Do Not Disturb Me at My Labors-e

A Contemporary Novel

by Edward M. Turner

What happens when a hit man suffers burnout? He's upgraded. Hollis Taylor's latest assignments are beneath his expertise-a lowlife drug dealer and a wife batterer. The days when he pitted his skills against the Mafia or KGB are gone due to cut-rate competition. The head of the secretive agency he moonlights for offers him a senior courier promotion to keep him in the fold. But a crisis the first day in his new job, and he's once more back in the hunt. Independent yet needful, hard as nails, yet sensitive, everyone looks to Hollis for answers he can't find for himself…until the final apocalyptic chapter. He's a present day Barabbas, searching for a reason to believe.

ISBN 1-59431-533-7 Mystery / Action Adventure Cover Art: Shelley Rodgerson

Also available in HTML and RTF formats.



Time is November 3rd, the Present



PART ONE: Introduction

The Hunt…



Chapter 1

“Beautiful Bleakness, A Sigh And A Tear…”

He sat in the car and listened to a classic rock station on the radio. Credence Clearwater Rival ranted about a bad moon rising. Cigar smoke fogged the inside. In the backseat a yellow mongrel dog sneezed.

“Hey, Prince. Don’t do it near my mirror.” The man was overweight and soft. A scraggly mustache grew under his large nose. He leaned down and with a rolled up ten dollar bill snorted a line of coke. And coughed toward the windshield.

“Christ, is this rugged.” He coughed again. “I’ll charge extra. See if I don’t. They haven’t caught me yet.”

The dog woofed.

“Wait.” He put the mirror away, blocked one nostril and sniffed, then blocked the other and sniffed. “Oh, yes. Profit on this batch.”

The dog woofed.

“Okay, dammit.” He opened his door and grabbed the dog’s leash before it escaped. “Wait, wait.” The fat man shoved the cigar in his mouth and climbed out, locked the car. In the empty parking lot he turned up his collar.

They left the lot and followed a paved path past a white wooden sign with black lettering that read—Birch Park. No other dog walkers were in sight. Streetlamps cast patches of light every forty feet.

Leaves rustled in the wind. The dog snarled, pulled at its leash. It tried to trot toward a stand of trees whose branches rose against the skyline.

The fat man jerked on the dog’s leather leash. “You damned dog. It’s nothing but the wind.”

The dog stopped its tugging and whined, sniffed the wind cautiously. It sat and stared at the group of trees.

“On your feet!” The fat man jerked the leash again. “Jesus, if you’re not done when my cigar is, you’re holding it tonight.” He flicked ashes at the dog.

The dog growled.

The fat man reared back his right leg to give the dog a kick, then hesitated. The dog wasn’t growling at him. It was something in the trees. The streetlamp illuminated the paved path around him, but didn’t penetrate beyond a fifteen-foot radius. The trees were indistinct white objects. He guessed they were white birch.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

The dog reluctantly got to its feet and followed its master. Both glanced back repeatedly until they came to a clearing with a duck pond.

A crescent moon broke through heavy clouds. The rising wind created wavelets on the pond’s surface. Tiny wrinkles of light reflected upward like diamonds. The path wound along the water’s edge, bordered by a low cast iron railing. A smell of musty duck shit pervaded everything. The whole lay deserted. The ducks had left for points south.

“Well, Prince, you thirsty?” The relief in the man’s tone calmed the dog.

The dog strained against its leash toward the deep end of the pond. It squeezed under the railing and began lapping the water.

The fat man flicked ash from his cigar, took one last drag, pitched it in. It gave off a quiet hiss. He sensed something behind him, turned and saw a man standing in front of a streetlamp twenty feet away.

The man was thinner and taller than the dog walker. He wore a black windbreaker and black sneakers. His face was in shadow.

The dog finished drinking. It gave a short “woof” when it noticed the stranger, who stood upwind of them.

“Shush, Prince,” the fat man whispered. Clouds drifted in front of the moon. The light from the streetlamp produced a nimbus effect about the stranger.

“It’s—” the fat man hesitated, cleared his throat, tried again. “It sure is windy tonight.” He patted the shirt pocket under his jacket.

“Yes.” The wind muted the tall man’s answer. “It keeps me awake. I can’t sleep.” He walked toward the fat man.

“Sure. November’s here. Damned leaves gotta be raked. They’re noisier than hell.” The fat man held out his hand. “I’m Wilbur Dunbar. I live—”

“You live by the school. I see you often.” The tall man’s hair was dark and his features, with the light behind, remained hidden except for his angular jaw.

They shook hands. Wilbur wondered why he wore black nylon gloves. The dog smelled the tall man’s pants.

