paint. The voice, Stryker thinks, doesn't match. Too deep, maybe, to look that good. "You're...Dealer, right?" she asks. "Oh, yeah!" Stryker says, "sorry. I was just looking at..." she smiles. Stryker smiles and hopes the light isn't as good as he thinks it is. "all of your art." She's laughing now. Her eyes are gigantic. "Come on into the back," she says and turns around. Stryker follows, trying not to trip over anything. "You've got a lot of stuff," he says. "This is your store?" He's managed to make it into the place's foyer without knocking anything over. A circular space, with staircases on both sides and a giant crystal chandelier. The hardwood floors are barely visible through ledgers and giant vases and metal sculptures and gilt-framed paintings, twenty and thirty thick, leaning against the walls. Rebecca sits at an impossibly small secretary, writing something down in a journal. "No," she says, laughing, "I have a gallery down town. This is my warehouse." Then she looks up and hands Stryker an index card. "Okay, she says. This is Mr. Dramius' receipt, with a copy of the artist's signature on it. Have you ever verified a painting before?" Stryker shakes his head, no. Rebecca smiles and tries to hide it by getting up and walking into the foyer's center. "What you're going to do," she says, counting down on frames towards the wall side of a stack, "is make sure the serial number Mr. Dramius gave you, the number on that index card, and the number on the painting are all the same." "I think I can handle that," Stryker says. "Let me help you," he says and holds up the dozen or so paintings Rebecca has pointed to. She pulls out the next one and Stryker puts the dozen back. Stryker gets down on one knee and his gun falls out of its unbuttoned holster and clunks to the floor. Stupid ass, he tells himself as he scoops it up and puts it back, you're lucky the thing didn't go off. But that isn't true, and Stryker knows it. He has his trigger set hard. "Sorry," Stryker says, "I'm a bodyguard." Rebecca laughs. "I know," she says, "it's okay." Stryker looks at the canvas' back, at a small white slip of paper. "It all matches," he says. "Good," Rebecca says, "I'll help you out to your car with it, then?" "That'd be great," Stryker says. The painting is loaded and Stryker shakes Rebecca's hand. "You going to be in New Orleans long?" she asks. She's smiling and doesn't want to let go of his hand. "I'd hate to see you spend the night alone." "Uh," Stryker says, "No. I'm leaving, tonight. I have to pick up Mr. Dramius' girl. I mean, his daughter. And then go back home, to my girl. My fiancé. My wife." Rebecca laughs. "Okay, no problem, Dealer. Nice to meet you." Stryker fumbles his way into the caravan and starts its engine. Stryker wanted nothing to do with what he'd later come to know as the 'end users;' the neurotic, wasted, self-absorbed and often psychotic people who swallowed ecstasy, inhaled cocaine into their noses or shot heroin into collapsed veins. Stryker researched for months and months on end. He brought law books with him on trips with Tricia or printed things out he'd found on the internet. He talked to street dealers and climbed as far up the distribution ladder as he could without buying or selling any product. He got beat up twice; once by the hoods of a mid-level street dealer who thought Stryker was after his territory and once by a Madison, Wisconsin detective who, upon discovering that Stryker had been lying about everything, got so frustrated he just started swinging. The second time, he'd had to stitch his own forearm back together using Absolut as anesthetic, fishing line and a sterilized upholstery needle. It didn't so much bother him, he'd learned a lot. Marijuana was really the only thing home-grown. They grew the stuff anywhere there was lots of unwatched space. The bayou, the northern plains, the deep south. Marijuana had the worst profit margin of everything but remained lucrative. Cocaine came for the most part from South America, ecstasy from labs in Europe (the former Soviet Union was the latest hotspot) and heroine from the hills of Afghanistan. To make money – to really make money – on any of it, you had to fly. And you had to own your own plane, and do your own entire book keeping, and run some kind of a crew. Everything in Wisconsin not surprisingly came from Chicago. Stryker had already done favors and made contacts with a few people in Chicago. Within six months of beginning his own narcotics research expedition, he'd quit working for Trisha on good terms. Sporadically over the next three months he worked for different girls and carried ridiculously large amounts of product in his Jeep over long distance for exorbitant fees (knowledgeable mules got paid as well as the naïve ones got used). It was during this period, working long hours with little sleep that Styker heard about Klub Ukraine. Supposedly run by a Russian mobster in Chicago, Klub Ukraine was where everything came in and left out of. A thousand ideas Stryker considered and dismissed, one of which was just to walk into the place and ask for a job waiting tables or maitre'd'ing or cleaning toilets. Stryker was still thinking about this when, one afternoon on his third or fourth hour of sleep, 'Katrina' called him. Stryker had heard of Katrina. The highest-paid call girl for three hundred miles, Katrina needed a ride to see Boris Yeltsinvkin, the owner of Klub Ukraine. Stryker adjusts his flaps down and eases the throttle down. He's