I know. These streets aren’t too friendly to foot traffic,
yet I go. It’s a matter of what I do, who I am, and the fact that, I’ve grown
to not-give-a-damn. There’s no
magic formula, you either survive, or get out while you can.
The
Minister…the Priest…Shaman…whatever…he
called me on rainy Saturday, around noon. He said he had a matter to discuss.
He and I had brushed against one another on the streets, but never really
connected.
The Priest knew of some scheme…some plot of singular
service…it bothered his consciousness and rattled his soul. I could not refuse.
I told him I’d meet him at three, it was no-trouble for me and easy for him. We
met at the little coffee shop on Grand. Because of the weather, business was
slow, so we managed to grab a corner table.
There
was little time for civil chitchat. He was rattled, so as I sugared my coffee,
he got to the point.
It
seems the Minister’s “mission” had assumed the “position’, one-too-many times.
He slid me a photo.
She
was dark, olive skin, raven black hair, deep eyes…a guy could get lost…
He went on about the blackmail : Word goes out about the
affair unless he gives up his property at ‘a bargain’. His ‘property’,
bequeathed to him by a loopy octogenarian, was a rundown old walkup, with
promise, but required some serious restoration. However, the property was still
in probate, so any hint of scandal could torpedo the entire deal. A Developer
was thought to be culprit, buying up city blocks, and she, the mistress in this
mess, was in his employ.
It
worked for me.
Hell, anything would work for me at this point.
V
