Shelter Read Online Free PDF Page B

they were mowing lawns and trimming shrubs. Sam had told his wife that he was going to work construction for his old pal Sean. Carlos had waited, hesitated, and had kept hold of his landscaping and bar jobs, but he’d succumbed to the lure. Or, more accurately, had tried to please his cousin.
                  Sean was the reason they’d been in the stairwell of a foreclosed commercial building in Atlanta the day Sam had been shot. Sean’s product had been the point of contention with the shooter. And poor Alma had no idea she’d lost her husband over a drug deal gone bad. The morose, damaged brunette was heavy on Carlos’s mind as he swiveled back and forth in his chair and waited for Sean to get off the phone with whoever he was talking with.
                  “…nah, we’re good. I can get you in to see the property tomorrow. Sure. Absolutely, bro.” If Carlos was living the cliché life of a Puerto Rican landscaper with minimal income, Sean was doing the polar opposite. He had the cultivated air of a black man doing very well for himself without any need to demonstrate that to the public in a flashy, obnoxious sort of way. Tall and lean and still in ball-playing shape, he always looked like he’d stepped out of a catalogue in pressed shirts and tastefully patterned ties. Rolex. Gucci belt. Stainless steel and glass office full of the latest computer technology. Caddy in the parking lot of his rented business condo. He looked every inch the successful Fulton county real estate agent, and nothing like the man who supplied yuppie kids and suburban dumbasses with all their chemical needs.
                  The charade was elaborate, and the paper trail doubtless reflected a legitimate agency. Carlos had wondered how that could be worth it; wouldn’t it be easier to sell on the fly out of the back of a car? But Sean had said that the big fish didn’t want to buy from small time thugs. Corporate types wanted corporate-type dealers. Which was why Mr. Taylor was so hugely successful.
                  Save for that whole getting Sam killed thing.
                  “Carlos,” he greeted, finally, as he disconnected his cell and set it on his desk. “Guess you got my message?”
                  He nodded and kept swiveling the chair back and forth, not really wanting to make eye contact.
                  “My buyer wants to have a rep meet you some time
    after - ”
                  “I’m busy,” he blurted, not waiting for the full request. Something akin to panic was pressing on his chest, flight was winning out over fight, and he was filled with the unshakeable knowledge that he couldn’t do this anymore.
                  He’d never showed resistance like this to Sean – at least not to his face – so the dealer looked truly taken aback, though he masked it well, linking his hands together as he leaned back in his chair. “You gonna let me finish?” His tone was polite, which was more frightening than if he’d reacted with anger.
                  Carlos didn’t answer.
                  “You runnin’ scared now?”
                  He dropped his eyes.
                  “I know it was hard losin’ Sam, I do. I know that.”
                  Carlos swallowed the lump in his throat. “He was like my brother,” he said and Sean’s eyes stayed flat, face expressionless; he already knew that. “We were just supposed to be pushin’ some blow for you and then…” his voice shook. “I couldn’t even tell Alma the truth - ”
                  “Alma? His wife?” Sean frowned in a knowing sort of way. “So it’s not just about Sam, huh?”
                  He realized too late that he’d brought up Alma when he shouldn’t. Now Sean knew. “I…I don’t wanna hurt her anymore,” he said,