Chasing China White by Allan Leverone (best time to read books TXT) 📗

Goon #2 made a flicking gesture with his gun, indicating the ride had come to an end. The windows were boarded up and the area seemed deserted and it occurred to Derek this would be the ideal place to execute a hapless drug addict, the goons’ previous assurances notwithstanding.

“Get out of the car and walk straight to the door,” Goon #2 said, and Derek swallowed heavily.

He slid across the seat and stepped onto the pitted sidewalk and tried to calculate the odds of success should he take off sprinting down the alley they’d just entered. Decided they weren’t favorable.

“Uh, any reason why we can’t conduct our business out here?”

“Shut up and walk,” Goon #1 said. Derek began trudging toward the abandoned brick building as the guy muttered, “Conduct our business. Jesus.”

The goon—Derek didn’t know which goon, but again, what difference did it make?—shoved him through the door and after he’d taken three steps across the floor Derek was so surprised at the interior he forgot to keep walking. The goons stumbled into him and swore, and Derek barely noticed.

The place was unbelievable. Where the outside of the building had suggested a structure in desperate need of an appointment with a bulldozer, the inside resembled a high-end office complex. Clean and beautifully appointed, with something that looked exactly like a long reception desk located maybe fifteen feet inside the door.

On the other side of the desk was a dude with a shaved head and forearms covered with prison tats. He was standing up, doing nothing that Derek could see other than acting like he belonged. His eyes were lidded and his expression sullen, and surrounding him was an aura of violence so strong it was palpable.

The goons grabbed Derek by the arms and began propelling him toward the rear of the lobby. He winced as the pain in his elbows flared. He deliberately avoided looking into the eyes of the guy with the shaved head, not sure why other than a vague notion that he didn’t want to provoke him.

Then they walked through another door and into an office.

Crowder’s office.

Derek had never met Crowder. Didn’t have the slightest clue what the man looked like. He also had no doubt it was Crowder sitting behind the huge desk.

But why the hell would a guy like Crowder want to talk to a guy like him?

Derek’s two tormentors pushed him in front of the desk and then disappeared. They retreated out the way they had come and pulled the door closed and Derek was left alone with Crowder, who had yet to say a word. Hell, he hadn’t even glanced at Derek yet.

He just sat behind the desk thrumming his fingers. Over and over. It sounded like a miniature horse galloping across a field. If the field was made of highly polished walnut.

There was only one seat in the whole damned office and Crowder was using it, so Derek stood in front of the desk wondering what to do with his hands. He wondered also whether Crowder was ever going to say anything or if each of them would just continue pretending the other didn’t exist, on and on, forever.

Eventually Derek couldn’t stand it any longer. He cleared his throat to speak, but then he stopped as Crowder raised one finger. His left pointer finger. With his right hand he continued to ride the goddamned miniature horse across the goddamned walnut field.

After another excruciating moment of silence, Crowder finally spoke. “I understand you’re suffering a bit of a cash-flow problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re having trouble paying your bills.”

“I’ve hit a bit of a rough patch, I admit that, but I’m sure I’ll—”

“You owe more money than an unemployed homeless heroin addict can repay, and that’s only considering the principal. It doesn’t even take into account the interest, which has been compounding steadily.”

More silence. Derek didn’t bother trying to reassure the man that he would pay his debt. It was plainly evident Crowder didn’t want to hear that, and Derek knew the notion of a junkie living in an abandoned car and dressed in clothes that hadn’t been washed in who knew how long promising to pay anyone anything was so ridiculous he wouldn’t be able to make the statement sound remotely believable, anyway.

“How do you suppose we might rectify the situation?”

Another pause, and another point in the conversation Derek decided there was little to be gained by speaking. He couldn’t imagine one single thing he could say that would steer the conversation in a positive direction. He now realized the goons had told the truth when they said they weren’t going to kill him, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t going to die today.

He began preparing to beg for his life, exactly as he had done with Crowder’s men, but things didn’t quite seem to have reached that point.

Yet.

“Perhaps,” Crowder said, “we could negotiate a debt relief schedule that would satisfy both our needs.” He had finally stopped thrumming his fingers on the damned desk, and while the sudden silence was a welcome relief, the fact that Crowder was now fixing Derek with a baleful gaze was most certainly not.

“Uh…debt relief?” Derek knew he sounded like a moron, but this was the very definition of an unexpected development. Plus it was still early, his elbows and ribs were still smarting, and he was still confused and more than a little afraid.

“Yes, debt relief. You know, you do a little favor for me and in turn, I show my gratitude by shaving a percentage off the amount you owe me.”

“A percentage.”

“That’s right. A significant percentage. Like everything.”

“What…what’s the favor?”

Crowder leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Are you familiar with the concept of diversification, as it applies to the business world?”

Derek stared unblinkingly back at Crowder. This day was getting weirder and weirder.

“Diversification,” Crowder said, “is a fancy way of saying I have my fingers in a number of different pies. As you’re undoubtedly aware, I provide local retailers with the