The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

"For someone looking for a job, you got a lot of nerve, punk," the grunt said. He took a threatening step toward Dak with the obvious intention of attempting to cause physical harm, or at the very least, toss him out of the establishment.

Dak didn't move. His heartbeat remained steady.

"That's fine," he said. "I didn't realize you made the managerial decisions here. I guess I'll just be on my way."

"That's probably a good idea," Tank Top replied. "And I'll be happy to show you out."

The man reached down to grab Dak by the arm. Within a split second, Dak snatched the man's wrist and jerked the muscular arm down while picking up a fork and driving it straight at a vulnerable throat. He stopped at the precise moment the prongs touched flesh.

The guard's eyes erupted with fury, but he couldn't move, he didn't dare.

Dak felt the man's strength. The guy looked the type who spent hours every day at the gym, lifting the heaviest weights possible. Keeping him from backing away took every ounce of strength Dak could muster, but the fork at the man's neck certainly helped.

"I just wanted to ask Bert about a job," Dak said. "There's no reason anyone should get hurt."

"Let him go," a new voice spoke from the doorway. It was the same accented voice from before.

Dak turned his head and looked at the man standing between him and the retreating bartender. His long, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that lapped over the top of his back. Streaks of gray in it and his matching beard betrayed an age probably in his mid to late fifties. Bert wore a light blue button-up shirt and faded beige linen pants with brown leather flip-flops.

"You're looking for a job?" Bert asked. "You don't look like the kind of guy who wants to wash dishes."

Dak chuckled. "You'd be surprised." He let go of the guard and the man stumbled back. Rage burned in his eyes.

"Deno," Bert said. "Get a couple of drinks for us. I'm curious to hear what kind of work this man is looking for."

Deno's right eye twitched. A vein pulsed on his tanned forehead and two more raised under the skin of his neck. "Yes, sir."

The guard turned reluctantly and walked over to the bar.

Bert smiled at Dak. It was a humble gesture, but also one a boa constrictor might give a mouse just before wrapping its body around the unsuspecting prey.

He motioned to the open door. "By all means, please come in. We shouldn't disturb my customers."

Dak nodded, downed the rest of his beer, and stood. "Much obliged."

Ten

Miami

Dak followed Bert into his office. The mere fact the bookie turned his back to Dak either showed a lack of awareness or the absence of fear.

Deno followed them in with two tumblers, each with a couple of fingers of whiskey sloshing around.

"Please, have a seat." Bert motioned to a vinyl chair with metal arms. There was a second one just like it a few feet away. They were the kind of chairs you'd see in a used car dealership or the waiting room of a doctor's office.

The office looked as Dak expected; a gray leather couch against the back wall, facing a television hanging from the opposite corner. An open door led into a small, private bathroom. To the right, a metal relic from the 1980s served as a desk.

Bert slumped down into a deep red, high back leather chair. It was the only furniture in the room that possessed the slightest hint of taste.

Deno set the drinks down on the desk, one in front of his boss and the other on the edge closest to Dak. He didn't say anything, but the twisted scowl on his face expressed his displeasure at having to serve the stranger. He backed away and slinked into the other chair like a pouting child.

"So," Bert said, throwing his hands up in the air, "what kind of work are you looking for? I assume you're not inquiring about a dishwashing position."

"Not exactly," Dak said. "I've already done that gig."

Bert let out a short chortle. "You don't strike me as the dishwasher type."

"A guy has to do whatever he can to get by."

The boss sized him up, eyeing him for several seconds before speaking again. "Indeed. So, what is it you want? I don't need bartenders or servers either if that's what you were thinking. But something tells me it isn't. You looking to gamble?"

"Not quite."

"Yeah, I thought that wasn't the case either. But you know about my operation." It wasn't a question.

"I do."

Bert nodded, "I don't suppose you'll tell me how you know about it. So, if you're not going to place a bet and you're not here to do regular work, am I to assume you're looking for a job as part of my security?"

"You're getting closer. But I'm not here for a job." Dak put the confession out on the table and waited to see how the man would respond. He could easily take it as a threat, but no fear streaked through Bert's eyes, no confusion cluttered his lips.

"There it is," he said. "But if you were a cop, you'd already be taking me outside or maybe trying to make a deal with me."

"Definitely not a cop," Dak offered. "I'm here to help you."

The Puerto Rican laughed again, this time a huge bellow. He looked over at Deno as he continued to laugh and the New Yorker joined in with an uncomfortable chuckle.

"Help me?" Bert said amid the laughter. "What are you going to help me with?"

"I'm going to keep someone from robbing and killing you."

The display slowly died as Bert stared at the visitor. The room descended into silence and the boss wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, drying tears that dribbled down his cheeks.

"Who is going to try to kill me? I'm not sure if you noticed, but that's what I have Deno for. Not to mention a crew of