following a 757 into Dayton, Ohio. He'll stay in an airport hotel this evening and pick up Cynthia in the morning. This little trip, Stryker thinks, is nearly three quarters finished, and Dayton is his last trouble spot. No one at either Newark International or JFK is going to come near his Lear; Dramius owns the majority of them. On Valentine's Day Stryker found himself parked outside Klub Ukraine in six inches of snow. Katrina had her cell phone out, trying to reach Boris. Petite, with short blond hair and ice-blue eyes wearing a fur coat over what looked like jeans but weren't. They were made, Stryker thought, out of blue leather. She was younger than him, by at least five years. "Sorry about this," she'd said, "This guy keeps himself pretty insulated." Stryker smiled. "Mind if I smoke?" She didn't. Stryker took a huge pull off a Marlboro Light and put his booted feet up on the dash. "If I were him I'd be pretty insulated, too." "Yes, Mr. Yeltsinvkin, this is Katrina," she said, and held a single finger up to Stryker. "I'm outside, Sir." Pause. "No, Sir, I'm sorry, I'm not coming in without my driver." Stryker leaned back and blew smoke rings inside the Jeep, thinking about the brand new nine millimeter in its brand new Dealerker's clutch under his left arm, under the black navy pea coat. He'd traded his usual 'utilities' for wool slacks, military boots polished to a high shine and a Gucci shirt and tie he couldn't afford. "Very good, Sir, we'll be right in." They were escorted through a back door by two bouncers with all the personality of concrete statues and chests like steel barrels. Down a long hallway and then they stood in front of massive, beveled wooden doors. When the doors opened, the room resembled something Stryker didn't think existed, outside of a movie. A fireplace danced light against stone walls. A table as long as a mobile home stood in the room's center, with a high-backed chair at either end. A single chair faced the fireplace and from it issued a deep voice with a thick Russian accent: "Vladimir, Putin." Vladimir and Putin wore the same double-breasted suit and approached Stryker and Katrina. Stryker opened his pea coat, allowing them to see the gun. "Would you like me to de-chamber it first?" The bouncers laughed. "That will not be necessary," the one on the left side, "but please to ensure the safety is on." Stryker nodded, yes, it is. He and Katrina were both frisked with a touch Stryker could only describe as complete and utterly professional. "Putin," the voice bellowed. "Sir?" Putin said, turning around. "Return to Mr. Stryker his firearm. I do not believe that we are to be in danger from Mr. Stryker." "Yes Sir," Putin said. Without hesitating, he handed Stryker his gun back. Stryker holstered it and closed his coat. Which is when Boris Yeltsinvkin stood. Six feet three inches or so, in a black suit with a white shirt and a tie the color of red flame. "No, no, no," the man said and threw a cigarette butt into his fireplace before thrusting both hands into his pockets. "You are guest here, Mr. Stryker." His wingtips clicked on the tile floor as he started a slow journey around the table. "Putin, his coat." "Sir?" Putin asked, gesturing with a single hand. Stryker handed the man his pea coat and Putin disappeared behind Stryker. "Chicago," Yeltsinvkin said, "is rather cold, yes?" He looked down for a moment before sitting on the edge of the table. "But no colder I think than Wisconsin, am I to be correct, Mr. Stryker?" "Yes, Sir," Stryker said. "Mmm." Then he stood. "Miss Katrina, you are far lovelier than even I was led to be believing." He approached the girl, put his hands back in his pockets. He walked behind Katrina and took her coat off, then walked back to the table and sat down again, the coat draped over his arm. "And far more expensive, as well. Luckily, I pay nothing for you, as you are birthday present to me from bad enemy, which is sometimes to be better than good friend, yes?" Katrina said nothing. "Mr. Stryker." "Sir?" "I am to be turning sixty-two today. Sixty-two is old, my friend, believe this of me when I tell you." He stood and started to walk back around the table. "I am old and I am tired. I wish now to enjoy my birthday gift, Mr. Stryker." Stryker stood dumbfounded. "Sir?" he stammered, "I'll need my coat." "You'll need no such thing, Mr. Stryker." And that's when Stryker got scared. "You will stay in my house this evening as guest. Tomorrow morning, over good breakfast, we discuss the real reason why you took job with Katrina." "Sir?" "Vladimir, show Mr. Stryker to good room." "Yes, Sir. Mr. Stryker, please to be following me." "There are many things, Mr. Stryker, about money you do not yet know. You, like me, will be learning them...how do you say in America? The Hard Way." Stryker stopped eating his eggs. "Sir, I don't follow." "Then do not talk," Boris had said, spreading jam onto a piece of toast, "but to listen." Stryker ate another mouthful of eggs. "You see Mr. Stryker, there is plenty of things which can with money be bought." He sipped his coffee. "What is even more to be amazing is the number of things which can never with money be bought. These things, which no matter how much money you have you still cannot buy, become not always amazing, yes?" Stryker looked at him and said nothing. "I am to be confusing you. I am to be sorry. These things which money cannot buy, Mr. Stryker, are not just amazing. They can be sometimes making you very angry, yes?" Boris bit down