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The Quiet Man
The Quiet Man
The Quiet Man
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The Quiet Man

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A colleague's mysterious death propels an average guy into a searing affair with the woman of his dreams and also a lucrative job as chief counsel for a huge international conglomerate. Our quiet man soon finds, however, that both the woman and the client are far more challenging than he had expected, perhaps fatally so.

"This story is filled with bizarre twists and turns that keep the pages turning." Tiger02

"I found this book to be quite sexy." Damsel

"Full of drama with occasional mischievous humor." Theodora

LanguageEnglish
PublisherT.L. Peters
Release dateDec 27, 2012
ISBN9781301404360
The Quiet Man
Author

T.L. Peters

"There's no question that Peters is a master wordsmith." Gerry B's Book Reviews About the author: T.L. Peters is an ex-lawyer who enjoys playing the violin and giving his dog long walks in the woods. In between, he writes novels.

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    Book preview

    The Quiet Man - T.L. Peters

    The Quiet Man

    By T.Linden Peters

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright 2012, T.Linden Peters

    Copyright Book Cover 2012, C.K. Volnek

    License Notes

    This e book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    To read more about the author and his other books, go to http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/tlpeters.

    There’s no question that Peters is a master wordsmith. Gerry B’s Book Reviews

    Chapter 1

    Willard's body was found about a block from my apartment by an old man walking his dog. A crowd of about twenty adults, including three uniformed Pittsburgh police officers, had congregated on a street corner between an independent florist that had just gone out of business and a Western Union office. I would probably have scuffed on by if anyone in the crowd had paid the slightest attention to me, but no one did. Not even the old man's dog, a feisty gray Labradoodle, seemed to notice me. My apparent anonymity lent me a burst of unaccustomed courage, and I began to ease gently among the perspiring bodies, the city enduring an especially nasty stretch of muggy weather that July.

    I recognized no one, which was not surprising. I had lived in this neighborhood for nearly four years and didn't know the full name of a single resident other than my own, John Balcolm Richards, which on legal correspondence I often shortened to J. Balcolm Richards because I thought it made me sound rather more impressive than I was. I stretched and squeezed and pressed myself past one gaping onlooker after another trying to pick up some relevant tidbit of conversation. But all I managed to overhear were disjointed syllables and random words that told me nothing.

    I was about to give up when I suddenly found myself on the far side of the crowd. A few yards in front of me was a battered iron mesh trash bin surrounded by dense strips of bright yellow tape slapped in straight lines onto the grimy pavement. A thick-legged cop stood straddling the tape while dully surveying us. He was the first to make eye contact with me, and his sudden attention gave me a start. I must have looked suspicious, because he continued glaring in my direction for what I considered far too long. I decided to generalize my vision as if I were unaware of his interest, and after about twenty more excruciating seconds he finally looked away.

    By then I had nearly forgotten why I was there, but suddenly I saw it, the corpse that is, stretched out next to the trash bin, the long legs folded back beneath the buttock, the smooth and already grayish hands crossed neatly over the taut stomach, the narrow head pinched forward atop a dull reddish neck where the blood had apparently just dried. The victim was dressed in a two piece, black, pin-striped suit not unlike my own, except that his looked more expensive by at least a few hundred dollars. His neatly pressed cotton shirt still sported a bright luster, even with all the scattered blood stains. I observed with some envy that it fit far more snugly to his slender frame than my 45 percent polyester, 55 percent cotton super shirt seemed capable of snuggling around my increasingly paunchy middle. His red silk tie likewise suggested power and authority, while my slightly stained yellow rayon model indicated a more modest attitude. Aside from my father's corpse, which I had discovered lying peacefully in his bed, and scattered memories of my mother peeking out from a heavy, flower-rimmed casket, this was the first human carcass I had ever seen.

    It was perhaps a fault of mine that, when confronted with a new emotional challenge, my brain did not fasten on hard, objective facts but instead tended to focus on highly subjective and often hazy generalities. Thus as I continued to stare at the lifeless mound I became aware both of my own rising sense of unease and the seeming lack of any rational grounds for it. Members of our species have, after all, regularly been dying, often violently, for some time now, and one might have supposed that evolution would have softened the blow at seeing the remnants of a once fellow human being. But there I was, my heart thumping wildly, my stomach tightening into a clogged gaggle of knots, my throat closing in on itself so that I was barely able to breathe, my knees beginning to quiver, a few stray drops of sweat already wetting my cheeks. My reaction seemed to calm, however, when I realized that the dead man was no stranger. I actually knew this guy.

