Terry. He was the son of a bar owner in Waco, Texas. His mother had left him and his brother when he was eight. After that, it was a day to day struggle, just to survive. His drunken father had kicked him out of the house when he was sixteen, and he’d been homeless for a while before joining the army.
The injury to his vocal cords had happened while he was in the military, but not overseas as he’d told Marsh. He’d been shot during a drunken brawl in a bar while awaiting deployment. A couple of surgeries later, the doctors said it was the best they could do and he’d been discharged.
In the years that followed, Wendell Terry had worked a variety of menial jobs, just to get by. The young man who could barely talk, scarcely survived, making his living as a dish-washer and a janitor, while slowly regaining the voice that had been lost to violence. In the years that followed, he managed to eventually find his voice again, albeit one that was raspy and thin.
Five years ago, Wendell decided to change his name and become a PI. The jobs had been slow, at first. Frank Dyer had spent most of his time following cheating husbands and writing reports for his boss. But he’d saved every cent and eventually started his own business. Then one day, he’d met Vince Marsh in a bar, and the rest, as they say, was history. The lost boy from Waco, Texas was about to score the biggest payday of his life.
Dyer continued to watch Montreal’s office building for a few minutes, before putting his car into gear. He drove through surface streets before taking the 110 Freeway toward Terminal Island. It was early afternoon and the traffic was light. He drove at a leisurely pace, pleased that his plans were playing out just as he had expected.
He remembered his earlier encounters with Vince Marsh in a restaurant near the attorney’s office. The conversation had been casual, at first, him telling Marsh that he was a PI who specialized in domestic matters. When the lawyer had asked him what that meant, he light-heartedly told him that he made problems go away, usually for husbands. As the discussions grew more serious in subsequent meetings, Dyer had convinced Vince Marsh that he could make him a very wealthy man. He’d made the attorney believe it was just a matter of time before a big payday came his way.
In the weeks that followed, Marsh had made his desires known to him. “My father-in-law is an extremely wealthy man,” he’d said. “He’s also a cheap bastard that won’t give me a cent unless he’s convinced it’s in his own interests.”
Dyer had smiled, asking him, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
Vince had drained the last of his beer and locked eyes with him. “Do you know what I see when I look at my wife and children?” He signaled the server for another beer before turning back to Dyer. “Dollar signs. Five million dollar signs to be exact.”
“That’s a lot of money. What makes you think your father-in-law will pay?”
“His wife. Henry could care less about his family, but Georgette would give every cent they have to save her daughter and grandkids.”
The planning began in earnest after that, Dyer convincing Marsh that a message had to be left showing that they meant business. After learning about their housekeeper, he decided on a course of action and told the attorney exactly what he had in mind.
Vince Marsh had taken another sip of liquid courage, swallowed, and nodded his head. “Let’s do it.”
After that, Dyer knew that his mark had totally bought in. But what Vince Marsh didn’t know was that this was a very different game than the one that he believed had been set in place. There were millions at stake, but he was the one who would score the big payday. Vince Marsh was a pawn in a very big game, and Dyer was the one who made the rules.
After turning off the freeway, the PI followed the surface streets before turning into an area full of warehouses near the Port of Los Angeles. The place
The injury to his vocal cords had happened while he was in the military, but not overseas as he’d told Marsh. He’d been shot during a drunken brawl in a bar while awaiting deployment. A couple of surgeries later, the doctors said it was the best they could do and he’d been discharged.
In the years that followed, Wendell Terry had worked a variety of menial jobs, just to get by. The young man who could barely talk, scarcely survived, making his living as a dish-washer and a janitor, while slowly regaining the voice that had been lost to violence. In the years that followed, he managed to eventually find his voice again, albeit one that was raspy and thin.
Five years ago, Wendell decided to change his name and become a PI. The jobs had been slow, at first. Frank Dyer had spent most of his time following cheating husbands and writing reports for his boss. But he’d saved every cent and eventually started his own business. Then one day, he’d met Vince Marsh in a bar, and the rest, as they say, was history. The lost boy from Waco, Texas was about to score the biggest payday of his life.
Dyer continued to watch Montreal’s office building for a few minutes, before putting his car into gear. He drove through surface streets before taking the 110 Freeway toward Terminal Island. It was early afternoon and the traffic was light. He drove at a leisurely pace, pleased that his plans were playing out just as he had expected.
He remembered his earlier encounters with Vince Marsh in a restaurant near the attorney’s office. The conversation had been casual, at first, him telling Marsh that he was a PI who specialized in domestic matters. When the lawyer had asked him what that meant, he light-heartedly told him that he made problems go away, usually for husbands. As the discussions grew more serious in subsequent meetings, Dyer had convinced Vince Marsh that he could make him a very wealthy man. He’d made the attorney believe it was just a matter of time before a big payday came his way.
In the weeks that followed, Marsh had made his desires known to him. “My father-in-law is an extremely wealthy man,” he’d said. “He’s also a cheap bastard that won’t give me a cent unless he’s convinced it’s in his own interests.”
Dyer had smiled, asking him, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
Vince had drained the last of his beer and locked eyes with him. “Do you know what I see when I look at my wife and children?” He signaled the server for another beer before turning back to Dyer. “Dollar signs. Five million dollar signs to be exact.”
“That’s a lot of money. What makes you think your father-in-law will pay?”
“His wife. Henry could care less about his family, but Georgette would give every cent they have to save her daughter and grandkids.”
The planning began in earnest after that, Dyer convincing Marsh that a message had to be left showing that they meant business. After learning about their housekeeper, he decided on a course of action and told the attorney exactly what he had in mind.
Vince Marsh had taken another sip of liquid courage, swallowed, and nodded his head. “Let’s do it.”
After that, Dyer knew that his mark had totally bought in. But what Vince Marsh didn’t know was that this was a very different game than the one that he believed had been set in place. There were millions at stake, but he was the one who would score the big payday. Vince Marsh was a pawn in a very big game, and Dyer was the one who made the rules.
After turning off the freeway, the PI followed the surface streets before turning into an area full of warehouses near the Port of Los Angeles. The place
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