Free A Dangerous Game by Rick R. Reed

business card, praying to himself that fate would intervene and yank the choice he was contemplating out of his hands, but his fingers closed around the piece of cardboard in short order, after moving aside just a few articles of clothing.
    It had sunk to the bottom of the bag.
    Much like I am sinking to the bottom , Wren thought.
    He stared at the card for a long time. Whole minutes passed, and then he pulled out his phone and punched in the digits.
    Mr. Davidson Chillingsworth answered on the second ring. His voice had the careful modulation of a news anchor. His demeanor, telegraphed through the phone, was polite, deferential, and businesslike. The aural image he presented did not jibe with the word “pimp.”
    “Davidson Chillingsworth here. How may I be of assistance?”
    Wren rolled his eyes. A voice within instructed him to just hang up, but another voice reasoned that these days, there was no such thing—almost—as an anonymous call. He knew that when he spoke he would be sealing his fate, even though at this point, he was telling himself he was just “checking things out.”
    “Hey, Dave. It’s Wren Gallagher. We met on Friday—at Tricks?”
    “Wren! Of course. I was hoping you’d phone.”

Chapter Seven
     
     
    WREN TOLD himself that by meeting with Dave, he was simply exploring his options. He didn’t have to actually decide anything today, and he certainly would not feel compelled to do anything he didn’t want to do.
    These were the kinds of things he was thinking as he left the “L” station at Belmont and headed eastbound down the street at eleven forty-five. The street, now that rush hour had passed and the evening revelers who tended to clog it were probably still asleep, was relatively quiet.
    Heat fairly shimmered up from the dirty concrete, and in the air was the smell of exhaust fumes, garbage, and underneath it all, a briny, fishy smell—Lake Michigan, just a few blocks away. The “L” train rumbled behind him as it pulled out of the station.
    It was another beautiful, sunny summer morning in the city. Already the white button-down shirt clung to Wren’s back and the jeans he wore felt too heavy and warm for the day, as though they weighed twenty pounds or more.
    Wren noticed all these things because he felt like he was on a precipice, a line of demarcation, that his life was about to change from one phase to the next. His conscious mind told him that the lunch appointment he had set up with Dave was nothing more than two guys getting together for a bite to eat and to talk. That same voice nattered on about how nothing would change unless Wren wanted it to and that he—or his soul—was in no danger by meeting with the redoubtable Mr. Chillingsworth.
    But his subconscious was more like instinct, Wren’s id as opposed to his ego. That being, or whatever it was, didn’t speak in a clear voice, didn’t make its wants known through words but through feelings. And Wren had the feeling his life was changing, and even though he thought what Dave had to offer would be a bad choice, a choice he would regret, he also knew it was better than what he had right now.
    What he had right now was nothing.
    Dave had suggested they meet at a little Greek diner just south on Broadway, a few doors down from Tricks. Wren knew the place. It was open twenty-four hours, and he and his friends had often wandered into the spot for omelets or burgers after a night of imbibing. It would be kind of interesting to see what the place was like during the day.
    The air conditioning in Venus’s Café hit him like a blessing as soon as he walked through the plate glass door. Inside it was hard to see after the sun’s brilliant light he had just left behind. He could make out a woman behind the counter. She had a shock of black hair, dark eyes, and a big, comforting bosom. Her face was welcoming as she took in Wren from behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses. Not stopping her task of wiping down the counter, she said,