“The fucking bastard!” Caleb erupted, rising from his desk in a fury. He stormed around his office, his stomping muted by the deep ruby carpeting. A punch-ball in the corner took a few solid hits, bouncing back for more abuse with a metallic “fwanggggg” with each angry blow.
Caleb hit the ball several more times, shouting “FUCKER” with every shot. Finally, knuckles throbbing softly, he left off, to storm around the room again. He ignored the view out over the city, the ocean glinting dully off to the east, the hubbub of traffic below.
The fucking punk. He’d taken him in from grad school, the little fucker, and brought him along. He’d seen so much potential. So much of himself in the little fucking weasel. A hard-knock kid, putting himself through school, working hard to make it big in the world.
“Hell ya, ” thought Caleb, “Russell Vendinger certainly was making big time…” but not legally. Not legit. Not the hard way, the way he, himself had. Scraping by from paycheck to paycheck, taking every dirty filthy fucking asshat job he could manage, working his way up and up and up. Now he owned this company, and several smaller ones as well. And interest in several other ventures too.
He sat. Turned to contemplate the beauty of Boston, the old and historic, the new and sleek. Fanuel Hall’s domed tower shining in the setting sun far below his high-rise tower. The Pru, with its beacon blue light presaging a nice day tomorrow, and Hancock Tower, glinting in the early evening light. Over in the Fens, the home team was gearing up for another go at their arch rivals. The Sox and the Yankee’s. A tale of epic struggles, the underdog Sox and the power of the Evil Empire, locked in mortal combat all season long.
He watched the orb of the moon begin to rise from the Atlantic, and as it did, a plan began to take shape. By midnight, plans at the ready, he set off for home, secure that he would not only even the score, but come out ahead.
He sat at the restaurant, a spider with his web securely in place. He watched them approach the table. He, tall, dark and handsome. Such a cliché. She, lithe, graceful, stunning and sexy. Caleb wasn’t certain what Shiloh did, but, he had a feeling he knew what she would be doing soon enough.
He admired her cleavage, swelling up from the little black dress she wore so well. He kissed her fingers, then sat her at the round table, as her husband, the rotten fuckhead, sat himself. As he had planned, they sat far enough apart that they could not touch, merely look at each other. Russell’s seat backed towards a corner, so bolting would be less of a risk, but just in case, Caleb had alerted the discreet security man to watch for Russ and be certain he was caught if he did run.
When he served the papers to Russell, he could not have been more pleased to see him turn ashen and fearful. He regretted hurting the wife, but then again, it could not be helped. She needed to know what sort of man her husband really was. And frankly, she was wasted on a putz like Russell.
He smiled, a smooth, dangerous smile as Russell dropped the paper to the table.
“Forgive me” he said softly to his wife, then turned to Caleb to say “Yes.”
Caleb reached for the paper Russell had been reading, and withdrawing a pen from his inner pocket, handed both back to Russ.
“Sign. For now, your signature is valid. This is the last document you will sign for me that has any value, any meaning at all.” He watched, steely eyed as Russell signed the document with an angry flourish. Folding the document, he placed it into his pocket with the pen.
“Enjoy your meal,” he said to them as he rose, ignoring the glare Russell threw at him, and Shiloh’s soft crying.
Turning, he gestured for the waiter to begin serving the couple.
“I’ll be back,” he said to the stunned couple, “when your meal is done. I advise you to eat well. It could be your last decent meal for a while.”
And he strode away.