Brotherhood of the Rose by David Morrell

Author:David Morrell [Morrell, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0449206610
Publisher: Random House Digital, Inc.
Published: 1984-12-12T08:00:00+00:00

Nemesis

Two minutes after the bootlegger opened, Hardy stepped back on the street, clutching two bottles of Jim Beam in a paper sack. He prided himself on his choice of brand. His government pension allowed him few frills, but he’d never debased himself by drinking unaged, bottom-of-the-price-list whiskey. Nor had A I he ever been tempted to try the cheap pop wines or the sicksweet fruity rum concoctions preferred by the other drunks in his building. He had standards. He ate once a day, whether hungry or not. He washed and shaved daily and wore fresh clothes. He had to. In the Miami humidity, he sweated constantly, the alcohol oozing from his pores as fast as he tossed All it down. Even now, at five after eight in the morning, the heat was obscene. His sunglasses shielded the glare and hid his bloodshot eyes. His flower-patterned shirt stuck to him, soaking in the paper bag he held against his chest. He glanced toward his stomach, appalled by the pate puffy skin protruding from an open button on his shirt. With dignity, he closed it. Soon, in1 two more blocks, he’d be back in the dark security of his room, the blinds shut, the fan on, watching the last half-hour of “Good Morning, America,” toasting David Hartman.

The thought of the day’s first drink made him shake. He glanced around in case a cop was watching, then veered toward an alley, feeling sheltered beneath a fire escape. As traffic roared past the entrance, he reached in the paper bag, twistted the cap off one of the bottles, and pulled the neck out, raising it to his lips. He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of the bourbon trickling down his throat. His body relaxed. His tremors stopped Abruptly he stiffened, hearing the blare of music throbbing, coming closer. Puzzled, he opened his eyes and gaped at the tallest Cuban he’d ever seen, wearing a shiny purple shirt and mirrored glasses, gyrating to the raucous beat of the ghetto box strapped around his shoulders. Husky, cruel-lipped, the Cuban crowded him against the wall beneath the fire escape.

Hardy shook again-from fear this time. “Please. I’ve got ten bucks in my wallet. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t take the whiskey.” I The Cuban only frowned. “What’re you talking about? A dude said to give you this.” He stuffed an envelope in the paper bag and walked away. “What? Hey, wait a minute. Who? What’d he look like?”

The Cuban shrugged. “Just a dude. What difference does it make?

You all look alike. He gave me twenty bucks. that’s all I cared about.”

As Hardy blinked, the Cuban disappeared from the alley, the music from his ghetto box fading. Hardy licked his lips and tasted a residue of bourbon. Nervous, he reached for the envelope in the bag. He felt a long thin object sealed inside. Awkwardly tearing the envelope., he dumped a key in the palm of his hand. It looked like the key to a safety-deposit box. It had a number: 113.

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