The slam of his office door shook the dust from the old paintings still clinging to the walls of plaster, and the sound of breaking glass confirmed one had lost its battle to hold on. Saint threw yet another folder into his recycling bin before leaning back into his chair and looking up at the stained ceiling. Was he asking too much?
“You send another one packing, boss?” Larry asked as he stuck his head in through the now opened door.
“There has to be one contractor out there who sees my vision for this dump,” Saint groaned. “They want to gut everything.”
Larry walked all the way in and sat on one of the high-back, upholstered chairs from the lounge area. Saint didn’t even know the guy’s last name, but that hadn’t mattered when he’d found Larry sleeping in the corner of his building’s entryway. Larry had needed help and so had Saint. It worked out for both of them. At first, Saint had kept an eye on the young homeless man as he helped around the building, but after two months, Saint had learned to relax a bit. If Larry had intended to steal from him, he would have done it by now.
Saint looked down at his leather-covered hands. The black, fingerless gloves were designed to support and protect his still-healing hands from the wounds that had changed everything. Larry had been indispensable, so Saint had provided him with a room of his own in the back of the building as well as a cash allowance of sorts. Considering Saint paid for all the expenses and food, Larry was pocketing enough to take care of himself without resorting to other means.
“They can’t gut what makes this old building unique. My grandpa used to say there was too much conformity in the world,” Larry answered as he wiped his sweaty, dust-covered face, leaving one clean streak down the side. Saint wasn’t sure where Larry had been raised, but his accent suggested the mid-west.
“Damn straight,” Saint agreed before standing with a soft hiss of pain.
“Your side hurting again?” Larry asked.
There had been three bullets that day. One for each hand and a third through his stomach, tearing a hole in his small intestines that had required over ten hours of surgery to repair.
“It’s not bad.” Short and to the point, Saint refused to talk about his injuries. The quicker he healed, the faster he could put that chapter in his life to rest once and for all.
Larry followed him out of the office Saint had created from the old storage room behind the solid oak bar. He had been surprised no one had ripped it out considering it looked like it dated back to the building’s beginnings. The wood was carved into various palm leaf shapes and covered an entire wall complete with mirrors. There was no way in hell he’d allow someone to destroy it, which was one of the many stupid things the last contractor had suggested.
Saint had to hand it to Larry—the man worked hard. “This room looks so much better without all the debris and broken furniture. Were you able to find room in the dumpster out back?”
“Yep, it’s all ready for pickup. No wasted space.”
“Good job. Are you getting hungry?” Saint asked as he looked down at his watch and discovered it was already early evening. Another day gone and nothing to show for it. Why was finding a general contractor such a pain in the ass? It wasn’t as if he was asking for the Taj Mahal to be rebuilt.
“I can keep going, boss.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Larry looked down at his shoes before mumbling, “I could eat.”
Saint knew the young man was doing everything in his power not to be a bother. Sometimes it seemed as though Larry would make himself as small as possible to avoid attention. Saint had been working on the young man’s confidence, which seemed ironic considering he’d lost his own.
“You need to tell me the truth when I ask you questions. It’s the only way this arrangement is going to work. If I lose track of time, you are free to tell me it’s past supper and that you’re hungry. At least until we can work a small kitchen in here somewhere so you can make whatever you want whenever. Take a shower and we’ll figure out something to eat,” Saint instructed, bringing a smile to Larry’s face before he took off to his room.
Saint had thought to add more to the common space when they’d cleared out the back, or hub, as they began calling it. Their efforts had yielded a space that included a television, couch, his easy chair, a small dining table set, a coffee table, microwave, electric coffeepot, and a small bar fridge.
Looking around, he wished he had more to show for two months’ worth of work, but it wasn’t as if he had much else to do. Sure, he could have stayed in a comfortable hotel while working out the basics of his design concept, but if he was starting a new life, he needed to jump in with both feet.
The buzzer for the front door sounded—another new addition—and Saint changed direction and headed toward the thick wooden doors. He’d hired the Sentinel crew to install a security system in the building. It was worth the small fortune he’d paid for the peace of mind. While a lot of DTLA had been or was in the process of being renovated, there were as many places that were derelict and some were hard-core dangerous. Saint had vowed never to be caught unaware again.
He looked at the monitor embedded into the wall a few feet from the front doors, checking to see who was out there. He flipped the locks and walked out into the waning sunlight. The warm air hit him and he shook his head. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to LA’s climate. Early spring back in New York City would hold the possibility of one last grand snowstorm or two, typically after everyone had removed their snow tires, making traffic worse than usual.
Saint walked the ten feet to the imposing gothic wrought-iron gate that enclosed the front vestibule area of the building. He’d had the gates fixed the day after he’d found Larry sleeping in the entryway. A courier was waiting for him, but instead of opening the nine-foot gate, he simply held out his hand for the man to place the envelope in it.
“Dr. Francis Jeffrey?” The busy street noise and mass of people moving along the sidewalks was almost deafening, and Saint quirked a brow at the kid. He asked the question again and Saint nodded. He was no longer a surgeon and wanted people to address him as mister, but this kid wouldn’t know that.
The kid handed a handheld device through the gate’s bars. “Sign here,” he said in a bored monotone voice. Saint hated this part. Carefully, he took the stylus from the courier and wrapped his fingers as far as he could around the plastic. No matter how hard he tried, he could only make his index finger reach his thumb and scribbled something illegible on the digital pad. When he went to hand back the device, the expression on the kid’s face wasn’t surprising. Saint growled and shoved the pad in the guy’s hands, took the white envelope, and stormed inside before relocking the door.
He wondered if one day it would get better when he saw the shock and pity in their eyes. If the stabbing pain ripping through his heart would ease over time.
“You should have let me get that for you, boss,” Larry said as he came running to the front doors. His hair was still damp but at least he was dressed. All Saint needed was a twenty-something traipsing around in a towel.
He treated Larry as he would his brother Johnny, and made that clear after the one and only time the man had made a pass at him. Saint knew it had to have been tough on the street, and Larry probably assumed there would be a price for Saint’s kindness. It took some reinforcing, but it seemed Larry believed Saint wanted nothing more than an honest day’s work for Larry’s efforts. The fact that he felt responsible for Larry and treated him like Johnny, the brother he’d protected by staying away, was a matter Saint didn’t want to look at too closely.