The Fireman

He didn't belong there. Between his faded jeans, the legs of which were tattered from rubbing on the heels of his well-worn boots, a World War II pin-up t-shirt and the aged, black leather jacket he wore over it, it was a wonder they let him in at all. Of course the pair of Franklins he slipped the bouncer at the door might have had something to do with it.

No, this was a younger man's club. It wasn't even so much the grey in his two-day's worth of stubble that set him apart; it was the fact that he wasn't either completely clean shaven or sporting a hipster beard. Looking around he noticed that there was no in between, except for him. The men there were pretty, and that annoyed him. Doing his best to ignore the denizens around him, he made his way from street level, down the industrial, metal staircase and over to the bar. It was lit from beneath and the garish illumination, contrast against the darkness of the rest of club, hurt his eyes. "What the fuck am I doing here?" he muttered to himself. It was all he could to get the bartender's attention. "Whiskey," he demanded.

"And what?" the confused bartender asked.

Irked, he replied simply "and a glass, would be nice."

The bartender, or mixologist, as he called himself, rolled his eyes and complied with the order. He still charged him full cocktail price, which annoyed him even further. There was no point in arguing. He'd drink his whiskey, get what he'd come for, and get the hell out of there as soon as he could. He turned as he sipped and watched the drunken pretty boys attempting to dance with the drunken, prettier girls as their bodies writhed to the beat of Banks' Beggin' For Thread. He'd previously liked the song; hearing it now while watching the morons on the dance floor irritated him. His ire grew. Two whiskeys later, she still hadn't arrived. He hated waiting. He loathed doing so in a downtown club. Finally, he saw her.

Had he not had such a strong and jaded composition, she'd have taken his breath away when she walked towards the bar. She was tall – much taller than most women to which he'd been accustomed to meeting. The woman walking toward him was at least 5'8", and the black heels she wore only accentuated her stature. Perfect legs extended from beneath the hem of a hip-hugging, black pencil skirt, and the emerald green blouse she wore perfectly complimented her emerald eyes. She was a smart girl, sexy and alluring. Not what one would call particularly thin, she knew how to flash her ample curves. What lustful pangs clamored in his mind he quickly put to rest. He was there for business.

It didn't take her long to spot him, and she immediately turned on the charm. With a quick toss she sent her cascading blonde locks back across her shoulders. She had a Jennifer Lawrence pout with which she was used to getting whatever she wanted from men, and she'd yet to meet a man who wouldn't succumb to her charm. Of course, she hadn't yet met Matt Jericho.

"You're late," he said bitterly as she sat down.

"And you're underdressed. Buy me a drink."

He ignored the insult and nodded to the bartender to get the lady her beverage of choice. It was some fruity thing; he didn't care what it was. It didn't matter. What mattered was that she was finally there, and it was time to get to work.  "So, what's your name?" she asked.

"Matt. Do you have it?" he asked curtly.

"Relax, have a little fun! You guys are always so serious. I'm Tamara."

"Of course you are. Look, I'm not here for fun. I'm here to do business. Do you have it or not?" Before she could answer, two suited gentlemen descending the stairs caught his eye. "Were you followed?" he asked with coldness in his voice.

"What?  I don't think so. Why? "

"Then who are they?" he asked Tamara with a nod.

"I don't know, but I'm done with this. I'm out of here," declared Tamara as she stood and walked towards the back of the club, slinking her way through the crowd. Jericho scoffed, downed the rest of his whiskey, and followed after her. She'd made her way into the ladies' room by the time he caught up to her, and he had no qualms about walking right in. Some of the other ladies yelled and shrieked. One hit him with a purse. He ignored them all. "What is your problem?" She yelled. "The deal is off! Get the hell out of here!"

"I don't think so, sister." Jericho grabbed her arm, firmly enough to maintain his grip but not so much as to hurt her. "Come on." He dragged her from the ladies' room, back out in the darkened hall, and over to the emergency exit. With a glance over his shoulder to confirm the two tails hadn't yet traced their way back to the restrooms, he shoved her through the door. The bare light bulb that illuminated the damp, brick-line stairwell flickered intermittently. Tamara couldn't wait to breath in the cool air of the alley above.

"Who the hell do you think you are? I –"

Jericho cut her off by pushing her against the building behind the nearby dumpster and placing his hand over her mouth. He let her know there were others looking for them by nodding towards the street. Tamara nodded and he removed his hand. As the footsteps drew closer, Tamara grabbed the back of Jericho's neck and pulled him into a kiss. She lifted one of her long, slender legs and looped it behind his knee as he pulled her closer to him by her waist. To any passers-by, they appeared to be just another hooker and a John enjoying a late-night tryst.

