No working title...ch1

Beverly awoke to one or more individuals relentlessly pounding his head and shoulders. “Tom Beverly we know you’re in there!” Of course I’m in here where else would I be, it’s me, he thought. “Open this door Beverly, it’s the police!” Then he had an AHA moment. No one was pounding on his head they were pounding on the door, but that didn’t answer why his head hurt so much. His muddled brain had its second epiphany. He could put a name to the voice kicking his door in, it was Lassiter. He sat up in a jerk and put his feet on the floor, ran his fingers through his hair and winced when he touched the back of his neck. He glanced down and discovered that he was still dressed from the night before. He paused in mid thought, shit the morning just keeps getting better and better. He had no idea where he was yesterday and the fact that Lassiter the homicide division’s meanest detective was pounding on his door did not bode well for the possibilities. “Beverly do not make me break down this door. Open up immediately.” It will take more than your size 12’s to kick it in Lassiter; besides, you’ve been kicking on it for the last ten minutes with no results. The doublewide used to belong to a paranoid meth dealer who striped it down and reinforced it with concrete and steel. The door itself had three deadbolts. He had made a decision that it would be better to get the hell out of Dodge and find out what the police wanted with him before giving himself up. It would not be a good idea to give himself up to Lassiter because there was a history between them and if Lassiter arrested him; surviving the trip to the station wasn't a sure thing. He grabbed a backpack from his closet and began stuffing socks, underwear and extra shirts into the bottom. He got down on his knees and began spinning the combination of the floor safe built into the closet, opened the lid and removed all of his emergency funds, $5,000; there was no telling when he would be able to get back. Reaching to the bottom of the safe he found the Smith and Wesson 38 Airlite chiefs special. Would he need a handgun? He didn’t like carrying guns; they could get you into all kinds of trouble. Then again, he didn’t know how much trouble he was in already. It was probably better to take the gun, then wait for the police to discover it. The security wouldn’t keep them out forever, it would merely slow them down. He lifted his pant leg and shoved the gun into his boot, then grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair, went to the foot of the bed and lifted the Oriental rug revealing a trap door underneath. lifting the door revealed a concrete keep beneath the trailer. He jumped down and turned on the light, pulled the door shut and bolted it from the inside. He got his bearings and crab-walked to the opposite side of the trailer where there was a long low door that opened to a toolshed. He lifted the door and peered into the darkness. When he was satisfied that the shed was empty he rolled out of the Keep and under a long worktable against the wall of the shed. He crawled out from under the table, cracked open the door to make sure the coast was clear and ran across to his neighbor’s trailer. Once in the carport and he quickly pulled the tarp off of his Moto Guzzi 1400 that he stores there, alongside his neighbor Jim Barnes's custom 'Fatboy'. they ride together regularly and once a year they spend two weeks in search of the best roads, full of twisty's and scenic views to ride. He pulled on his helmet and swung his leg over ‘The Goose’, started the engine, and paddle-walked the bike to the end of the driveway. He pulled down his visor and looked over towards his trailer. There was an unmarked police cruiser in his driveway and his car backed up to the trailer. He never parks that way, which posed the question; how did he get home? He put the bike in gear, turned in the opposite direction of his trailer and exited the Sun Valley trailer park by the back gate. He had no idea where he was going all he knew was that it had to be as far away from the area as possible and he had to find something for his headache, which was banging in his head as hard as a Keith Moon drum solo. He took Kingsway towards the city and after half an hour pulled off into a strip mall that supported a convenience store as well as a small 60's style diner complete with black and white checkerboard floors, red vinyl coverings on the booths, stools and chrome chairs...lot's of chrome. They even had a retro Wurlizer in the corner. He parked the ‘California’ and entered the convenience store in search of some Tylenol. While waiting in line at the till he happened to glance at the Daily’s on the counter. His gut clenched and his legs would have let him down had he not grabbed onto the counter. He no longer was in the dark about why the police were at his door. CROWN PROSECUTOR MURDERED??? Crown prosecutor Patricia Connelly found dead in her exclusive condo. Police are not releasing any information about the death of Ms. Connelly, other then they are treating it as a possible homicide. He picked up the paper and paid the clerk who was looking at him with much concern. The concern of an underpaid minion of commerce hoping that this poor bastard in front of him was not going to throw up inside the store. Who says there’s no empathy in the world thought Beverly as he exited the store and wobbled to the diner next door. He sat at a table by the window and ordered a black coffee from the middle-aged waitress who showed up at his table as soon as he sat down. Spreading the newspaper out in front of him and he read everything there was on Patricia’s death. He searched his brain for anything about the night before. The only thing he could remember was leaving the bail bonds office at around six o’clock and driving away in his Nova. Did I see Patricia yesterday? He knew Patricia Connelly intimately; they had been carrying on a friend’s with benefits relationship for the past two years. He looked again at the picture of Patricia on the front page. It was one of her dressed for a court appearance. