Death in the Saddle, Ch 2

At his ornate oversized desk, Peter Bruxton sat with a phone in one hand and a smoking panatela in the other. Looking up, he saw his new secretary at his door. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, he said, “Come in, come in,” then leaning back in his tall leather chair, he signaled for her to sit down. He put up his index finger, denoting a moment longer on the phone, then placed the phone closer to his mouth and shouted, “Bullshit! Call in those mortgage payments now. I’m not running a fucking credit bureau—that’s right, if they can’t pay, we’re repossessing. They bought quick enough at sub-prime rates. No more extended payments.” The phone was slammed onto the cradle as he looked at the young woman seated opposite his desk. He made a quick assessment of the exotic beauty. “Now, what do you want?” He flicked the cigar ash into a tray. Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 2”