Tamara wasn't prepared for the passion with which he kissed her and struggled for a moment to regain her breath. Jericho was already making his way down the alley. She had no idea at what point he'd pulled out his weapon, or from where he pulled it as she hadn't felt it when they embraced. Immediately she was beginning to regret ever taking on this assignment.

"Alright, we're clear," Jericho declared. He walked over to the next dumpster and pulled a tarp off of his motorcycle. "Here, put this on." He handed her a helmet.

"Are you insane? I'm not getting on that thing with you!"

Jericho grabbed her by the shoulders. "Look, we don't have much time. You have what I need, and my employer paid a lot of cash to get it, so we're doing this. Now get on." Jericho pulled on his own helmet, swung his leg over the seat, and started the bike. The only thing that prompted Tamara to join him was the sound of the door opening at the bottom of the stairs behind her. Her skirt stretched against the flesh of her thighs so tightly she feared she'd lose circulation. Holding on for dear life, she closed her eyes as Jericho put the bike in gear and tore off into the night.

He took her to the Warehouse Lofts, old storage buildings located in the shipping district that had been converted to living space. She was pleasantly surprised when he led her to his spacious apartment. It was neat, and well appointed. Far from what she'd expected by observing his appearance.

"You don't think they followed us again, do you?" she asked with trepidation.

"They weren't following us. They were after you," he replied plainly. Realization set in and she felt weak. She leaned back and steadied herself by placing her hand on the arm of his oversized leather sofa and lowering herself down to the seat. "Look, you're safe here. They don't know who I am, because you don't know who I am. They won't come looking for you here."

"Who are you? What is going on?"

Jericho had gone to the wine cooler in the kitchen and opened a bottle of pinot grigio. He handed her a cool glass before speaking. She sipped anxiously. "My name is Matt Jericho." It took a moment for the name to register, and when it did she leaped to her feet, spilling her wine in the process.

"No. No, no, no, this isn't happening. They told me this was a simple drop. I was supposed to give my contact the drive and, oh my God. They're going to kill me aren't they? If you're involved…." Her voice trailed off as she continued to babble. He let her. When she finally stopped, he spoke.

"No one is going to kill you. They don't know who you were supposed to meet. They probably don't even know who you are either, for that matter."

"Do you know who they were?"

"If I had to guess, I say they work for Compton."

Deckard Compton was the CEO of Compton Financial, a secondary market lending house off Wall Street. The Feds had tried to pin him down for years, but his operation was run too cleanly. Everyone knew he laundered cash for the city's scumbags, but no one could ever prove it.

"And you don't think they're going to come looking for me now?" Tamara was frantic. Whatever it was she'd been drawn into was far more complicated than anything she'd done before. She'd always had plausible deniability – the law firm for which she worked would use her as a courier to pick up and deliver information to various private detectives, informants, etc. If Deckard Compton was a player in this scenario, though, she now knew Jericho was lying when he said no one was going to kill her. That was exactly what they were going to do if they found her.  After they tortured her to learn of the buyer's identity. "You're going to get me killed!"

Matt Jericho remained calm. He'd been through this before. "As long as I live, you live. And I plan on living to a ripe, old age." He stepped over, righted her spilled glass of wine, and refilled it. "Look, I'm sorry it went down this way, but when they followed you, we had to get out of there."

"What is so goddamn important? What is on this thing?" she asked as she pulled the small zip drive from her brassier.

"I have no idea." He took the drive from her and placed it in his right front jeans pocket. "I don't know and I don't care. I get paid –"

Tamara cut him off. "You get paid to put out fires. That's why the call you the 'Fireman.'"

Jericho nodded. "Yeah. And this one is apparently a five-alarm. The people who hired me to retrieve it want it pretty damn badly."

"So what are you going to do?"

He scoffed, as if there was any doubt. "I'm going to give it to them!"

Tamara shook her head. "Something's not right here. The Fireman doesn't just buy thumb drives. I've heard about you. I know what you do. This doesn't seem too simple to you?" Jericho clenched his teeth. In fact, he'd thought that very same thought since the beginning, but the money, the money was too good to pass up. He was beginning to realize why. Tamara again voiced what he was thinking. "This smells like a set up. I think whoever is doing this wants you out of the way too." Overcome with fear and emotion, Tamara broke down. Jericho did his best to comfort her.

"Look, I told you, as long as I live, you live. We'll get to the bottom of this. I promise."

"How?"

Jericho sighed. "I'm not sure yet."

(…to be continued.)

 

 

© 2015 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.