Read Online Driven: The Sequel to Drive by James Sallis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Sallis
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not to mention paralegals, secretaries, and the usual office trash. That’s a lot of personalities, a lot of egos—even without the clients, who, given the firm’s fees, tend to be a demanding lot. And who do you think keeps the thing running? Me. So, same as I say day after day, just tell me what you want.”
“One of your lawyers made a drop out in Glendale early this morning. Black, late twenties, driving a Saturn.”
“I can’t—”
“I know what he dropped, and why. I need to know who made the call, who sent him. Your name floated to the top.”
“I see. And you need to know this because?”
Driver didn’t answer right away. Finally he said, “Because I’m here and asking quietly.”
“You followed me.”
Driver nodded. He saw in Bresh’s eyes that he had it all, the fake delivery, the tag, all of it.
“It wasn’t me,” Bresh said. “I called Donnie, sure, passed the message along. That’s what I do mostly. It’s a big place, GBS.”
The woman nodded, though it was more of a bob. “Huge. It just kinda goes on and on.”
“You work there too?”
“Computer geek. Timmy thinks he runs the show. I’m the one who really does.”
“You know those guys you always see in the mall and so on,” Bresh said, “old guys with bowling pin heads, a big round belly, and pipestem legs sticking out the bottom? That’s what GBS is like, only under the round belly there’s like a hundred legs, all of them going in different directions.”
“Now’s when Timmy usually breaks into his rogue bulldozer speech. Hope you’re not in a hurry.”
“You ever read Weber?” Bresh went on. “About bureaucracies? Firms like GBS, that’s what they came down to long ago. It’s all about not losing one’s seat on the bus, all about keeping the machine running the way it always has. Everything else—clients, employees, law itself—is secondary.”
“Doesn’t sound much like your loyalty oath took.”
“I’m part of the machine—”
“I am the bulldozer!” his friend said.
“—but that doesn’t mean I can’t see it.”
Bresh put his drink down on the narrow table just inside the door. Its far end was taken up by a transparent blue vase of silk flowers, cattails, and feather fans on long handles. In the center sat a wicker basket heaped with milky-white crystal eggs not much larger than marbles.
“There’s a man kept on retainer who does work for the company from time to time. Supposedly a messenger service, that’s how it’s billed, though there’s no listing for such anywhere I’ve looked.”
“What kind of work?”
“Can’t really say. Doesn’t happen in my yard. He liaisons with a junior partner.”
“And that’s where the call, your call, came from? To send the money out with Donnie?”
Bresh nodded. “Richard Cole, that’s who you want to talk to. You can catch him at the office tomorrow, follow him home. Or—” He picked the drink up again and turned toward what was presumably the kitchen, speaking as he went. “Or I could just give you his address.”
— • —
“Don’t care for cards, do you?”
Bill didn’t look at him. Another goddamned beautiful day outside the window. The window, of course, was sealed.
“Or TV. Or much of anything ’round here, you come right down to it. Am I right?”
Wendell turned back from the blinds he’d opened. Sunlight fell like a sloppy drunk across the floor.
“’S all about choices, Mr. Bill. I can choose not to be a crackhead dog like my mother was. You can choose not to lay up in there like a man who’s dying when we both know you’re not. Not hardly.”
Wendell laughed. Lot of chest in that laugh.
“Choices. Listen to me, I sound like one of the social workers always giving ol’ mom their good advice. Not to mention, a few of ’em, six or ten inches of hard dick.”
Despite himself, Bill laughed.
“There it is. Not something dead and dying men do a lot, laugh. Good thing, too. You imagine how noisy graveyards would get to be?”
Bill
“One of your lawyers made a drop out in Glendale early this morning. Black, late twenties, driving a Saturn.”
“I can’t—”
“I know what he dropped, and why. I need to know who made the call, who sent him. Your name floated to the top.”
“I see. And you need to know this because?”
Driver didn’t answer right away. Finally he said, “Because I’m here and asking quietly.”
“You followed me.”
Driver nodded. He saw in Bresh’s eyes that he had it all, the fake delivery, the tag, all of it.
“It wasn’t me,” Bresh said. “I called Donnie, sure, passed the message along. That’s what I do mostly. It’s a big place, GBS.”
The woman nodded, though it was more of a bob. “Huge. It just kinda goes on and on.”
“You work there too?”
“Computer geek. Timmy thinks he runs the show. I’m the one who really does.”
“You know those guys you always see in the mall and so on,” Bresh said, “old guys with bowling pin heads, a big round belly, and pipestem legs sticking out the bottom? That’s what GBS is like, only under the round belly there’s like a hundred legs, all of them going in different directions.”
“Now’s when Timmy usually breaks into his rogue bulldozer speech. Hope you’re not in a hurry.”
“You ever read Weber?” Bresh went on. “About bureaucracies? Firms like GBS, that’s what they came down to long ago. It’s all about not losing one’s seat on the bus, all about keeping the machine running the way it always has. Everything else—clients, employees, law itself—is secondary.”
“Doesn’t sound much like your loyalty oath took.”
“I’m part of the machine—”
“I am the bulldozer!” his friend said.
“—but that doesn’t mean I can’t see it.”
Bresh put his drink down on the narrow table just inside the door. Its far end was taken up by a transparent blue vase of silk flowers, cattails, and feather fans on long handles. In the center sat a wicker basket heaped with milky-white crystal eggs not much larger than marbles.
“There’s a man kept on retainer who does work for the company from time to time. Supposedly a messenger service, that’s how it’s billed, though there’s no listing for such anywhere I’ve looked.”
“What kind of work?”
“Can’t really say. Doesn’t happen in my yard. He liaisons with a junior partner.”
“And that’s where the call, your call, came from? To send the money out with Donnie?”
Bresh nodded. “Richard Cole, that’s who you want to talk to. You can catch him at the office tomorrow, follow him home. Or—” He picked the drink up again and turned toward what was presumably the kitchen, speaking as he went. “Or I could just give you his address.”
— • —
“Don’t care for cards, do you?”
Bill didn’t look at him. Another goddamned beautiful day outside the window. The window, of course, was sealed.
“Or TV. Or much of anything ’round here, you come right down to it. Am I right?”
Wendell turned back from the blinds he’d opened. Sunlight fell like a sloppy drunk across the floor.
“’S all about choices, Mr. Bill. I can choose not to be a crackhead dog like my mother was. You can choose not to lay up in there like a man who’s dying when we both know you’re not. Not hardly.”
Wendell laughed. Lot of chest in that laugh.
“Choices. Listen to me, I sound like one of the social workers always giving ol’ mom their good advice. Not to mention, a few of ’em, six or ten inches of hard dick.”
Despite himself, Bill laughed.
“There it is. Not something dead and dying men do a lot, laugh. Good thing, too. You imagine how noisy graveyards would get to be?”
Bill
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