Man in the Middle Read Online Free PDF Page A

a mile or two away, and, in a weekly show, Drucker liked to waltz in and order fifty bucks’ worth of gourmet-to-go as if he were at Mickey D’s. He drank only expensive booze, Starbucks’ double tall cappuccinos from the nearest joint two blocks away, and got laid at least twice a week, even if he had to pay for it. Los Angeles wasn’t such a bad place to live so long as you had enough dough to afford the good life, and he did. And he planned to have a lot more as he began to publicize his investment success to some of the rich cats in Beverly Hills. With almost no overhead—a small office, some equipment paid for by the brokers he sent business to, and a secretary who made minimum wage plus a buck—he would be raking in a couple mil per year in the not too distant future. Not bad, he thought, for a guy who went to J. C., and then to Chico State, where he amassed a whopping C-minus GPA. No sir, not bad at all. He deserved to feel like king of the damn hill.
    And he lived such an easy life. Except for the inquisition by that anal compulsive government prick last week, there were few problems. Managing a portion of Stenman Partners’ money was a godsend. Most of the time, Morgan Stenman’s people even told him what to buy and what to sell. Money flowed in, Stanley put it to work, and charged the partnership 1% of assets under management per year. Stenman, in turn, charged back to clients that 1% and a hefty percent of profits. Since Stenman had near perfect insight and returned ungodly profits to investors, nobody minded the big fees. Everybody felt happy as pigs in shit, especially Stanley “King-of-the-Damn-Hill ” Drucker.
    A heavy knock on his front door shook Drucker back to the present. He rose from his chair and stood six feet from the solid wood door. He reflexively looked to the clock on the wall: five minutes after nine. Since the bitch had left him, he never had uninvited guests on Saturdays. This was his time to sit back, drink, watch a day of sports, and go bar hopping at night, looking to get lucky. That was the routine. If this was a door-to-door salesman, maybe he’d just kick the damn salesman’s ass.
    Drucker took a quick shot of scotch, then grunted, “Who’s there?”
    Instead of an answer, the door slammed open. The bolt ripped from its screws and wood splinters flew like darts. In a reflex, Drucker flung his hands over his face at the same moment his kidneys weakened.
    An enormous man, six-foot-two and at least two hundred and fifty dense pounds, cast an impressive shadow. He wore his hair in a thin ponytail and had a flattened nose, seemingly without cartilage. After he stepped in, a much smaller man with the face of a damaged ferret followed. An ugly grimace pulled the second man’s upper lip into a sneer, revealing polished, even teeth. Drucker guessed he was Mexican. Both wore tailored suits with open jackets and handguns strapped to their chests. Behind them a woman followed. The two men parted, looking like uneven pillars, allowing her to take center stage.
    Through full lips, she said, “My name is Sarah Guzman. These two gentlemen are my associates. You are a loose end.”
    Loose end? Her words made no sense. Neither did the name Guzman—no way this woman was Spanish or Mexican. If she had a single feature that wasn’t Anglo-Saxon, Drucker couldn’t find it, and he stared hard enough to notice. For once, Drucker wished his house had fewer trees and less brush. In fact, he’d have happily allowed every one of LA’s four million miserable losers to see into his yard, to witness this criminal act of breaking and entering. While his mind raced to figure things out, he kept asking himself what if . What if these men elected to pull their guns and use his head as a bull’s eye? Nobody would care. In LA, people minded their own business. What a horse-shit city. Help , he wanted to scream, but the word had no voice.
    “I am from Ensenada Partners. You know us?” the woman asked,