Page 12 of Devil’s Disciples

“I’m not. I was just--”

“I drop by once a week. On Wednesdays, unless you need me for something. Kale owns about ten times this much property, and I’m the senior manager of it all. Shit. I go from Chino Hills to Chula Vista, and everywhere in between. I’m the guy you call if you can’t figure out who to call. Doubt you’ll need much, though. We’re at ninety-nine percent occupied now. Only place left to lease is the one Todd was in. 3-A.”

“It’s in this building?”

He pointed at the ceiling. “Right above us. Had the door fixed on it, too. Busted it at the exact same time they busted this one. Guess that’s how they do it. Keep a fella from gettin’ past ‘em, I suppose.”

“I imagine so,” I said, my tone dry. Police tactics fascinated me. I could have talked about the raid all afternoon, but I guessed he didn’t want to.

“Andy your real name?” he asked.

“It is. Is Mort yours?”

“Everybody asks. Sure is. Weird, huh?”

“Your name?”

“Yeah.”

“I like it,” I said.

He scoffed. “Makes one of us.”

I was quickly coming to like him. His personality did what his features never would. It made me smile. I decided to categorize him with the father from A Christmas Story, and Clint Eastwood’s character, Walt Kowalski, from Gran Torino. He was funny without trying to be, and I really liked him so far.

We spent the next two hours talking about my duties, what to expect, and how to resolve any issue that might come about.

When we were finished talking, he gave me an old-school Rolodex that he’d listed all the important phone numbers in, and then brushed his hands against his faded jeans. “I’ll see you next Wednesday,” he said. “Won’t bother coming day after tomorrow, you’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything.”

I was pleased that he seemed to trust me, and that he didn’t make me feel stupid for being a woman. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will, too.” He yanked on the door twice before it opened. “See you Wednesday.”

I took a seat in my new office chair. In no time, a chairgasm set in, and my eyes fell closed. I got up and looked it over. It was an awesome looking piece of furniture as far as chairs were concerned, but it didn’t appear to be as magical in appearance as it was in performance.

I lowered myself into the cloud-like mesh, and swept my hand over the thick wood of my new desk. Irregular, yet smooth, the surface was cool to the touch. I glanced around the office. One wall was painted white, two were vintage brick, and one was nothing but windows. I wondered if decorating was allowed, and got lost in the possibilities.

After deciding that black and white prints would look best, I walked to the glass wall and peered over the stone ledge. Across the street, a few people were walking in each direction. I watched them until they escaped my view, and wondered if they were fixtures in the neighborhood.

A dull thud against the door caused me to turn away from the window. Then, it flew open and hit the brick wall with a whack!

Just like Mort, I about shit myself.

Not because of the door. Because of who stood there staring at me.

Sex. On. A. Stick.

5

Baker

When I’d seen her in the bank, it was through the eyeholes of a rubber Donald Trump mask. Having an unobstructed view from ten feet away shed a much different light on her appearance.

She was attractive, no doubt. But her body was built for one thing, and one thing only.

Fucking.

We stood facing one another with our mouths agape. I swallowed a lump of sexual tension and blindly reached for the door.