Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (2 page)

By Friday lunch time, his notepad contained one underlined word:

Ideas

His bin contained seven empty scotch bottles. For the last five days, he had not shaved, hardly eaten and slept on the sofa, certain that inspiration was only another drink away. At that point he decided there was a serious flaw in his reasoning and called Mark for assistance. Mark suggested that they meet at a sports bar named ‘Dribbles’ in Soho, where they always went when Mark had a large bet on a football match. Didn’t Mark see the irony in not even liking football? Maybe he could convince Mark to give up gambling to support him in his career-launching endeavours. It was as likely as the long odds his best friend insisted on chucking his offensive salary away on.

John spent the remainder of the afternoon preparing to go out, dragging himself through all of the necessary recovery procedures until only his eyes displayed the toll his body had paid for the week of worthless brainstorming.

*

At eight o’clock Dribbles was already overflowing outside with customers who had arrived prepared with thick coats and scarves. The idea of drinking cold beer outside in the dark, beneath overcast skies, was lost on John. Fortunately Mark was a regular big spender, and there was always a table made available to him.

Ten large television screens were intermittently spaced and tuned in to various silenced sporting events. Katy Perry was singing her lungs out about kissing a girl and it tasting of cherry Chap Stick. Tonight the VIP table was in a private corner of the massive, wooden-floored bar, and their waitress was an attractive Spanish woman in her mid-twenties with shoulder-length black hair and smooth olive skin.

“
Como estás,
Mark?” she said, guiding them to their bar-height table with two high wooden stools.

“
Muy bien gracias
, Carmen,
y tu
?”

“
Yo tambien, gracias. Buscas mujeres
?” She patted Mark’s behind as he mounted the stool. “
Quieres que llamo a Christos
?”

Mark smiled. “
Quizás luego.
”

John had witnessed the ritual many times before, but this was the first time he had met Carmen. John took his seat and ordered a Corona. Mark suggested whisky chasers, but the thought of more Scotch made John feel nauseous.

Mark was six feet four inches tall so had nearly four inches of extra body to house the abundant alcohol they would undoubtedly consume. Mark scrutinized Carmen’s bottom as she ambled away to collect their beers, chatting to other regulars as she went, some taking advantage of the overcrowded floor space to make ‘accidental’ contact. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Is she ... you know?” John asked.

Mark grinned. “Available for hire?”

Despite his skin blemishes, Mark was handsome and had plenty of women chasing after his affections. He was slim, tall, dressed in expensive Savile Row suits and had the most important criterion in bundles: he was rich. However, Mark detested the act of romancing and figured it a complete waste of his valuable time, preferring one-night stands with gorgeous high-class escorts. John could see the attraction but unfortunately found the unknown history of their abundant clientele too much to stomach. Besides, he didn’t have the funds to pay for such indulgent and risky treats.

“Yes. Is she one of your regulars?” John asked, as Carmen disappeared into the thick of the Friday night crowd.

“No. I think she might be available, but she’s not my type. Too short for me.”

John thought about that for a moment. Five feet two versus six feet four. He had never considered height as an issue between two potential mates, but as he unintentionally pictured Mark and Carmen in his mind, the likely problems became clearer. He grimaced.

“It’s a sixty-nine thing, old boy,” added Mark, in case John hadn’t quite cottoned on.

“I get it. Please don’t say another word. I already swallowed down some sick.”

“Are
you
interested?” enquired Mark, eyebrows raised, mouth stretched into a smirk. “My treat. You’re worse with women than I am. Call it a celebratory gift to start your new life.”

“No, you’re all right, thanks. I promised my hand that I wouldn’t cheat on it.”

Mark laughed and snorted in that way that only came with old money.

“Mark, pack that racket in, or you’ll get us into a fight. Some of us peasants don’t appreciate the Sloane Ranger snort.”

Embarrassed, Mark stopped abruptly and pointed at John. “Listen here, Smith, I know for a fact that your father sold his firm for upwards of fifteen million.”

