Climbing the Ladder

McPherson took a satisfied drag from his newly lit cigarette before getting out of the driver’s seat. Despite the fact that the three girls he transported here wore black, he admired the alluring view as they walked to join the crowd waiting outside the church.

Sex on legs. Sex for hire. Sex that he obtained for himself when the time was right. Risky because it was against the business rules, but so very worth it. And not one of them, so far, had dared try to get him in trouble. They probably enjoyed it though they pretended to resist. He knew they secretly wanted him despite the mixed messages. How could they possibly not?

When he emerged from the sleek black car, he made sure all four doors were locked before pocketing his keys. The last thing he wanted was for someone to hotwire his pride and joy while the priest was droning on during the funeral service. The car legally belonged to him, after all, though the business paid for it. Transporting various girls to and from their hookups at every hour of the day and night, he sometimes nearly lived on these wheels.

McPherson let smoke stream from his nostrils, watching with resentful envy as the red Pontiac Firebird rolled smoothly to a halt. The latest car acquired by the big boss was exactly what he wanted to own. So far, no opportunity had arisen for him to even drive the vehicle, but he would, he promised himself that. He was a rising star in the business even if nobody had much acknowledged his ambition yet. He was going places.

As he watched the tall man get out of the vehicle, he wished the driver was only a chauffeur. He could easily have replaced him. But no, the Brit was second in command, sometimes temporarily top dog if the boss travelled to Frisco alone.

Alone. He sneered, thinking of how often Dispatch instructed him to deliver a girl or two to that luxury condominium where the boss lived or picked them up again to transport them back to turning tricks for punters which was more the natural order of things.

He sauntered over to mingle with the girls, smiling as he thought of his plan then turning his expression neutral again as he remembered why they were all here. He would have to be careful. He knew a driver wasn’t meant to enjoy the merchandise, but rules never got in his way if he wanted something.

None of the girls looked their best in black. The lack of colour made their faces paler—and, yes, he thought they were wearing less makeup than usual. He guessed that was out of respect. He had never met the dead man so didn’t know why everyone in the business was here. Not an enforcer, not a driver, not even a dispatcher.

Maybe there was some San Francisco connection? He would dig a bit, discretely, and find out. He liked to be in the know about everything, so important for climbing the ladder. Especially if he dug up any dirt that someone didn’t want others to find out.

“No smoking,” the biggest of the enforcers said, glaring down at him.

McPherson stared back with as much insolence as he could muster but then, considering this was not the time or place to pick a fight, he took one last puff and resisted the impulse to blow the smoke into the idiot’s frowning face. He bent to rub the ash off on the sidewalk and pocketed the half-smoked cigarette for later.

Being an enforcer would be his first step up the ladder. The hours he spent keeping himself fighting fit would not be wasted. He would miss the sleek black car, but welcome the chance to unleash his aggression. Pummelling a punching bag, no matter who he imagined it to be, was not the same.

His targets would never know what hit them, underestimating what he could do because he wasn’t a big hulk of a guy. Height was not everything.

Plenty famous men in history had other advantages than height. Hitler wasn’t particularly tall and look what he accomplished, though for some reason most people considered him to be a villain. But that’s what happens when the victors write the history books. He knew not to voice his opinions sometimes, despite them being one hundred and ten percent valid.

He zoned out during the funeral service. Nothing interesting to listen to or look at. Besides, he needed to rest his brain sometimes, not keep it at full rev constantly. No point in wearing his brain cells out when he could idle for a while.

McPherson stood and sat down when everyone else did, but didn’t bother to kneel and, of course, didn’t line up to participate in getting communion. He turned his erupting laugh into a cough when a few people from the business walked toward the altar. He guessed that other driver might not be much of a sinner, but the big enforcer who had interrupted his quick smoke and the girls who sashayed into line all must be. The priest must be stupid not to recognise this and reject them.

Which girl told him about a hooker washing the feet of Jesus and then using her long hair to dry them? Disturbed by the image this brought to mind, he couldn’t recall, but he was willing to bet it wouldn’t be in the Bible, though she pretended to know which chapter and verse it was. He couldn’t pick her out among those that returned from getting the supposed sacrament, but having the girls in his car all the time, they did tend to blur in his mind.

Annoyingly, three different girls turned up for the drive to the graveyard. He knew who he was assigned and didn’t usually tolerate misbehaviour. Looking around, he didn’t see his three, so since the next destination was only the graveyard, he didn’t say anything. Must be because these three couldn’t resist him, of course. He had not had the chance to get better acquainted with any of them yet, but he never rushed, liked to plan things out in detail.

The funeral itself was boring, the same priest spouting more drivel. The only good bit was when the daughter almost fell into the grave when she was scattering earth over the coffin. Must be her brother who caught hold of her. None of the girls who worked for the business was allowed a boyfriend. Besides they’d all be too busy to satisfy a lover.

He grinned, then sobered his face to match everyone else’s expressions. Giving her the once over, he didn’t find her that attractive but, given the opportunity, he would add her to his conquests.

When the funeral was finally over, McPherson walked back to the sleek black car feeling restless. He unlocked all four doors and stood waiting near the vehicle, arms crossed over his chest, prepared to object if any of the wrong girls dared to approach.

Gratified when the correct three made their way over but annoyed that not one of them met his gaze, he supposed the sad occasion must have affected their mood. Females were more susceptible to such things. As a man, he took somebody else’s death as a sign that he needed to live life faster and more furiously, not let anyone or anything get in his way.

McPherson settled in the driving seat and fired up the engine, determined to be the first driver to get to the nightclub where the wake would be held.

Putting the pedal to the metal was one of his many skills even in an urban environment with the need to avoid the attention of any patrolling police. He would have liked to be a race car driver but pursuing that ambition needed a lot of money or a generous backer. Besides, it was far too legitimate to appeal to his tastes. If he wanted to make an honest buck, he could have stayed in Florida and slaved away in the family business alongside his brothers.

The two girls in the backseat were talking too quietly for him to hear, which annoyed him, but a side glance at the hottest one sat next to him reminded him of his plan. When he felt it was the right time to leave the wake, he would drop the other two off first, then drive her to a much more interesting destination than she expected. He had filled the tank this morning in anticipation.

When McPherson walked into the Western-themed nightclub ahead of all the other drivers, he felt like he was coming home. He rarely bothered going anywhere else except the strip club, but that was for watching not talking. Sometimes he paid for some private time though it went against the grain to spend money on what he could get for free.

Before knocking back his first drink, he raised his glass to the larger than life-size photograph of John Wayne though not so obviously that anybody else would notice. Important to keep his lucky habits unobserved. The famous actor understood, one tough hombre to another, and would not give the game away by talking. They saved that for when they rode out together in his dreams which were not spoiled by the fact that he had never ridden a horse in his life.

As the nightclub filled up and the noise level increased, McPherson was pleased to catch sight of a girl who was definitely up near the top of his list with her sexy voice and feisty attitude. He liked her East Coast accent, too.  

He put some swagger into his step as he walked over. “You looked great in that cowgirl outfit,” he told her. “You can ride my bucking bronco any time.”

She gave him a scornful look and turned away, but he knew that was all pretence. Sooner or later, the bitch would be giving him everything he wanted and telling him how much better he was than the big boss.