    He was Willard P. Breston. I was sure of this because my eyes had finally wandered toward his now pallid face and, more to the point, to his long and gently sloping nose. I had often admired Willard's aristocratic snout, mine being of the more demure variety. My eyes then glided toward his high set cheekbones, his smooth forehead, his thick dark hair, his once brilliant but now somewhat pale blue eyes. It was Willard all right, but what was Willard's corpse doing here, and why had someone apparently killed him?

    It was not that Willard was such a close acquaintance of mine that stirred my interest. He was a senior associate at my firm, three years older and on the cusp of making partner. His spacious window office was two floors up from my cramped interior cubicle, and at the moment I could barely remember having exchanged more than a few casual words with him in the hall. Willard did not tend to fraternize with lowly grunts like me. Willard was what I liked to call an image guy. He was adept at delegating work to underlings, facile in charming clients and partners alike, and had an aura about him that suggested rainmaker. That last quality had made him invaluable to the firm, which like most modern law offices prized the ability to bring in business above all else.

    Willard may also have been a decent lawyer, or he may have been a hack, but it had not really mattered to his career. Unlike me, Willard had been destined from the day he showed up fresh out of Columbia Law to be a star in the legal firmament at Malcolm and Mudge. And now he was dead, apparently as the result of foul play, which, along with the morsel of dark pleasure this undeniable reality gave me, no doubt accounted for my interest.

    I must have stood there for some minutes, because when I finally came to myself most of the crowd had dispersed. I noticed the thick-legged cop glaring at me again and decided to take my leave. As I strolled away I heard scattered commentary from the few remaining bystanders—poor guy; the neighborhood is really going to the dogs; I hope they find the fellow who did it; slashed throat, how awful; did you see who did it?; not me, but I heard that some lady said she saw some tall guy running away; did she tell the police?; how should I know?.

    After I shook free of them and their chatter, I asked myself what I should do now. The answer came to me quickly—call somebody at the firm, of course, and excitedly relate to him or her in all the gory details the unfortunate mess I had stumbled onto, thereby attaining for myself gossip status as a kind of in house celebrity for a few precious hours, or even several days if I were lucky. The attention was surely worth the modest effort of placing a phone call, especially for someone like me who was seldom at the center of things. But who should I target? Telling a partner was too risky, since he or she might think I was sneakily trying to curry favor and hold it against me when next year's compensation levels were being set. My fellow associates, even those few I could loosely call friends, would likely appropriate the news as their own and cut me out entirely.

    Suddenly a solution dawned on me, and underlying it was a far more useful motive than the wisp of fleeting notoriety. Why hadn't I thought of her right away? Pamela Bridgewater was a popular and accomplished paralegal, perhaps a few years older than me but beautiful nonetheless, and I had long sought her company. I had almost asked her to join me for lunch just the week before, but as I was approaching her cubicle I had gotten cold feet. It often happened to me in social settings. While toiling on some dull legal project I always got along with my female colleagues just fine, even the pretty ones, but outside of work I was painfully shy with them, a failing for which I had no inkling as to the cause.

    Maybe this was my big chance finally to break out of my shell. The news was clearly work related, and I could recount the whole story to her over the phone at a safe emotional as well as physical distance. There was still a problem, however. I felt I needed some pretext to single out Pamela from all the other people I could have called, and I struggled mentally for some time trying to find one. The ground did not seem fertile.

    We weren't working together on any projects. We had no common friends or acquaintances I knew of. We had no social ties or mutual outside interests. Then I recalled having heard at some horridly dull firm meeting that the late Willard Breston had enlisted Pamela's aid in shepherding some major corporate deal to an early closing. That connection seemed a plausible enough basis for a quick conversation, and I hurriedly pulled out my phone and called her number with a trembling hand. Unlike me, Pamela was a workaholic, and I hoped she might still be at her desk.

    Yes, Pamela answered cooly. Who is this?

    I gulped down as much air as I could. Her steady, authoritative manner had always seemed to drain the wind right out of me.

    John, I stammered. I mean, John Richards, over in corporate.

    There was a lengthy pause during which my knees nearly buckled. The shock of seeing Willard's corpse lying on the sidewalk had now been entirely crowded out by the far more seductive exhilaration of making a play, albeit a clumsy one, for the gorgeous and nearly unapproachable Pamela Bridgewater.