“It’s got nothing to do with the money. My dad’s the first in his family to have any. Besides, I won’t get a penny unless I join the professional classes.”

“So have you anything in mind?”

“No. I’ve wasted a week trying to think of something that interested me. All I managed to do was feel sick, grow a beard and develop chronic B.O.”

“Sounds like a civil service job might suit you.”

“Very good.” John took his bottle of Corona from the outstretched hand of Carmen. She had beautiful brown eyes. “You should tell my dad that one. He hates civil servants.”

“I think he told it to me.”

Ice cold Corona ran from the corner of John’s mouth as he failed to laugh and keep his lips together at the same time. “You bastard,” John said, brushing the liquid from his blue polo shirt before it soaked through. “This is my best shirt.”

“Now I know why they call this place ‘Dribbles’,” Mark said. “Anyway, what’s this about best shirt? I thought that was your
only
shirt.”

“Like I said, ‘You bastard’.”

John looked up from his beer-dampened shirt to see that Mark was whispering into Carmen’s ear. A moment later she was gone, but there was more of a purpose to her stride. What was he up to?

John grabbed his friend by the suit lapels. “I hope you haven’t done anything stupid.”

Mark raised both hands from the table, palms facing John. “Me? Never.” A look of triumph spread across his face, like he’d won one of his ludicrous bets. “I’ve got it.”

Pulling his arms back, John shook his head. “Go on,” he said.

“Do you remember when Spunk Eyes Spencer attacked me in the playground, when we were about sixteen?”

“Yeah, wasn’t it because you called him Spunk Eyes?”

Mark considered this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it must have been. Anyway, you took him down like you were born to it.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’ll never forget the look in your eyes as you faced off. It was like you were on a roller coaster ride, caught up in excitement and exhilaration, not a flicker of fear to be seen.”

John took a swig from his bottle and swallowed, enjoying the memory of pulling Anthony Spencer from on top of Mark as Spunk Eyes swung fist after fist into his best friend’s face. He had enjoyed seeing the fear in the bully’s eyes. “I’m a bit old to be a boxer.”

“What about the police?”

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t mean the boys in blue. I’m talking about your secret service types. They earn six-figure salaries, and you could get that look back.”

“And they don’t exist.”

“Believe me, John, they exist all right. I can’t believe I never thought of it before. Leave it with me, and I’ll see if I can set something up.”

Mark raised his bottle, and John did the same, toasting to resolving his future. Like Mark knew anyone in a secret police unit. But the thought of telling his mother he carried a gun and shot people for a living did widen his grin somewhat.

“So we’ve sorted out my career path, what do we do now?”

“Let’s get absolutely fucking trollied.” Mark’s suggestion threw him into a fit of posh snorts, so loud that a few disapproving stares gravitated their way. John stared them all right back.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said.

2: Saturday 24th September, 06:30

John Smith lay on his back in his bed, staring into the blackness. No light had appeared through the cigarette hole in the thick velvet curtains signalling it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the events from last night. A week on Scotch and a night of God only knew how many Coronas had taken its toll on his cognitive powers. Oh yes, he was going to become a secret agent, and then he and Mark had gotten pissed.

“What time is it?” said a sleepy, female voice.

John shot up, grabbed the duvet with both hands and pulled it to his chest. His heart pounded, and his skin tingled with goose bumps. Movement had not been kind to his head. He looked over to his left, but the room was still pitch black. Anyway he worked it, his head came back to the same conclusion. There was a woman in his bed.

“What the...?”

“Heh, stop stealing all the covers, chummy,” said the silky voice. “That’s no way to treat a guest.” A soft hand slid under the duvet and onto his bare chest, stroking him in slow circles. “I’m yours till eight if you want to go again.”

John felt around and banged on the lamp at his bedside. The room lit up and he blinked rapidly as he fought to focus his eyes on the warm, wriggling body that was attempting to clamp on to him. Her words percolated in his brain while he gazed down at the slender, naked frame. She was truly spectacular: hardly twenty, long dark hair, pale smooth skin and the mischievous face of a wayward angel. She was way out of his league. The soft hand crept towards his crotch just as his brain caught up with reality.