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she wore a pair of black thick-rimmed glasses that gave her a geek-like appearance that detracted from her natural beauty. Patricia’s eyesight was 20/20 and the glasses were non-prescription. She wore them in the courtroom so Juries would take her seriously. The real Patricia Connelly had fiery red hair that fell across shoulders that were so white that they appeared to be bloodless. Her thin eyebrows arched across the crest of her brow framing her amazing blue grey eyes that had the ability to change color depending upon the light. A light sprinkle of freckles crossed a distinctive, delicately pointed, nose. Her heart-shaped lips hovered over a firm jaw. She encompassed the ideal of the All-American girl. On the face of it all, there was nothing about her to preclude any relationship with him. She was an intelligent, competent, beautiful Crown attorney, a member of the upper crust of society. He on the other hand is more other side of the tracks, rough around the edges; An ex-cop in the bail bonds business that deals with the dregs of society, no matter which part of the loaf they come from. The only attraction that he could think of was that underneath all of her quiet control beat the heart of a rebel and a yearning live with wild abandon. He had come to the conclusion he was a safe compromise. He rode a motorcycle, associated with rough side of society but lived a normal life. His phone buzzed and released him from thoughts of Patricia. It was Sam Lee his office assistant / man Friday. “Where are you?” “I’m in a diner off Kingsway," he responded. “Good, your favorite dance partner was here earlier looking for you flexing his muscles. That guy really creeps me out!” Lassiter must have shown up and tossed the office. “Sam I need to find somewhere to lie low for a few days until I can figure out what to do.” “I figured as much and it is already in the works. Give me an hour and meet me at that bar where we once got wasted on Bloody Maria’s.” He knew Sam meant the ‘South of the Border Bar’ on Burrard. That was the time he awoke in a motel room after drinking copious amounts of Tequila and tomato juice. Sam Lee was lying in bed beside him. They both had their clothes on but neither one could remember how they got there. It was also the last time he drank so much that he forgot what he did the night before…until now. He arrived at the bar around four o’clock and to his surprise the place was already half full. Sam didn't seem to be there, so he found a booth in the back corner and ordered a Corona and lime. The last vestiges of his headache stubbonly hung around. He was half way through his beer when he saw Sam Lee or Sammi, as he liked to be called coming through the door. Sammi Lee was somewhat of an enigma to him, and that was the reason, he had taken him to the bar in the first place, and filled him full of booze. Unfortunately, if he found answers to his questions that night he had forgotten about them by the next morning. About four and half years ago, Sam showed up at his office looking for work. It was just after his ex-wife left with everything but the business, which she thought below her status as a succubus in Jimmy Choo heels. He was working sixteen-hour days trying to keep the business together with sweat and bullshit. At any rate, Sam Lee showed up looking like someone out of GQ magazine asking for a job. He told Sam he didn’t need anybody at that time and he couldn’t afford to pay him if he did. Sam just put down his purse (man bag) and began straightening out the office, organizing files, throwing out month old takeout containers. “Pay me whenever you can. The money's not important,” He said. Things improved from that moment on; business picked up, mind you there was a significant influx of Asian clientele, but he no longer worked past four. In fact, he could take vacations and sick days without having to worry about the business. Sam Lee was like his fairy godfather and that was the other thing that bothered him. He had no idea if Sammi was a very effeminate guy or a woman dressing up as a guy. Patricia informed him once that Sam was what is known as a Metrosexual. Whatever the case he dressed way beyond any salary that he made from Beverly, Boss, Gucci and Zegna did not fall within his PayScale. Not to mention the Rado watch. Sam slid his slender body into the booth across from him. “Looks like you have landed yourself in one hell of a mess.” “Looks like your right and I have no idea if I’m responsible or even if I was with her last night.” “Let me see your phone.” Sam reached out across the table for his phone and began scrolling through the call history. “ You received a call from her at 6:15 last night.” “Shit! Why didn’t I think of that?” Then there was a good possibility that I was there, he thought. She always called when she wanted to meet up. Sammi began taking his cell phone apart. He put the battery and phone inside his bag. "I don't know how badly they want you, it's best they can't trace your phone. I’ll put your phone inside the safe at work. In the meantime, use this phone. It’s a throwaway and there are two phone numbers programmed into the phone. The first is to another throwaway that I’ll be carrying and the other is for the person who will be arranging your safe house and taking care of you. You have to get off the street, so as soon as I leave, go to this address in Chinatown. I’m being very serious Beverly, I have seen the hate in Lassiter’s eyes and I am very worried about what he plans to do to you.” Sammi got up but hesitated before he could leave. “I almost forgot someone named Addi called the office and said he wants you to meet up with him. He said that he was spinning at a rave in the valley tonight and that he will leave word at the door to let you in. Just say you are his guest and not to come before 2:00 a.m.” Sammi took a piece of paper out of his bag and passed it to him. It was the address of the venue. His heart sank. If this is a dream, please let me wake up now, he thought. Addison is the night security at Patricia’s condo.