Read Online Middle Man by David Rich - Free Book Online Page B

gonna marry me. You promised.”
    â€œI’ll never marry you. You’re a slut. Put that away.”
    â€œI let you paw me for years for what? You pig . . .”
    That went on for a little while. I could not move, could not bear the thought of missing one mean comment, one insult. And just as Jaman said, “Oh, get out of here,” and “How do I open this damn computer?” the shot was fired. He groaned. I was still standing there when the door opened. Jaman was slumped at his desk with one hand on the laptop. Betsy held the gun.
    â€œTell him he’ll have to find someone else to service him,” she said, so calmly that it made me think she knew I was out there all along.
    I ran. I was about one flight down the stairs when I heard another shot. At home, I reported to Dan. He shook his head, then came close and gently took the envelope from me. “You brought those back. Good boy.” Then he drove me to the apartment where one of his girlfriends lived and I did not see him for over six months.
    I never found out who received that second shot and that was the only time I had ever been in an attorney’s office until I walked into the law offices of Kelekian and White of Houston, Texas. They did have their names on the door. The air was cold in the office and so was the atmosphere. Outside, through the tinted windows, the sun struggled to shine and the city looked dimmed and dusty like an alien, harsh, and desolate colony on a nasty planet, a place of danger and disease to be avoided.
    It was no surprise that Darrell White was in the final stages of a really big case, his firm’s biggest in years, which he really could not talk about, so he could only give me a few minutes. He was a big man in his fifties, developing a gut but still handsome, with a lot of brown hair carefully shaped into a point resembling the prow of a ship. His jacket hung on a valet stand in the corner. A holster, empty, hung next to the jacket. I guessed the gun was in a desk drawer. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, but his tie was firmly in place. The office was roomy and neat and the view expansive. Pictures of Darrell White with tennis players, golfers, ballerinas, and hockey players decorated the walls. Maybe one of the pictures was of the King of Kurdistan; Darrell White specialized in immigration and had helped the King’s entourage get visas.
    â€œRecognize anyone?” he said.
    â€œYou’re the big guy, right?”
    â€œSome of those ballerinas were tiny as matchsticks. But I love watching them dance. Love it. Now you said oil business, the financial side, yes? Usually, we have a lot of success helping financial people get work visas because no one understands what they do, so they must be essential. The only problem comes when it’s a really attractive woman, then no one believes she could be essential for her brains. You’re not importing a girlfriend, are you? You don’t look the type.” He had the gift of being able to seem to give his full attention, which was probably a valuable skill when dealing with all his stars and artists.
    â€œNot a girlfriend. Business associates. From Iraq. They’re not financial types. They’re representing my new partners. You’ve handled visas for Iraqis?”
    â€œOf course. I’ve helped bring an Iraqi soccer team over here for training and a series of games. A cricket team, too. Actors. Not a lot of financial people, but I don’t see why that would be a problem. Who are your guys? Why are they essential to your business?”
    â€œWell, y’see, we negotiated some oil rights and these men represent, as I said, our partners and they have to . . . the people we’re going to do business with here in the States are going to want to meet them. That’s why they’re essential.” I hemmed and hawed enough for a deaf man to tell I was avoiding the truth.
    â€œThey