Read Online The Ethical Assassin: A Novel by David Liss - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Liss
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Psychological, Suspense fiction, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Assassins, marketing, Sales Personnel, Assassination, Encyclopedias and Dictionaries
Ads: Link
his most mentorly tone. “Grace is poise, and poise is power. Look at me. You want to be like me when you grow up.”
B.B. pointed at himself when he spoke, as if he were exhibit A. If you pointed at yourself, people looked, and he had no reason to mind that. He had turned fifty-five this year—a bit on the mature side, though still in his prime—but people mistook him for forty, forty-five max. Partly it was the Grecian Formula, the use of which he had elevated to an art, and partly it was the lifestyle. An hour with the Nautilus machines three times a week wasn’t much of an investment for youth. Then there were the clothes.
He dressed, and there was no other term for it, Miami Vice. He’d been considering linen suits and T-shirts before the show came on the air, but once he saw those guys strutting around in those clothes, B.B. knew it was the look for him. It was the right look for a man of hidden but smoldering power. And that show—God bless it—was single-handedly transforming Miami from a necropolis of retirees, marbled with pockets of black or Cuban poverty, into someplace almost hip, almost fabulous, almost glamorous. The smell of mothballs and Ben-Gay drifted off, replaced by the scent of suntan lotion and titillating aftershave.
B.B. watched as Chuck continued to work the butter, and the breadstick was now glossy and slick and, though it might have been a trick of the light, even starting to sag a little.
“I think that’s enough butter.” He said it in a mentorly tone—sympathetic but firm.
“I like a lot of butter,” Chuck said with naïve cheer.
“I understand you want it, but there’s such a thing as discipline, Chuck. Discipline will make you a man.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Chuck set the butter knife, with its half-used pat still clinging, onto the tablecloth.
“Place the butter knife on the bread plate, where it belongs, young man.”
“Good point,” Chuck observed. He set the breadstick on the bread plate as well, wiped his hands on the heavy linen napkin on his lap, and then took another sip of the Saint-Estèphe. “That’s really good. How did you get to know so much about wine?”
Working as a waiter in Las Vegas, trying to make it through my shift so I could go lose even more money I didn’t have, get into it even deeper with a bodybuilding, shirtless Greek loan shark would not have suited as an answer, so B.B. offered a knowing shrug, hoping it would impress.
He had selected boys before, boys from his charity, the Young Men’s Foundation. These were special boys he thought would be able to dine with him, spend a few hours alone in his company, and mature from the experience. He looked for calm and steadiness in the boys, but he also looked for the ability to keep a secret. These dinners were special, and because they were special, they weren’t any of the world’s business. The dinners were only for those very exceptional boys worthy of extra mentoring, but in the three years he had been taking boys out to eat, a thought had always nagged at him—that he selected his dining companions for their ability to keep a secret rather than for their readiness to be mentored.
Now, here was Chuck—quiet, slightly introverted if not antisocial, trashy-novel-reading, journal-writing, obliviously-badly-haircutted Chuck—who knew how to keep a secret but had a sense of humor, had an intuitive appreciation for complex wines, obedient and pliable, but with an impish resistance. B.B. felt an excited tingle shoot out from the center of his body like a miniature supernova. Here, he dared to speculate, might well be the boy he’d been looking for, the special mentee, the reason he had wanted to help boys in the first place.
What if Chuck was everything he appeared? Smart, interested, full of soft-clay potential? Could B.B. arrange to spend more time with him? What would the boy’s worthless mother say? What would Desiree say? Nothing could work without Desiree, and he knew,
B.B. pointed at himself when he spoke, as if he were exhibit A. If you pointed at yourself, people looked, and he had no reason to mind that. He had turned fifty-five this year—a bit on the mature side, though still in his prime—but people mistook him for forty, forty-five max. Partly it was the Grecian Formula, the use of which he had elevated to an art, and partly it was the lifestyle. An hour with the Nautilus machines three times a week wasn’t much of an investment for youth. Then there were the clothes.
He dressed, and there was no other term for it, Miami Vice. He’d been considering linen suits and T-shirts before the show came on the air, but once he saw those guys strutting around in those clothes, B.B. knew it was the look for him. It was the right look for a man of hidden but smoldering power. And that show—God bless it—was single-handedly transforming Miami from a necropolis of retirees, marbled with pockets of black or Cuban poverty, into someplace almost hip, almost fabulous, almost glamorous. The smell of mothballs and Ben-Gay drifted off, replaced by the scent of suntan lotion and titillating aftershave.
B.B. watched as Chuck continued to work the butter, and the breadstick was now glossy and slick and, though it might have been a trick of the light, even starting to sag a little.
“I think that’s enough butter.” He said it in a mentorly tone—sympathetic but firm.
“I like a lot of butter,” Chuck said with naïve cheer.
“I understand you want it, but there’s such a thing as discipline, Chuck. Discipline will make you a man.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Chuck set the butter knife, with its half-used pat still clinging, onto the tablecloth.
“Place the butter knife on the bread plate, where it belongs, young man.”
“Good point,” Chuck observed. He set the breadstick on the bread plate as well, wiped his hands on the heavy linen napkin on his lap, and then took another sip of the Saint-Estèphe. “That’s really good. How did you get to know so much about wine?”
Working as a waiter in Las Vegas, trying to make it through my shift so I could go lose even more money I didn’t have, get into it even deeper with a bodybuilding, shirtless Greek loan shark would not have suited as an answer, so B.B. offered a knowing shrug, hoping it would impress.
He had selected boys before, boys from his charity, the Young Men’s Foundation. These were special boys he thought would be able to dine with him, spend a few hours alone in his company, and mature from the experience. He looked for calm and steadiness in the boys, but he also looked for the ability to keep a secret. These dinners were special, and because they were special, they weren’t any of the world’s business. The dinners were only for those very exceptional boys worthy of extra mentoring, but in the three years he had been taking boys out to eat, a thought had always nagged at him—that he selected his dining companions for their ability to keep a secret rather than for their readiness to be mentored.
Now, here was Chuck—quiet, slightly introverted if not antisocial, trashy-novel-reading, journal-writing, obliviously-badly-haircutted Chuck—who knew how to keep a secret but had a sense of humor, had an intuitive appreciation for complex wines, obedient and pliable, but with an impish resistance. B.B. felt an excited tingle shoot out from the center of his body like a miniature supernova. Here, he dared to speculate, might well be the boy he’d been looking for, the special mentee, the reason he had wanted to help boys in the first place.
What if Chuck was everything he appeared? Smart, interested, full of soft-clay potential? Could B.B. arrange to spend more time with him? What would the boy’s worthless mother say? What would Desiree say? Nothing could work without Desiree, and he knew,
Similar Books