“That’s right. You’re—”

“A neighbor of yours. I drive a white pickup.”

“You got the white Ford?” Wilbur couldn’t see the tall man’s face. He knew the pickup, but couldn’t remember the fellow’s name. The fellow had a grip of iron.

“Let the dog go.” The tall man’s grip tightened.

“What?” Wilbur tried to break the handshake, but couldn’t. His fingers began hurting. “What did you say?”

“The dog smells a duck, let him go.” He leaned close to Wilbur. His breath carried a hint of…cooked meat? He squeezed harder.

Please?” Wilbur asked. The leash slipped from his other hand. “Please?”

Suddenly free, Prince shied from the tall man and hurried down the path in the direction of the birch trees. It halted for a few moments when it heard a splash.

Then it trotted off on the trail of an interesting scent.

***

“Hollis, please turn the radio up. Why keep the news to yourself?”

Hollis raised the volume two notches and glanced at his wife. Then returned his attention to his plate of mashed eggs and bacon.

Nancy studied her face in the cosmetic mirror beside her plate.

“Vicki got canned.”

Hollis grunted.

“The manager warned her about grocery shopping on her coffee break.”

Hollis grunted, took a sip of coffee, looked at the clock on the wall.

“An administrative associate isn’t protected by a union like the nurses are.”

Hollis turned the radio up another notch. The announcer for the seven-fifteen news related the lead-in story:

“At five-thirty this morning a jogger came upon a body floating in a duck pond at Birch Park in North Fervency. The jogger immediately notified local police. The description is of a heavyset middle-aged male Caucasian wearing a tan jacket and dungarees. North Fervency’s police chief Wayne Edwards:

‘It appears an accidental drowning. We found no signs of foul play. We did find a small amount of cocaine on the body. The investigation is ongoing.’ “

The announcer finished, “In other news today a child molestation was reported in Granite Pointe…”

Nancy looked at Hollis. “I wonder if I know him?”

Hollis finished his coffee and stood. “Time to go.”

“You didn’t finish your eggs.”

The wall phone rang. He answered it. “Taylor residence.” He listened for a moment, handed the receiver to his wife.

Nancy talked in low tones. He picked up his battered briefcase, hesitated, sat down to wait.

“I’ll stop by tonight. No problem. The lawyer will know. Okay, dear, bye.”

Hollis stood. “I’m leaving now.”

“That was Helen Dunbar.” Nancy’s voice held a sense of amazement. “Wilbur’s dead. It was him that drowned. He couldn’t swim. The dog returned last night dragging its leash, so she called the cops. Then the jogger found Wilbur.”

Hollis shrugged.

“I can’t say I’m sorry. And by the way she talked, Helen isn’t either. The guy couldn’t buy class, not with his lowlife friends in South Florence. Helen will notify his family, then take a nice hot shower.”

Hollis moved to the kitchen door, looked out at the brilliant sunshine. “I’m leaving now,” he repeated. “I have weekly reports on Fridays.”

Nancy shook her head. “As if you’d care.” She sighed at the taciturn man she married fifteen years ago. Their childless union made her frustrated, whereas he seemed to accept it.

“Nevermind. Give me a kiss before you go.” Nancy adjusted his striped tie. “This looks good on you.” She pulled him down as she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips. Reluctantly she let him go.

Hollis drove the speed limit along Stevens Street. The early morning traffic remained light. He took his time and enjoyed the autumn landscape.

Hayfields separated by neat stonewalls or lines of larch trees stretched backwards and merged with forests of hardwood and pine. An occasional tarred road branched off at random intervals escorted by telephone poles and white farmhouses. Altocumulus clouds, thick gray fleecy balls, rolled pass the sun and produced shadows on the ground.

He braked for a red light at the beginning of a built-up section. It included variety stores, pizza joints, and gin mills straddling the border between his town and Florence. Faded three-decker apartments with clothes lines in backyards that abutted chain linked parking lots. A thin black lady waited hand-in-hand with a young boy at a bus stop. As Hollis passed through the intersection their eyes blinked up to his face.

Ten minutes later he parked in a lot at a renovated shoe factory. It was part of a revitalization project of Florence to lure much needed commerce to the city. The building provided space for discount auto parts, a wholesale furniture outlet, and the business he worked for:

Mealmaster—Cooking utensils for the Millennium…and Beyond.

His wife, who worked for the Lahey Clinic in Burlington, wished he’d consider a change in career to something more prestigious. Being a manager selling a line of pots and pans appeared a dead-end. A plywood ceiling to future advancement. And she sometimes wished he wasn’t so…accepting.

