Chapter Three

Jarvis pulled into the driveway on a tree-lined street in Brentwood. The house was dark, mimicking all the others. Motion-activated floodlights flicked on as he stopped at the front door halfway around the circular drive. Jarvis cut the engine and pressed a button on his phone. The ringing reverberated over the car’s speakers. Half a dozen times before a groggy male voice replaced the ringing.

 

“What? Yes, hello? Who is this?”

 

“It’s Jarvis. I’m out front.” The sound of sheets rustling came over the line, then an incoherent woman’s voice mumbling something.

 

“Nothing, shhh, dear. Go back to sleep,” in a whisper.

 

Jarvis disconnected just as the young man in the back started to moan in emotional agony. Jarvis ignored him and waited. The front door opened as a hallway light clicked on behind the figure. Robe open, large belly protruding, the man was almost as wide as he was tall. Olive skin absorbed the light from the outside lamps. He gestured quickly, angrily, furtively toward the car. Jarvis got out and opened the back door, pulling his passenger out with a handful of shirt. The only sounds the previously obstreperous young man made was a snort that hovered between contempt and fear.

 

One hand on his charge, the other carrying the twisted bag filled with pharmaceuticals, Jarvis dragged both to the front door. The father opened it wide and ushered them in. The look on his face was of fury waiting to be unleashed. His mouth trembled and he was unable to speak. He pointed to the living room off to the right, enveloped in darkness. The size of the house from the outside promised rooms further back from which sounds would not escape. Jarvis pushed the son in that direction but did not follow. The son was breathing heavily now, dried blood on his face. Shame and indignation battled; the former won. The father looked ready to explode and in the momentary silence that balanced the three men, he gave in to his rage and slapped his son hard and solidly across the face. The retort was like a shot and the son was surprised and broken.

 

Jarvis watched without reaction. “Here. It’s mostly narcotics. Some meth makings.” He tossed the bag onto the floor between the father and son. “Don’t rough him up too much. He wasn’t born an asshole.”

 

It was the father’s turn to register indignation. Jarvis ignored it. “I used about $3500 of the retainer. I’ll send you a bill for the balance.”

 

Jarvis left through the front door, his walk to the car triggering the outside floodlights again. He heard the urgent, hushed tirade begin as the door closed off the sounds from the house. With his back to his client, his mind was on home and an hour of sleep before starting again.