Sins of the Fathers Page 25
ELEVEN
EMILE SINCLAIR LAY in bed thinking about his luck. Most of the time it was aces, but lately things were getting weird on the old Mason ranch.
The problem wasn’t his employment. In what other profession could a man without a high school diploma wear custom made Armani suits and Gucci loafers for such cream puff duties. Most of what he did involved driving a fancy car and looking like a hardcase while standing near his employer. Every now and again Mr. Mason would have Sinclair make a delivery or pick-up. Sometimes he had to put the squeeze on some punk if they were holding out, but he hardly considered that work. Work was hauling wet sheets in the steam pit laundry at county, the skin on your hands turning crimson then sloughing off a little more every day. Work was racking your brain to make some kind of dumb-ass sales quota. His job was a dream come true.
The benefits were primo too. According to Mr. Mason’s accountant, a little pissant Jew boy named Felder, Sinclair had only cleared twenty grand last year. Of course, even little pissant Jew boys have their uses, so while his income tax return put him just above the poverty line, Sinclair actually made in the neighborhood of a hundred large. And that was just the jack that Mr. Mason knew about.
Sinclair had so many side rackets and kick-backs going he could scarcely keep track of them all. He even got room and board with his own suite in the main house. Had to be close to the boss just in case. And the bitches, well, with his own “servant’s” entrance, moving his pussy in and out of the house was smooth as the snatch on a Thai whore.
Sure, there was the danger of being a human bullet catcher, but that was only if he actually got in the way of a slug like that dumb motherfucker, Horton. For fuck’s sake, just because he was being paid to take a bullet for Mason didn’t mean he actually had to fulfill that particular part of his job description should the time come. Sinclair saw it as simple pragmatics: If someone offed Mr. Mason, Sinclair was out of a job. If someone tried to off Mr. Mason and Sinclair got in the way, not only was he out of a job, he was dead. Fuck that. He’d let Finch jump in if he was stupid enough to try.
Just look what had happened when Horton had taken the big slow-mo leap in front of a fast moving lead swarm. Did he get a reward for almost punching out permanently to save his highness? He got shit detail, watching the royal brat. Jesus, what a drag that would be, having to baby-sit that geeky fucking kid all day.
And now that detail couldn’t be more shitty. The kid had gone completely nuts, or had a tumor they couldn’t find, or something. Thus the current weirdness in Sinclair’s otherwise perfect life. The stuff that came out of sweet little Jeremy was like nothing Sinclair had ever heard, even during any of his several state-supervised vacations. Little bastard had effectively shut down the shop around here too, his father putting operations on hold so they could all stay close to the kid.
Sinclair shoved one of his beefy arms behind his head on a mauve silk pillow, his other hand wandered down to his privates. He looked over at the clock, 4:14 AM; fucking coke keeping him up again. In truth, it wasn’t the blow and he damn well knew it. Sinclair had a shift to watch over the kid in another forty-five minutes and he was sweating it something fierce. The kid was what, nine or ten, and he had thrown the big bodyguard across the room like a puppy Sinclair had once owned. Sinclair repositioned his arm behind his head and winced in the dark. Elbow still hurt like hell. Slammed right into the wall. His newly bad luck that he hit a stud instead of just punching through the sheetrock. Little bastard. Now, at least that home appliance of a nurse had the kid strapped down.
Sinclair imagined Jeremy strapped into his bed, helpless except for the endless stream of verbal diarrhea. His hand ceased its crotch exploration, gripped. Helpless, all tied up like that with those big leather manacles they used on psych patients. Sinclair could do anything he wanted to the little fucker and no one would be the wiser. If the kid said anything, he could just say it was one of Jeremy’s lies. Anything he wanted at all. Sinclair passed the rest of the time before his shift grinning in the dark.
Anything at all.
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