His footsteps echoed on the worn oaken stairs. The varnished wood interior and polished brass fire extinguishers reminded him of his former high school. He reached the second level and entered the company’s office.

“Hey, Hollis. Going to the sales meeting?”

Hollis shook his head. “I have inventory this morning, Richard.”

The room ran the width of the building and contained cardboard boxes of cooking utensils stacked on pallets. It served as a combination storeroom and headquarters, with glassed-in offices off a back hallway.

Hollis entered his workplace and turned on the monitor. Usually he ignored the computer and sorted through paper invoices left by deliveries. He used the invoices along with sale receipts for estimating potential markets in neighboring territories. The computer software didn’t have his intuition.

He hung his jacket and slid his briefcase under the desk. Out a back window came the faint sounds of traffic. He noted the coffee pot was empty. He filled the pot and got the coffee going, then sat at his desk.

The clock above the door read ten after eight. Hollis pressed the on button for the computer. It started and after loading, the screen morphed into a backdrop of white misty clouds and blue sky. He connected to the Internet and checked his mail. There were eighty-nine messages. He read and sorted to folders and deleted for some minutes. Then he surfed to a site and enabled the instant messenger.

Hollis waited stoically.

“You did a good thing.”

Hollis typed: “Yes.”

“I applaud a job well done.”

Hollis typed: “Thanks.”

“Care to go on a trip north?”

Hollis typed: “Where?”

“North of Portland.”

Hollis typed: “Quality control inspection?”

“Of course.”

Hollis thought this over. The idea of Maine brought up past memories.

“It won’t be your home town.”

Hollis leaned forward and read the particulars. He knew the town, only had to memorize the name of his connection. The company had a weak presence in the area and needed someone with a mind for detail. Sales were weak.

Hollis typed: “Okay.”

“Relax. Enjoy the weekend. How is Nancy?”

Hollis typed: “She’s okay.”

“Healthy?”

Hollis typed: “She’s okay.”

“Fine. Fine. Talk with you later then.”

Hollis typed: “Okay.”

“Have a nice weekend, Hollis.” The connection was broken.

***

Scraps of newspaper blew along Essex Street. Mangy junkyard cats sat in alley mouths and watched nondescript pedestrians wander aimlessly.

Old stores—Epstein’s, a Five & Dime, Botticelli’s While-U-Wait Shoe Repair—huddled together like tramps in a soup-line on a cold day. Their upper windows gazed into empty space with a blank indifference.

A trailer-diner, “Flo’s Coffee,” sat lonely in a vacant lot amidst non-returnable bottles and bald tires. Inside the diner, elderly men on stools nursed cups of coffee and gaped at slow-moving traffic.

Businessmen avoided the downtown area.

Hollis walked by Flo’s Coffee without looking at the old men. A page of newspaper caught on his leg. The wind shifted and snatched it away. He wore better clothes than the usual inhabitants, yet blended with a seamless fit. Only those who watched the streets day after day perceived his appearance.

He entered The Hitching Post bar.

Patrons stole a look at the tall figure. No one complained at the sudden exposure of outside light from the open door, or the cool breeze that stirred the smell of sour beer. They mildly turned back to their drinks and conversations. The bartender looked up and gave a nod.

“What-will-ya-have, Mr. Taylor?”

“A Bud.” Hollis sat on a plastic bar stool. “An egg-salad sandwich. Heavy on the mayo.”

“Right.” The barkeep, a middle-aged man with enormous slabbed forearms, grabbed a 12 0z. bar-bottle of Budweiser, opened it and poured a glass. He was careful not to let it foam. He placed both on the bar in front of Hollis along with a napkin. Then he turned and began putting the sandwich together.

Hollis drank his beer and peered around the dimly lit interior. The place was one of those older drinking establishments filled with varnished pine and oak. Lights with mosaic stained-glass shades and the Pabst Blue Ribbon beer logo lit the bar area. The booths were wooden and had Formica tables. Jukeboxes three songs for 50¢ were fastened on the wall at each booth.

There were not many customers. Two elderly men sat across from each other in a booth, a half-empty pitcher of beer on the table between them. They talked in low murmurs and glanced over at the bar now and then.

A young man with greasy hair and ragged jeans sat in a booth. He nursed a draft beer and listened to the jukebox play a Hank William’s tune, I’ll Never Get Out Of This World Alive.

And down at the other end of the bar lounged a woman on a stool. She had silvery blond hair of medium length, a chubby but solid figure in a tight-fitting black dress, and a face that had observed one too many sunrises. Her blue eyes were cloudy and red.

“Off on another trip, Mr. Taylor?” The barkeep placed a saucer with an egg-salad sandwich on the bar. He smiled at Hollis.