“You’re a prostitute?” he exclaimed, sliding off the bed, taking the duvet with him and wrapping it around himself like fluffy, makeshift armour. With a few feet between them, the young woman’s beauty was blatant and decidedly distracting. “You’re a prostitute,” he repeated, not sure what else to say.

Chocolate brown eyes glistened and tears formed in their corners as his guest crossed her legs, folded her arms and bent awkwardly over in an attempt to cover her newly found modesty. “I’m an escort actually, not a prostitute, and I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”

John could not handle a crying woman - prostitute, escort or otherwise. For Superman it was Kryptonite, for some it was fingernails on a blackboard, but for John it was a woman’s tears. The more tears, the more John fell apart.

“Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “I don’t care what you do. I’ve got every respect for prostitutes.” He saw the corners of her mouth drop further, and the tears began to flow. “I mean escorts. Please... please... please don’t cry.” But cry she did, and how. He racked his brain for the right words to stem the tide and end his pain. Any lie would do. “My sister is an escort. It’s in my family, why would it bother me?”

Her eyes narrowed and lingered on him, perhaps testing whether his statement would crumble under the glare of her teary vision. He held her gaze. His lie was working. “You’re only my second client,” she said, wiping her eyes and looking around the room for her clothes. “You seemed really nice.”

With the pounding in John’s head relegated to a low priority, the memory of the night began to surface. Mark had lost his bet on the football match and had seemed somewhat dejected until Carmen, the Spanish waitress, had arrived with a friend - Samantha or something? John had hit it off immediately with Carmen’s friend, which should have been a clue the size of a skyscraper, but he had been drunk so he should cut himself a little slack. She had come home with him - the same woman who was now crouching on his oversized bed, searching the room for her clothes.

Taking care not to drop the covers, John knelt and retrieved the woman’s clothes from under the bed. She would never have found them without moving, and she wasn’t going anywhere until she could adequately cover herself. He passed the items to her with a trembling hand. Was that the whisky or the fact he had a beautiful, naked woman on his bed? Most likely the latter. He turned his back to her, allowing her some privacy to dress. He noticed the light appearing through the hole in the curtain. Seven o’clock had been and gone.

“We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I remember that we chatted and kissed and that Mark took off, but I honestly didn’t know about...” How did he say this without eliciting further histrionics? He needed to mind his choice of words. “I didn’t know about ... you know?”

“Forget about it,” she said, dismissively. “You were off your face. Your buddy thought you could do with cheering up. Do you even remember my name?”

“Samantha is it? Sorry,” he said. “I can barely remember my own.”

“You can turn around now,” she said.

John turned and was surprised to find her standing in front of him with her hand held out. She stood about an inch above him in black high heels and a black mini dress. The mischievous look had gone, leaving just the face of a dark-haired angel.

“I’m Savannah,” she said.

“Yeah right,” John said. He extended his hand to meet hers. It really was the softest of hands, and he felt a pleasant tingle shoot up his arm when they touched. “I’m John Smith,” he said.

“Yeah right,” she said. “Look, if you could just pay me the thousand pounds ...
John Smith
...” she gave a huge grin like there was something funny about the name, “... then I’ll be off.”

John caught his breath. “Didn’t Mark take care of that?”

“No, he said you were loaded and wouldn’t hear of it.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Am I smiling?”

She wasn’t, but she was still stunning. It must be a con. Mark was the city financier, the money man, Mr Fat Wallet. He was a joker but not of the practical kind. He was way too sophisticated for that.

“I’ll call Mark,” he threatened.

“Well make it quick,” she said, looking around the room. “I need to go.”

John grabbed the cordless phone from the bedside table and speed-dialled his best friend.

“Yes,” the voice was sharp and edgy. It didn’t sound like Mark at all.

“Mark?” John said.

“Oh it’s you. What is it? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“John, I don’t have time for games,” said Mark. “What is it you want?”