Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

killed for.” It had been leased by Kirby Publications.

No problem.

“He a politician or cop?”

“No. He’s just a guy. Name’s John Potter. I can find out his schedule, when and where he’ll be alone.”

“It’ll cost your friend ten grand.” Lester’s eyes had narrowed to chilling slits, his voice matter of fact.

“What? What about the car? It’s worth thirty, easy.”

“I gotta get something,” a casual shrug. “I’m taking a big risk here.”

“Well, so am I and I’m not getting anything.”

“He’s your friend, not mine. He can take it or leave it.” Lester had had that look, knowing Kirby didn’t have many friends.

With banks open Saturdays, Kirby had gotten the money and met Lester again, breakfast at a waffle shop way over on Adams. Kirby had given him the money and the address of their printer in Culver City. Potter would be there Sunday night for final layout approval of one of their magazines. Kirby couldn’t now remember which one.

Carolyn Potter had worked at Kirby Publications before Kirby enlisted in the Marine Corps and he'd barely noticed her. She and John had met at a party thrown by Kirby’s parents, their first weekend liberty. Potter had worn his dress blues, and they'd been married two months later. Maybe she’d already been pregnant.

Potter had volunteered for Recon Battalion, did two weeks training at the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center, and his company left for Afghanistan, where he'd been awarded the Bronze Star and had come back without a scratch.

Carolyn had quit working for the magazine when she had the kid and had returned to work a month after John’s death. In all that time, she’d only asked once about this stupid deal memo.  Kirby had denied any knowledge.

If an audit occurred, Kirby would deny ever having seen the memo.

No problem.   

She’d probably jump at a hundred grand with market interest plus ten percent.

Stupid broad. 

She did have a pretty face and a nice body, getting a little flat in the ass from too much sitting.

Still nice.

CAROLYN POTTER FINISHED writing her new article for After School, their magazine aimed at pre-teens and glanced at the clock on her computer monitor, 2:44pm. If she left now, she could be in front of rush-hour traffic, plenty of time to pick up Jason. She turned off her monitor and grabbed her purse.

“Sorry, Carolyn,” said Allison, Mr. Kirby’s private secretary. “He wants to see you before you leave.”

Carolyn stood. “It’s my day to pick up Jason. Mr. Kirby knows that.”

“Sorry.” Allison had always been polite, a long-time employee, the senior Kirby’s secretary when Carolyn had worked here before her marriage.

The door to Mr. Kirby’s outer office was open. Allison followed Carolyn in and sat down at her desk. She nodded toward the half-opened door to Mr. Kirby’s private office. “Just go on in.”

Tom Kirby sat behind his father’s antique desk, big and impressive, nice city view through the picture window behind him, lots of light.

She walked all the way in and swung the door wide open.

He motioned toward a chair and said, “Close the door.”

She closed the door and sat down, clutching her purse over her tightly closed legs. “It’s my day to pick up the boys. You know that.”

“This will only take a minute.” He stared at her bare knees. “Hendricks picked your story for this week’s edition of After School. He’s impressed with your writing.”

Some might think Mr. Kirby handsome, always well groomed, always well dressed. His beady, wide-spread eyes gave her the creeps, always undressing her, staring at her boobs now.

“Thank you.”

“He wanted to run your swim team story in Teen Dreams but I didn’t want our other writers to think I was playing favorites with you.”

“Oh, I like that story.”

He stared into her eyes, licking his lips like a big lizard.

Yuk.

“Yeah, we got into an argument over it and I finally gave in. What I wound up telling him was that we can’t afford any raises right now. Sorry.”

“Is that all, Mr. Kirby. I need to . . .”

“You doing okay? I mean, I think about you, you know, since John . . .”

“Mr. Kirby . . .” Don’t go there, please. “It’s Jason’s birthday.”

“Oh, yeah. I nearly forgot. What should I get him?”

JASON POTTER AND JIMMY O’Connell waited outside their school in Echo Park. They both lived up the hill from Sunset but on the other side of Echo Park Lake and Alvarado Blvd. Both of their moms wanted them to be picked up after school because crossing Alvarado was too dangerous. Jimmy had been Jason’s best friend for two years, always riding together to and from school in one of their mom’s cars.

Both their moms were usually a little bit late picking them up, but today, Jason’s mom was later than ever. They had to wait outside the school yard because the gates had already been locked.

Clouds were piling up against the mountains and it was turning really cold. Most kids didn’t wear jackets to school.

Un-cool.

When small drops of rain started falling, Jason didn’t care how un-cool it was. He wanted his coat, and he wanted to be warm and safe inside his mom’s car. “It’s getting cold, Jimmy. You got anything in your locker?” They could climb over the gate if Jimmy had a sweatshirt or something in his locker. Jason’s locker only had books he didn’t need to take home. If Jimmy had a sweatshirt, at least he could be warmer. Maybe he had a sweat-shirt and a coat. Then they’d both be warmer.

“Na. It’s okay.” Jimmy stuffed his hands into his pockets, toughing it out. He was a pretty tough kid anyway, always in fights during recess and after school. He took karate classes on Saturdays and his dad practised with him early every morning.

Jimmy looked at his watch. “It’s quarter to five already. Where’s your mom?”

“I hope she didn’t have an accident.” Neither of their moms had ever been this late.

“Maybe we should walk.”

The sky grew dark. Jason shivered against the cold, getting wet.