Read Online Corktown by Ty Hutchinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ty Hutchinson
Tags: thriller
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at 9:00 a.m. sharp. For eight long years he had kept his displeasure about those trips to himself. He never spoke a word about his feelings to anybody, not even his wife. It was his little secret.
About quarter to nine in the morning, Reed would leave his office at Central and stroll over to the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, formerly known as the City-County Building. Reed still called it that, and so did everyone else in Detroit that was his age. By 10:00 a.m. he would be done and could forget about it for four more weeks. That changed recently. He was now being summoned, at whim.
He received the call a little after eight that morning and was told to come over “A.S.A.P.” no later than 9:30 a.m. Reed groaned a little. He hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee, and he had already put up with some EMB—Early-Morning Bullshit.
Reed grabbed a cup of wake-up on the way out of the office, keen on downing it as quickly as possible. He liked being awake and having his senses on point for those meetings. It was important to know the difference between what was discussed and what was actually said.
Ten minutes later, Reed stood outside a drab building, a wall of gray with windows, really. Functionality at its finest. He drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into a trash bin. Walking toward the glass door, he used it as a mirror to look himself over and straighten his jacket.
As always, Steven Roscoe met Reed in the lobby. He had on his usual attire: a suit more aligned with a nightclub rather than the public sector. He extended his hand. “Good to see you, Chief. You keeping Detroit safe?”
Same fucking greeting every time. It had been that way from the very first visit. Reed never understood why he had to be escorted up to the office. It was ridiculous. Reed took the man’s hand and shook it. “You still walking, ain’t you?” It was his standard answer. Reed knew he wasn’t really interested in an answer to his question.
Steven Roscoe told everyone he met to call him “Stevie.” Thought it was catchier than Steven. Reed preferred to call him Weasel, on account of the way he looked, the way he acted, and the man he worked for. Either way, Stevie was slime poured into a suit. He walked with a swagger that left the taste of foulness in your mouth, and he always flashed that silly smile. You’d think he was running for office 24/7, the way he held himself up.
The ride up to the eleventh floor was quiet. The cordiality between the two never went further than the greeting downstairs. Stevie always led the way out of the elevator and down the hall to where the double wooden doors stood. He opened them and allowed Reed to enter before following and pulling them shut.
Sitting at a desk was the long-time administrative assistant to Stevie’s boss, Louisa Sweeney. She looked up over her glasses with a wrinkle at the top of her nose before she recognized the man standing in front of her. “Reginald, how are you today?” She was the only person, besides his mother, who ever called him Reginald; most people called him Chief or “Yes, sir.”
Reed smiled back and gave her a friendly squeeze to her arm. “I’m doing okay, Louisa. Thank you for asking.”
“Is he ready to see us?” a voice piped up.
Louisa looked around Reed and saw Stevie behind him. Her smile disappeared. The crinkle on her nose resurfaced and it was business as usual. “Go on inside. He’s waiting.”
21
A well-dressed man sat behind a large mahogany desk with intricate carvings. He was puffing away on a cigar when Reed and Stevie entered the large office.
“You know it’s against the law to smoke in this building.” Reed said as he took a seat in front of the desk.
“I know that. I helped pass the law,” the man said with a grin. A touch of gray detailed the sides of his slicked back hair. Reed watched him pick up a crystal glass by the rim and dangled it. “Something to drink, a kick start for the
About quarter to nine in the morning, Reed would leave his office at Central and stroll over to the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, formerly known as the City-County Building. Reed still called it that, and so did everyone else in Detroit that was his age. By 10:00 a.m. he would be done and could forget about it for four more weeks. That changed recently. He was now being summoned, at whim.
He received the call a little after eight that morning and was told to come over “A.S.A.P.” no later than 9:30 a.m. Reed groaned a little. He hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee, and he had already put up with some EMB—Early-Morning Bullshit.
Reed grabbed a cup of wake-up on the way out of the office, keen on downing it as quickly as possible. He liked being awake and having his senses on point for those meetings. It was important to know the difference between what was discussed and what was actually said.
Ten minutes later, Reed stood outside a drab building, a wall of gray with windows, really. Functionality at its finest. He drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into a trash bin. Walking toward the glass door, he used it as a mirror to look himself over and straighten his jacket.
As always, Steven Roscoe met Reed in the lobby. He had on his usual attire: a suit more aligned with a nightclub rather than the public sector. He extended his hand. “Good to see you, Chief. You keeping Detroit safe?”
Same fucking greeting every time. It had been that way from the very first visit. Reed never understood why he had to be escorted up to the office. It was ridiculous. Reed took the man’s hand and shook it. “You still walking, ain’t you?” It was his standard answer. Reed knew he wasn’t really interested in an answer to his question.
Steven Roscoe told everyone he met to call him “Stevie.” Thought it was catchier than Steven. Reed preferred to call him Weasel, on account of the way he looked, the way he acted, and the man he worked for. Either way, Stevie was slime poured into a suit. He walked with a swagger that left the taste of foulness in your mouth, and he always flashed that silly smile. You’d think he was running for office 24/7, the way he held himself up.
The ride up to the eleventh floor was quiet. The cordiality between the two never went further than the greeting downstairs. Stevie always led the way out of the elevator and down the hall to where the double wooden doors stood. He opened them and allowed Reed to enter before following and pulling them shut.
Sitting at a desk was the long-time administrative assistant to Stevie’s boss, Louisa Sweeney. She looked up over her glasses with a wrinkle at the top of her nose before she recognized the man standing in front of her. “Reginald, how are you today?” She was the only person, besides his mother, who ever called him Reginald; most people called him Chief or “Yes, sir.”
Reed smiled back and gave her a friendly squeeze to her arm. “I’m doing okay, Louisa. Thank you for asking.”
“Is he ready to see us?” a voice piped up.
Louisa looked around Reed and saw Stevie behind him. Her smile disappeared. The crinkle on her nose resurfaced and it was business as usual. “Go on inside. He’s waiting.”
21
A well-dressed man sat behind a large mahogany desk with intricate carvings. He was puffing away on a cigar when Reed and Stevie entered the large office.
“You know it’s against the law to smoke in this building.” Reed said as he took a seat in front of the desk.
“I know that. I helped pass the law,” the man said with a grin. A touch of gray detailed the sides of his slicked back hair. Reed watched him pick up a crystal glass by the rim and dangled it. “Something to drink, a kick start for the
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