Right-wing conservative and card-carrying member of the Silent Majority, Francis Scott Key is the shirttail relative of the national anthem's author. A former SEAL and current venture capitalist in Menlo Park, California, Scotty becomes involved with Ali Woo, a beautiful NSA agent. Scotty becomes suspicious when a Berkley grad who developed a way to revolutionize mining goes missing, and localized earthquakes in Canada and Mexico kill their prime minister and president. He teams up with a Royal Canadian Mountie to discover if these natural disasters are truly "natural." Shortly after the deaths of the Mexican and Canadian officials, a cataclysmic 8.8 earthquake takes 242,000 lives in California. Are these events linked? A guessing game ensues as to the real entity pulling US President Rasheed's strings. What is the true motivation to rack up debt to the point of the country's ruination? From San Francisco to D.C., Vancouver, and Cozumel, Mexico, Red House explores in humorously irreverent, gritty detail, the tipping points between treachery, incompetence and ideology against the backdrop of a rich international tapestry of intrigue. Is corruption or narcissistic megalomania driving the bus hurtling the US towards bankruptcy?
RED HOUSE
Fiction. Perhaps.By KENT KILLMERiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Kent Killmer
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-6038-1Chapter One
Menlo Park, California
October 2008
Originally, Francis had no intention of staying that late. As a Menlo Park venture capitalist, he knew God had put hands on the clock for others. Not for him. He did what it took. He did what came next. Deals were his life and his wife, a mistress whose passion knew no bounds. Francis had become a deal junkie. Initially, the transformation was intentional, for the green and for the glory. Now, the process was the cause and he was the effect.
Holding the flaming cedar shard to the end of his seven inch-long, fifty-two ring Ashton Churchill cigar, he rotated the thin, earthen-colored cylinder slowly, first to warm and then to ignite. This action consummated the plural marriage of nicotine, tar and fire, which his mother had warned him repeatedly was so wrong and yet his mouth, nose and palate knew to be oh so right.
Mr. Francis Scott Key—after the Francis Scott Key (a shirttail relative)—was a right wing, conservative, Regan-Constitutionalist who was a card carrying member of the Silent Majority. A man of means, Key was always impeccably dressed while working. Urban legend reported of the time his shirt cuffs' excessively starched razor edged, actually drew blood from his wrists. Although he'd always denied the story, those who knew him saw just a fleeting glint of pleasure in his eyes when the tale was rebuffed. His mouth would draw slightly thinner, his eyes would narrow to a squint and a sardonic smile would appear and then flit away just as quickly.
A master of appearances, deception and distance, Mr. Key allowed few to become acquaintances and no one to become close. When not working, he found comfort sandwiching his apparel and styling in that natty niche between ber-casual and squalor that is best known by young men in their teens and wharf rats.
Late thirties, six feet two, tanned and sinewy, he had maintained the gritty physique acquired from prior years as a Navy SEAL. Arrestingly handsome, he'd honed his craft extracting a small measure of pleasure from each black ops experience. Somewhat self-absorbed, his gait and carriage made him appear more like a short stop than a high-powered executive, with his age just starting to make its appearance in the occasional fine line on his face.
Key's hair was coal black with the obvious exception of the forward leaning My Friend Flicka shock of gray. This appeared as so much frontal festooned plumage, hanging la Elvis, raucously from fatigue, or cantilevered out just slightly over his forehead.
"Don't do it all in one day, Mr. Key," quipped the office janitorette. She whisked behind him brushing her torso ever so gently against his arms—arms linked to hands, which were finger-laced behind his head. The brush was so masterfully slight it could be confusing to the uninitiated as to whether it was deliberate or not.
Key, on the other hand, was anything but uninitiated. He had lost any degree of ambiguity as to her intentions some six brushes ago. Promptly following the veiled touching arrived a wall of aromas—a plaid smorgasbord of odors, which was an elegant blending of Lysol, DDT and the finest perfume offered up on aisle sixteen at the Dollar Store. Her skin was tighter than the surface of an overinflated volleyball. And her eyes were so large they would make Bambi's appear beady. And yet ...
Something isn't there, he thought. Oh yes. It was the ability to initiate and retain a single cogent thought. Yet again. Who cares? He knew a real man wouldn't. In his ill-spent youth, he and his expatriates would do the town, then they'd do the women. After all, it was their due. They were manly men—hairy-chested, meat-eating, trans fat-binging, seegar-smoking, drink-till-you-puke, sport-fucking men. Ah yes. Those were the days. Tie into a bad piece of livestock? Not to worry. Sashay on down to your local OBGY-MEN and a shot of penicillin about the size of a Red Bull would fix that runny nose and any other body parts that might be similarly affected. But now? Now he had likened the current sexual lollapalooza and its buffet of infections to going to Vegas and betting your Johnson at the roulette wheel. He just didn't like the odds.
"Mr. Key?" again questioned the cleaning lady.
"Yes?" said Scotty.
"Should I put the cat out? Or are you commming?" she asked with the guttersnipe flirtatious style consistent with her youth and a HUD housing upbringing.
While all the obvious double entendres raced through Key's mind as to an appropriately testosterone-charged comeback, he responded quietly instead, "No. You go ahead." He did not lift his eyes or his head.
The cigar smoke curled up languidly skyward from the pale green, crystal, octagonal ash tray. The crystal was inset into a thirty-inch-high, wrought iron stand that continued over the top of the glass. It prominently displayed two dogs on their hind legs holding hoops up with their tiny front paws, joined at the apex, as if celebrating the doggie Olympics—perhaps the smoking doggie Olympics. The ash tray had been his grandfather's, then his fathers and ultimately his. The relic was over a hundred years old. The dogs were Scotties.
Still. If her teeth were just a little straighter, she had perhaps just slightly better posture and her blouse's polka dots were just half as large, she might be an appealing onesy in a Daisy Mae Meets the Wolf-Man Behind the File Cabinet kind of way. But then, he mused, he worked there. He'd see her again. Awkward.
And then, there was this whole breath thing. Her breath was registered in three states. It could stop a London Cabbie at full throttle well in advance of a shrill bobby's whistle. He knew that breath anywhere. A fifty-five gallon drum of Listerine, followed up with the white hot cleansing of a small nuclear device could not neutralize that odor.
Key harkened back to his childhood. He recalled the omnipresent goldfish that lived in an opalescent bowl, centered upon a dusty doily on the dark walnut nightstand, right by his bed. Over time, the bowl had etched a small ring into the furniture. The fish had been his little buddies. The bowl's pungent, brown green moss-laden, oppressive odor which wafted heavenward, had the moist night air spiriting it into his nostrils as he slept. It was eerily reminiscent of the cleaning lady's breath. Yes. She had aquarium breath. It was a deal killer.
It has been said that nothing fails like success, as in too much success. Francis, while being acutely aware of this phenomenon, was beginning to become numb from his prior accomplishments. Sometimes he'd form, not so much the words but rather, the concept in his mind: Is this it? Is this all there is? Am I not going to make a difference? A real difference? Am I going to be but a pimple on the buttocks of life? He reflected on the impact his long removed great-great-great-uncle had wrought on the national stage with the anthem. Pretty cool. He wanted to do some good as well, to effect something bigger than himself. To be remembered.
He found he was staring into his computer screen with the look of a walleye who'd just been introduced to a fisherman's mallet. Sometimes, he'd fantasize about being physically pulled into the screen—going into a world where he would make a difference on a grander stage. The thought intrigued him.
Whaaap! The office door...
