A Dead Man's Tale Read Online Free Page A
Author: James D. Doss
already lighting her twenty-fourth cigarette of the day.
Scott Parris was also unaware of the dapper middle-aged man in the three-piece suit. The one with the thin mustache who carried an ivory-knobbed cane. Like the kindly cleric and the chain-smoking businesswoman, Samuel Reed could not help but notice the big, buffalo-shouldered cop with blood in both eyes and murderous mayhem brewing in his heart. My—the brutish fellow looks like he’s anxious to strangle someone with his bare hands. It occurred to him that if push came to shove, a man would want Scott Parris on his team—which idle thought planted the germ of a notion in Professor Reed’s fertile mind. Within a few minutes it would produce a tender green sprout that would leaf out and bloom. Though pleasing to Samuel Reed’s biased eye, the blossom would not be especially fragrant.
Chapter Five
Where Sam Reed Makes His Millions
The third floor of the Cattleman’s Bank building consists entirely of offices leased to local businesses. The current occupants include two insurance representatives, three realtors, a thriving partnership of dental surgeons that specializes in endodontics (a euphemism for root canals), a dispensing optician (her logo is a yard-wide pair of spectacles suspended over the door), a defunct crisis-intervention center whose automated telephone message advises anxious inquirers to “call back during our regular business hours.” A short hallway on the northern side terminates in a solid oak doorway which has neither printed sign nor mail slot. Most who notice the unmarked entrance assume that it conceals the janitor’s storage room, an electrical closet, or the like.
Behind the door is an L-shaped inner sanctum that comprised three rooms and a full bath. One of the smaller rooms serves as Samuel Reed’s kitchen, the other as his occasional bedroom. The kitchen and bedroom are satellites to a strikingly spartan corner office. The hardwood floor is uncarpeted; the room’s sole furnishings are a knotty-pine desk, a comfortable armchair, a maple floor lamp with a green velvet shade, and a wicker waste basket.
When the office is unoccupied, the desktop is bare. On those occasions when serious business is conducted, a laptop computer is placed on the oiled surface.
A pair of large plate-glass windows face north; their twins look to the west. These are the views that the lessee prefers, and Professor Samuel Reed never settles for second best. The desk is positioned so that the man seated behind it can enjoy a panoramic view of blue-gray granite mountains snugly capped with last winter’s snow.
This space is occupied by a venture incorporated under the name Do-Wah-Diddy Investments, Ltd. The corporation’s semilyrical moniker was selected because the owner-manager of the firm sometimes muses about retiring to that mythical southern community that is neither town nor city, and also because he likes Phil Harris’s lively song.
The enterprise has no clients, but not to worry. D-W-D-I, Ltd.’s net income exceeds that of any ten businesses in the county, and by a comfortable margin. Aside from a few tight-lipped employees of the Internal Revenue Service, the sole owner of the “small business,” and Reed’s Denver accounting firm, no one knows that Do-Wah-Diddy’s scrupulously accurate federal returns document the fact that his annual tax payments are never less than seven figures.
The entrepreneur also turns a nice profit by placing bets on sporting events, and this aspect of Sam Reed’s business has its own peculiar hazards. More about that in due time.
The burning question of the moment is: how does he do it?
To those country-club cronies who dare ask him outright, Reed merely smiles and taps a finger against his temple. This gesture is generally interpreted as “I’m smarter than you are” or “I know more than you do.” How smart the entrepreneur is remains to be seen, but the latter is certainly true. Reed does know more.
Scott Parris was also unaware of the dapper middle-aged man in the three-piece suit. The one with the thin mustache who carried an ivory-knobbed cane. Like the kindly cleric and the chain-smoking businesswoman, Samuel Reed could not help but notice the big, buffalo-shouldered cop with blood in both eyes and murderous mayhem brewing in his heart. My—the brutish fellow looks like he’s anxious to strangle someone with his bare hands. It occurred to him that if push came to shove, a man would want Scott Parris on his team—which idle thought planted the germ of a notion in Professor Reed’s fertile mind. Within a few minutes it would produce a tender green sprout that would leaf out and bloom. Though pleasing to Samuel Reed’s biased eye, the blossom would not be especially fragrant.
Chapter Five
Where Sam Reed Makes His Millions
The third floor of the Cattleman’s Bank building consists entirely of offices leased to local businesses. The current occupants include two insurance representatives, three realtors, a thriving partnership of dental surgeons that specializes in endodontics (a euphemism for root canals), a dispensing optician (her logo is a yard-wide pair of spectacles suspended over the door), a defunct crisis-intervention center whose automated telephone message advises anxious inquirers to “call back during our regular business hours.” A short hallway on the northern side terminates in a solid oak doorway which has neither printed sign nor mail slot. Most who notice the unmarked entrance assume that it conceals the janitor’s storage room, an electrical closet, or the like.
Behind the door is an L-shaped inner sanctum that comprised three rooms and a full bath. One of the smaller rooms serves as Samuel Reed’s kitchen, the other as his occasional bedroom. The kitchen and bedroom are satellites to a strikingly spartan corner office. The hardwood floor is uncarpeted; the room’s sole furnishings are a knotty-pine desk, a comfortable armchair, a maple floor lamp with a green velvet shade, and a wicker waste basket.
When the office is unoccupied, the desktop is bare. On those occasions when serious business is conducted, a laptop computer is placed on the oiled surface.
A pair of large plate-glass windows face north; their twins look to the west. These are the views that the lessee prefers, and Professor Samuel Reed never settles for second best. The desk is positioned so that the man seated behind it can enjoy a panoramic view of blue-gray granite mountains snugly capped with last winter’s snow.
This space is occupied by a venture incorporated under the name Do-Wah-Diddy Investments, Ltd. The corporation’s semilyrical moniker was selected because the owner-manager of the firm sometimes muses about retiring to that mythical southern community that is neither town nor city, and also because he likes Phil Harris’s lively song.
The enterprise has no clients, but not to worry. D-W-D-I, Ltd.’s net income exceeds that of any ten businesses in the county, and by a comfortable margin. Aside from a few tight-lipped employees of the Internal Revenue Service, the sole owner of the “small business,” and Reed’s Denver accounting firm, no one knows that Do-Wah-Diddy’s scrupulously accurate federal returns document the fact that his annual tax payments are never less than seven figures.
The entrepreneur also turns a nice profit by placing bets on sporting events, and this aspect of Sam Reed’s business has its own peculiar hazards. More about that in due time.
The burning question of the moment is: how does he do it?
To those country-club cronies who dare ask him outright, Reed merely smiles and taps a finger against his temple. This gesture is generally interpreted as “I’m smarter than you are” or “I know more than you do.” How smart the entrepreneur is remains to be seen, but the latter is certainly true. Reed does know more.