Free Dead Roots (The Analyst) by Brian Geoffrey Wood Page B

after paying his cab fare. He stepped out of the car looking sullen and seemed to make no effort to shield himself from the biting rain. It set Tom on edge, seeing him so placid and accommodating about everything. Doesn’t anything bother him? Doesn’t he have a personality of his own?
    “Harold is in the penthouse on the top floor,” Keda said over the roar of the crushing rain hitting the sidewalk. He waited for Tom to start walking inside before following.
    “Fuck heights,” Tom said brusquely.
    “Yeah. Not a fan,” Artie added.
    “This shouldn't take long,” Keda assured them. They stepped into a small parlor, with a glass door separating them from a row of elevators. On the wall was a set of buzzers and an intercom. Keda pushed one of the buttons and waited.
    “Moshi moshi?” A deep, clear voice sounded from the intercom.
    “Mr. Saldana?”
    “Keda… Come right up, I can't wait.”
    There was a soft click from the glass door. Keda pushed it open and his companions followed.
    “Guy must love his work,” Tom said with a smirk.
    “I believe he's looking forward to afterwards.”
    They stepped into one of the elevators. The ride was taken in silence. Tom watched the numbers above the door rising from one to two, five to ten, ten to twenty, then finally to the twenty-fourth floor. He shook himself, and tried not to think too hard about the sheer amount of space beneath him as he stepped out of the elevator into a wooden-walled hallway. There was a single door in the middle of the hall. They approached and Keda gave a sharp knock, and waited.
    The door opened. Tom could not see inside the apartment for the man in the doorway. Harold looked like a prizefighter who had traded in his gloves for a career at Wall Street.  He was a tall Caucasian man, taller than any of the three of them, with wide shoulders and a visibly toned physique. He had to have been a solid six and a half, even seven feet tall. His blonde hair was cropped short. His handsome facial features were marred by a bent nose and a cauliflower ear, as well as some faint scars across his cheeks. The image was completed by a meaty neck, framed by the sharp collar of a light blue dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A glass of brown liquor on the rocks was resting comfortably in one hand.
    “Shinichiro,” the man said smoothly and slowly. He took a sip of his whiskey and broke into a wide, flawless smile. A thick hand clapped onto Keda's shoulder genially. “I'm honored to see you again.”
    “I, as well, Mr. Saldana.”
    “For the hundredth time, call me Harold, for fuck's sake,” Saldana said with a laugh. “It's terribly rude to be so formal after this long, don't you agree?”
    “I suppose so, Harold.”
    “And these are?” He turned his attention to Tom and Artie.
    “Tom Bell,” Tom said quickly, outstretching his hand. Saldana shook it. Tom was surprised, expecting a grip like a vise, but instead Harold's gesture was deceptively gentle. He must have been holding back.
    “Artie,” Tom’s companion added. Artie clapped his palm into Harold's sideways. Harold seemed to catch on quickly with a flash of a grin. The pair shared a friendly embrace as if arm wrestling in mid-air.
    “Harold Saldana,” Harold added, redundantly. He took several steps back into the doorway. “Please, come inside. I have a wonderful evening planned for us.”
    “Sounds sexy,” said Artie with a guffaw. Harold beamed. Tom grunted. These two are going to get along fine.
    They stepped into the penthouse. Tom drank in a very traditional-- and very expensive-looking-- Japanese-style living quarters. The walls were all wooden. The sliding door out onto the balcony was all frosted white glass framed in wood, in the style of fusuma sliding doors. Sharp, erratic jazz music was stabbing through the air from a large stereo system, saxophones and trumpets playing frantic solos, in contrast to the mellow Miles Davis stuff Tom was used to. Artie gave