on his toast. "I wish I had enough money to know the difference," Stryker said. Boris laughed. "Of this, Mr. Stryker, I am to be believing." He swallowed his toast. "You are very impressed with Klub Ukraine, yes, Mr. Stryker?" "Yes," Stryker said. "Very impressed." "I am to be impressed with Klub Ukraine also, Mr. Stryker. Even though Klub Ukraine is being mine. Look around you, Mr. Stryker. What do you see?" Stryker sipped some coffee. "Look around!" Stryker looked. "I see...beautiful furniture, Mr. Yeltsinvkin, and I see delicious food, and a beautiful building." "Yes," Yeltsinvkin said, "I am to be seeing same things. And most of these things, Mr. Stryker, they can with money be bought." He paused. "Do you remember Vladimir and Putin, from last night?" "Yes." "I trust both of them with my life, and my fortunes, which are not the same thing. But, point is being, do you think such trust can be bought?" Aha. Stryker thought he saw where this might be going... "No, Sir, I don't." Yeltsinvkin nodded. "Then you begin to see why money not buying certain things can be making you angry?" "If you had to..." Stryker paused and thought a minute. "If you had to look for that trust...especially through trial and error, it could frustrate the hell out of you." "Frustrate!" Yeltsinvkin bellowed, and then laughed. "Frustrate is a good but not very strong enough way to be putting it, Mr. Stryker." He leaned back and lit a cigarette. "Trust is one of the things which cannot be bought with money. Professionalism is another of those things, Mr. Stryker." "Yes, Sir," Stryker said, "I guess it is." "In this business," Yeltsinvkin said, "there are many things to be happening, and most of them at our place right now in time are bad." Stryker nodded. "George Bush started his 'War On Drugs,' and he gives money to people who do not like us, Mr. Stryker. The airplanes are becoming a problem." "The airplanes, Sir?" "Yes, Mr. Stryker, "the airplanes. In space of not eight months, I have had to be having killed two different pilots." Stryker's heart skipped a beat, and not for fear of his life. "Sir, I don't have a pilot's lisence." "A pilot's lisence," Yeltsinvkin said, "is a thing that can be bought with money." He put his cigarette out. "A person to be flying airplane who will not take shit money from Drug Enforcement Agency policemen is not." Stryker swallowed. "Sir, why would you have to bribe a pilot who gets caught?" Yeltsinvkin laughed. "Because it is very impossible to prove, that pilot knew about drugs on airplane, Mr. Stryker. Much easier to offer pilot shit money to tell Drug Enforcement Agency policemen where to find man who ordered airplane flown with drugs on it." Stryker nodded. "And I think," Yeltsinvkin said, "That in you I have found person to be flying airplane who will not take shit money." It wasn't a question. "Especially if I pay you money that is not to be covered with shit." Stryker spent the next five years in Chicago, with Boris. Boris got Stryker a small apartment downtown; hardwood floors, hissing radiators and chipped tile kitchen floor enclosed in a small space were far from elegant but extremely cozy. Stryker, as usual, bought nothing. He'd been sleeping on the bare mattress wearing sweats when he and Natasha started going home together and Natasha insisted one summer day that they go out and buy Stryker sheets. Ironically, in the process of learning how to become a pilot and a drug runner, Stryker didn't do anything criminal during his first year in Chicago. The whole thing was amazing, entirely too ninjitsu-fairy tale to believe. First Boris made Stryker work with the dishwashers in the back of the restaurant. Stryker cut his hands on every conceivable implement and grew to enjoy the reprieves of using the actual dishwasher, even though it made him sweat until he felt faint. After seven weeks, Stryker realized why his landlord wasn't coming after him, despite his not having paid rent. Things were taken care of. Stryker began to make friends with the latinos who washed dishes. They made life hell on him at first, poking fun at him and playing practical jokes on him until one day Stryker discovered he could speak Spanish by telling one of them that his mother was a dyke, in the guy's native tongue. They respected him, after that. He'd just begun to enjoy it when Boris announced that he'd learn how to wait tables, next. Which Stryker liked much more, to say the least. Waiting tables lined Stryker's pockets with cash, and still Boris kept paying his rent for him. Not dissimilar to college graduates in big cities, Stryker found his soul in working long hours, making a lot of money and not allowing himself the time to spend it. And finally Boris taught Stryker how to manage, and Stryker thought he liked it best. The silk suits and the respect from regulars and the way the wait staff looked up to him. The money wasn't as good – Boris had taken to handing him wads of hundreds every once in a while – but he didn't care. Stryker ate well, never stopped moving around and had more women paying attention to him than he had the time for. The transition from manager to pilot came so smoothly Stryker barely noticed it. Which is a strange thing, Stryker would think a lot over the years, not to notice. One week he worked sixty-five hours, ate like a king and had excellent sex with a hostess named Ana. He came in on a Monday morning, kissed Ana at the podium and Boris walked up to him. "You, Romeo, into my office. Being there right now."