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The Unicorn
#TheWritingProject
I couldn’t believe he was gone. He was thirty-five, six years older than I was. Way too young to die. Then again, he didn’t die a natural death. He died a horrible miserable death on the streets of some third-world shithole, gunned down with several of the men he was trying to do business with.
Turns out they weren’t the respectable businessmen they had led Steve to believe they were, but high-end drug dealers trying to branch out into legitimate business. Their competition took the opportunity to eliminate them as business rivals and did a drive by, using machine guns. Four of them to be exact. Steve was hit seventeen times, lucky shots all, and they pretty much cut him in half. If it was any consolation, he didn’t suffer long, dead in minutes from loss of blood. I wondered if he thought of Jen, his beautiful wife, and their plans to start a family soon. I wondered if he had time for regret, to realize he should have been happy with what he had. Heck, he was already a millionaire many times over.
Steve wasn’t like that. He was obsessive, always looking for the ultimate deal, the one that would give him rock star status among his peers. He really thought this was it. He talked it over with me, as he had a habit of doing on all his deals. We were usually on his boat, fishing, just us. I’d look at him and just grin. “You really expect an intelligent answer? Shit, I don’t understand what you’re talking about most of the time. This stuff is giving me a headache. Now, are you out here to get Mr. Big or what?”
He’d grin back. “Mr. Big, definitely. Hey, did I show you my new rod? It’s supposed to be the best. Think it will help me any? Oh, and I know you don’t care or understand what I’m saying, it just helps me to say it out loud. Can’t do that in the office; the walls have ears.”
I’d just sigh. He’d fool with the rod that cost probably a third of my yearly income, get aggravated, toss it down, and pick up the old five-and-a-half foot rod with the almost antique Zebco 33 I’d given him, and start catching fish. In the time I’d known him, he’d probably spent ten grand on fishing equipment, not counting the boat. He never listened when I tried to teach him, and the fish had to just about commit suicide on his hook before he caught one, but he had a blast trying.
My time with Uncle Sam had taught me there was probably no safe place to talk. Any of the boats we could see might have equipment that allowed them to hear our conversations like they were standing behind us. Not to mention hacked phones, video and analyzing the conversation with lip readers, the opportunities were endless. I let him go, though. What he talked about had nothing to do with national security, or corporate espionage, so he was probably safe. I did venture an opinion, the first ever since we’d met.
“You need to think about this, dude. I’ve been where you’re going, and it ain’t Paris. People there would cut your throat for your watch and shoes. Hire security while you’re there and listen to them. Almost no one there is what they seem.”
He just laughed and tried to talk me into going with him. I politely declined.
After a few hours he gave up on Mr. Big and took consolation in Brother Bud. Jen frowned as I helped him out of his truck and into the living room, where we laid him on the couch. He was snoring in minutes. “Want me to help get him into bed?”
Jen smiled a sad smile. “Not really. Let him sleep it off there, and when he wakes up with a stiff neck and an aching back he might think about it before he does it again. I swear, Jaime, you bring out the best and the worst in him, usually at the same time. How do you do that?”
I shrugged. “Natural talent, I guess. Surely his other friends bring him home blasted some times.”
I didn’t know how to take her answer. “He doesn’t have any other friends, Jaime. All the rest want something from him, or he wants something from them. With those guys, you don’t just hang out. Every party is a business meeting; every social event is just an opportunity to network. It’s all about the Benjies, baby.”
“That can’t be true, when he’s around me we rarely talk about business. Most times it’s about huntin’, fishin’, the wild women we have known and bedded, the ones that got away, the ones we wished had gotten away. Hot cars, hot bikes, hot boats, normal guy stuff. When he does talk business, I don’t understand half...
I couldn’t believe he was gone. He was thirty-five, six years older than I was. Way too young to die. Then again, he didn’t die a natural death. He died a horrible miserable death on the streets of some third-world shithole, gunned down with several of the men he was trying to do business with.
Turns out they weren’t the respectable businessmen they had led Steve to believe they were, but high-end drug dealers trying to branch out into legitimate business. Their competition took the opportunity to eliminate them as business rivals and did a drive by, using machine guns. Four of them to be exact. Steve was hit seventeen times, lucky shots all, and they pretty much cut him in half. If it was any consolation, he didn’t suffer long, dead in minutes from loss of blood. I wondered if he thought of Jen, his beautiful wife, and their plans to start a family soon. I wondered if he had time for regret, to realize he should have been happy with what he had. Heck, he was already a millionaire many times over.
Steve wasn’t like that. He was obsessive, always looking for the ultimate deal, the one that would give him rock star status among his peers. He really thought this was it. He talked it over with me, as he had a habit of doing on all his deals. We were usually on his boat, fishing, just us. I’d look at him and just grin. “You really expect an intelligent answer? Shit, I don’t understand what you’re talking about most of the time. This stuff is giving me a headache. Now, are you out here to get Mr. Big or what?”
He’d grin back. “Mr. Big, definitely. Hey, did I show you my new rod? It’s supposed to be the best. Think it will help me any? Oh, and I know you don’t care or understand what I’m saying, it just helps me to say it out loud. Can’t do that in the office; the walls have ears.”
I’d just sigh. He’d fool with the rod that cost probably a third of my yearly income, get aggravated, toss it down, and pick up the old five-and-a-half foot rod with the almost antique Zebco 33 I’d given him, and start catching fish. In the time I’d known him, he’d probably spent ten grand on fishing equipment, not counting the boat. He never listened when I tried to teach him, and the fish had to just about commit suicide on his hook before he caught one, but he had a blast trying.
My time with Uncle Sam had taught me there was probably no safe place to talk. Any of the boats we could see might have equipment that allowed them to hear our conversations like they were standing behind us. Not to mention hacked phones, video and analyzing the conversation with lip readers, the opportunities were endless. I let him go, though. What he talked about had nothing to do with national security, or corporate espionage, so he was probably safe. I did venture an opinion, the first ever since we’d met.
“You need to think about this, dude. I’ve been where you’re going, and it ain’t Paris. People there would cut your throat for your watch and shoes. Hire security while you’re there and listen to them. Almost no one there is what they seem.”
He just laughed and tried to talk me into going with him. I politely declined.
After a few hours he gave up on Mr. Big and took consolation in Brother Bud. Jen frowned as I helped him out of his truck and into the living room, where we laid him on the couch. He was snoring in minutes. “Want me to help get him into bed?”
Jen smiled a sad smile. “Not really. Let him sleep it off there, and when he wakes up with a stiff neck and an aching back he might think about it before he does it again. I swear, Jaime, you bring out the best and the worst in him, usually at the same time. How do you do that?”
I shrugged. “Natural talent, I guess. Surely his other friends bring him home blasted some times.”
I didn’t know how to take her answer. “He doesn’t have any other friends, Jaime. All the rest want something from him, or he wants something from them. With those guys, you don’t just hang out. Every party is a business meeting; every social event is just an opportunity to network. It’s all about the Benjies, baby.”
“That can’t be true, when he’s around me we rarely talk about business. Most times it’s about huntin’, fishin’, the wild women we have known and bedded, the ones that got away, the ones we wished had gotten away. Hot cars, hot bikes, hot boats, normal guy stuff. When he does talk business, I don’t understand half...