    Oh yes, John, the voice dipped sharply. What can I do for you?

    I proceeded to tell her everything in a mad flood of words, followed by another pause, not quite so lengthy, during which I feared that I had come on too strong. Finally her voice resounded again, steady and confident.

    Meet me tomorrow for breakfast. You know, at the little place right around the corner from our building. Can you make it early, around six? I have a busy day.

    I'll be there, I agreed, the words all running together.

    She abruptly clicked off her phone. I walked a block to a French bakery and bought four pistachio macaroons, and then walked another block to my apartment building, which was formerly a Methodist church that had been restored and refurbished some years ago, and where I rented a flat on the second floor. I don't recall climbing the hard wooden stairway or trudging along the dimly lit hall. I was too busy mulling over what I would say to Pamela in the morning. As I opened the door and glanced at my clothes strewn over the backs of chairs, at the clutter of papers on the dining room table, at the little piles of dust huddled next to the vents, I muttered that I would need to give the place a thorough cleaning. Then I sat down at my sticky, laminated kitchen table and munched happily on the macaroons until I had finished the entire bag.

    Chapter 2

    Pamela was wearing a purple sleeveless top fluted loosely at the sides and black, flat-front, nylon slacks that accentuated her slender waist. Her right wrist sported a thick metal bracelet, her only piece of jewelry. Pinched at the base of her slightly upturned nose were narrow, turquoise-framed reading glasses that lent her appearance a kind of stern intensity. Her hair was black and mid-length, with her recently cut fringe bangs hitting at right about the middle of her eyebrows.

    I stood at the doorway of the bustling diner gazing at her, or more precisely at her bare, whitish arms. Her biceps were nicely sculpted, chiseled you might even say by hard cords of lean muscle, and her forearms seemed to ripple in tightly cut ridges even when, as now, she was sitting perfectly still. Her hands were large with thick palms and long, powerful fingers, and the backs of her knuckles were laced with sturdy seams of muscle and vein.

    She presented a vision of strength that left me mildly shaken, though I was still able to muster a faint smile when she glanced my way. Her face, however, remained gloomy and sullen, yet with a hardness that bordered on ferocity.

    I found myself gulping uneasily yet excitedly as I ducked and dodged past noisy waiters lugging trays full of steaming plates of eggs and bacon and hot cakes. I might have paused to savor the warm, cozy aroma if my eyes had not once again swung toward her arms, which were now flexing almost violently as she pointed to the uncushioned wooden chair beside her where she apparently wanted me to sit.

    The chair squeaked across the spare tile floor as I clumsily pulled it out and sat down. I had wanted to appear cool and confident, but that seemed difficult in the presence of such a strong and self-assured woman. During the long silence before she spoke, I felt like a wayward child awaiting judgment from a severe teacher.

    Tell me what you saw, she ordered, staring grimly at me.

    My lips seemed to go dry all at once, and my throat somehow squeezed itself into an aching series of gulps that made coherent speech nearly impossible. A portly waiter gave me a respite by setting a glass of cloudy water in front of me and asking in a gruff voice if I knew what I wanted. I choked down half the glass in a disjointed succession of noisy gulps.

    Just toast, I coughed. As I set down the glass I noticed Pamela frowning at me with obvious disgust. Whole wheat, no butter, I added meekly.

    As if to mimic Pamela's disapproval, the waiter also frowned before scurrying away. I glanced at the empty plate in front of Pamela, which was smeared around the edges with thin yellow streaks of dried egg yoke and sprinkled with tiny bits of burnt bacon.

    Too early for me to be very hungry, I mumbled.

    You need to work out then, she declared briskly. I go to the gym nearly every day, and I can eat pretty much anything I want. Now tell me what you know about Willard's death.

    This time I took a long, slow drink of water. The cool liquid swishing gently against my tongue seemed to calm me. I noticed my hands quivering slightly and dropped them to my lap where I hoped she couldn't see them, though I suspected that she could see everything about me with those hard, dark, piercing eyes.

    There's not much I can tell you, I said in a voice that sounded brittle even for me. He was lying dead on the street near my apartment . His throat was cut. It was kind of gross. The cops were there, but they didn't talk to me. That's about all.

    Her eyes continued to search me while the corners of her mouth twitched upward for a moment, as though she were considering making the effort to put forth a smile, which never quite came, not yet anyway. The waiter soon returned and plunked down a small plate with two slices of slightly burnt toast and a packet of butter on top. He quickly laid the check next to the plate, frowned at me again and strode away. I brushed aside the packet of butter, picked up the top slice and nibbled at the crust. I noticed with some relief that my hands were no longer trembling.