“It’s that obvious, Harry?”

“You drop in for lunch and a beer when you do, Mr. Taylor.”

Hollis took a bite of sandwich, washed it down. He wiped his mouth with his hand. “I like it here, Harry. Coming here is a treat for me.”

The blonde sniggered.

Harry shoved an ice scoop into the icemaker below the bar and mucked it about to keep the ice cubes separate. “You said last time that you hung out in these establishments as a youngster?”

“In Maine. Belfast, Maine. One like this on the riverfront. Had some fun.”

The blonde sniggered. She re-crossed her legs and aimed them at Hollis. “Can a girl get a drink around here, Harry?” She raised an empty glass.

Harry’s smile became plastic. “Jesus, another one,” he said under his breath. He reached behind him and picked up a bottle of Bacardi Rum.

“Coming right up, Gloria.” Harry poured a jigger and splashed it in a tall frosted glass, threw in some ice cubes. He squirted enough Pepsi to fill it, then walked it down and retrieved her used glass.

“You’re limping more than usual, Harry,” she commented as she took her first sip.

“Yeah, my pills don’t work so good.”

“Vietnam?”

“Enraged husband.” They both laughed.

Harry limped back to Hollis with a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders.

Hollis nodded to the blonde, said to Harry, “I’ve heard that line in every bar. You get around, don’t you, Harry.”

“Maybe you heard it first in Belfast?” the blonde asked Hollis.

“Maybe.”

“I’ve never been to Maine.” She looked at Harry, who was busy tidying the deli area, then back at Hollis. She smiled hopefully.

Hollis finished the sandwich, took a swallow of beer. He turned to her and answered, “Yeah, well, you could say it’s a different culture.”

“I’ll say it is,” interrupted the young man in the booth. He smirked as he turned the knob on the jukebox through the selection of songs.

Everyone in the bar looked at him.

“I was up there last summer. Bunch of cow-farmers and dim-wits. Jeesh.”

“Oh, I betcha there’s more’n that up there,” Gloria said.

Harry glanced at Hollis.

The young man also looked at Hollis. “Nothing but antique shops smelling of cow shit. And another thing, the tits on the women up there are either too big or they ain’t got tits at all. It’s a fact. I’ve seen it.”

“You got a big mouth, Mister.” Gloria wasn’t smiling.

“Yeah, and you got big knockers. Why don’t you fill your fat mouth with them instead of booze. Damned barfly.”

Gloria gasped, as did the two elderly men. Her face turned beet red. She waited a few seconds. No one uttered a word. She whirled back to face the bar, slowly raised her glass, and emptied it with trembling fingers.

The young man took a long look around at the silent men, and made a raspberry noise. He turned to the jukebox and nonchalantly punched some buttons. Willie Nelson’s, On The Road Again, issued from the speakers.

The young man bobbed his head, greasy hair flapping, and hummed to the music. His palms slapped the tabletop in an uneven rhythm. He raised the glass of draft to his lips and prepared to guzzle the contents. Life was good. He tilted his head back…

…and felt long fingers firmly entwine in his hair. The fingers then clenched in a steel grip, gently tugged upward. He opened his eyes wide to see Hollis gazing benignly down at him. Hollis lifted his hand, forced the young man to stand.

“Let’s go outside,” Hollis breathed.

The young man tried to nod his head but couldn’t. He mouthed, “Okay,” stood on tiptoe and minced along as the much taller Hollis led him to the entrance. The young man politely reached out and opened the door and let himself be escorted through. Hollis pulled the door shut. They moved to the side with Hollis’s black windbreaker fluttering in the breeze, and disappeared.

The bar remained quiet. Harry the bartender watched the door. The two older men looked intently out the shaded picture window. Gloria also watched the door, eyes wet and a look of wonder on her face.

Hollis returned five minutes later, alone. Everyone seemed busy, not noticing he was back. A sense of expectancy hung in the air as he sat on his stool. He glanced down at his skinned knuckles, frowned as if at something untidy.

Harry opened a Budweiser and put it in front of him. “Another Bud, Mr. Taylor?”

Hollis looked up. “Okay, I will.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket, found a twenty-dollar bill. He held it up.

“No, no, Mr. Taylor. The beer is on me. No Sir, put your money away.” Harry solemnly shook his head.

Hollis looked at Gloria.

“A drink for the lady, please?”

Roy Acuff’s Wabash Cannonball began playing on the jukebox. One of the older men observed, “The young man had good taste in music.”

Gloria made her way down to Hollis by placing a hand on each stool for support. She flopped onto the empty seat beside him with an embarrassed laugh.

Hollis looked deep into her eyes…and saw a little girl lost.