    Why didn't you speak with the police? she asked, her eyes flicking toward some crumbs that had sprinkled onto my tie.

    I didn't see the point, I replied, trying to regain my professional poise, what little of it there was. I didn't have anything to do with his death. What could I have told them really?

    The point is that the police might have known something helpful, she persisted. Willard was a colleague of yours. You could be expected to have had some interest in how he died.

    I shrugged and carefully placed the slice back onto the plate, trying as best I could to hide the fact that I was completely intimidated by her, emasculated almost. The strange thing about it was that I sort of enjoyed it.

    I guess it just didn't occur to me, I stammered, glancing again at her arms, wondering why she hadn't gotten them tanned. They would look even more chiseled if they were tanned, I thought. You're right, of course. I should have.

    She pointed at my toast.

    Are you going to eat that?

    Without waiting for my answer she ripped open the packet of butter and began hammering a crumbly wad onto each slice with the flat blade of her knife. Her arms were bristling wildly now, especially her forearms and wrists, where the muscles seemed to whip about like vibrating steel cords.

    I took a deep breath and said admiringly: You must lift weights.

    Her expression remained stony, although I detected a slight rolling of her eyes.

    Do you have any idea who might have killed him? she snapped, jamming the top slice into her mouth.

    I paused to scratch a bead of oily sweat off the tip of my nose.

    I'm not even sure if it was a homicide, not officially anyway. I guess it's possible he could have cut his own throat, although I don't know why he would have wanted to. Everything seemed to be going so well for him.

    I was proud that I had managed to utter three coherent sentences in relatively quick succession. Apparently unimpressed, she generously smacked her lips as she chewed on the second slice of toast.

    How do you know if his life was going well or not? Were you buddies with him or something?

    Not really.

    Then why did you say everything was going well with him?

    I don't know. I guess I just assumed it.

    She frowned again as she leaned toward me.

    The talk about you at the firm is that you're the literal type, sort of boring. You don't make assumptions. They say you drive other lawyers nuts sometimes with how picky you are.

    I usually don't like to assume things, I confirmed haltingly. Assumptions often turn out to be wrong.

    Then why did you just now make this assumption about Willard?

    I don't know, I continued to stammer. I guess I was just trying to be helpful.

    Helpful, she repeated doubtfully.

    Her hand slid across the table until it was barely touching my elbow. Her breath on my cheek felt hot and thick, and a bead of sweat glided down my forehead. I was scared to make a move, as though her close presence had frozen me.

    I'm curious about something, John.

    Hearing her speak my name with such assurance, as though we were confidants, or even old friends, made me feel as if a volcano had just exploded inside me. I remained fixed and clinging to my chair, however, outwardly as motionless as a statue.

    If you really don't know anything about it, why did you bother to call me? She asked in a voice that had a certain gravelly, almost masculine quality to it.

    It was an embarrassing question, and one that I had no good answer to, no good truthful answer anyway, which was the reason, I guess, that I suddenly began to consider another topic that interested me far more, namely, how old she was. Her vibrant body and smooth face had always suggested to me a woman in her late twenties, but her authoritative manner indicated a level of maturity pointing to perhaps her mid-thirties. As I continued to study her I was surprised to observe a tiny wad of loosely wrinkled flesh just below her chin. Could she be in her forties? It was hard to tell with well-groomed women these days, I thought. They all dyed their hair, and then there was Botox. But Botox, I had heard, didn't always work nearly as well as advertised.

    I knew that you worked with him from time to time, I said, finding myself swallowing my own saliva so fitfully that I could barely speak. I took a quick gulp of water, which only made me cough. I just thought you'd want to know.

    Plenty of other people at the firm worked with Willard, she replied crisply. Did you call any of them?

    Before I could answer she let out a crusty smile that made me feel as though a cold fog that I had not even been aware of had just burned away from my soul. She gave me a quick and condescending glance as she pushed back her chair and stood up. I tried to look at her face, but the upward motion of my eyes stopped to take in the imposing ridge of her breasts, before once again darting over toward her long, taut arms.

    You can pick up the tab, she barked, her smile turning a bit cruel. After all, you're the lawyer. You make the big bucks.

    She began to walk away through the unrelenting bustle of harried waiters and hungry patrons. Suddenly I remembered that I had wanted to ask her to lunch sometime.

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