Wet Work - A Greg Kelton Short Story

Wet Work

A Kelton Short Story

By Brian Springer

Copyright 2011 Brian Springer

Smashwords
Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
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ALSO BY BRIAN SPRINGER

Featuring Greg Kelton

Blood Money

Black Days (forthcoming)

Featuring Thomas Highway

Broken Highway

Highway to Vengeance

The Serial Killer Journals

Volume One: Stain of Mind

Author’s note:

This story takes place before the
events of Blood Money. For those of you who have already read Blood
Money, hopefully this story will fill in a few blanks. For those of
you who haven’t, hopefully you’ll enjoy this story enough to check
it out. But if not, that’s okay too. Either way I’d like to hear
what you think about it. Feel free to drop me a line at
www.brianspringer.com
or come find me on Facebook at
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002203162372

1

Greg Kelton headed towards the front doors
of the Hoover branch of the San Diego Public Library, stopping only
to hang the clipboard on the wall of the walk-in supply closet
before walking out into the cool San Diego night.

After locking the doors behind him, Kelton
closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. It was amazing
how wonderful the salt-tinged air tasted after having spent the
last six hours working exclusively with bleach and lemon-scent
disinfectant.

Not that he minded cleaning bathrooms and
mopping floors. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The monotony and brainless nature of the
work allowed his mind to wander freely without affecting his
performance. In almost every way, being a janitor was the exact
opposite of his other life, which is one of the main reasons why he
had sought out the job in the first place. Well, that and the
fringe benefits. Which mostly consisted of being around books all
the time.

Kelton lived two miles from the library, and
he walked to and from work every day. His shift ended at midnight,
and while that was prime party time in certain parts of downtown
San Diego, in Kelton’s neighborhood, the streets were usually
empty.

Tonight was an exception.

Kelton was scarcely out of the library when
he spotted four young men huddled next to a ‘61 Ford Mustang parked
at the curb directly in front of him.

Unlike the street-wise predators that Kelton
saw on a regular basis in this part of the city, these four young
men lacked the animal instincts that could discern predator from
prey. They were simply young men who believed in the strength of
numbers and the invincibility of their youth.

They had absolutely no clue what they were
dealing with.

One of the young men said, “Henry, here he
comes,” in a harsh whisper and pointed at Kelton.

The one in the center of the group—Henry, no
doubt—looked up and began to saunter forward, smiling benignly, as
though he recognized Kelton. He was two steps ahead of the other
three, who had begun to fan out behind their fearless leader.

“
Hey man,” Henry called out into the
warm, windless night. “You got a light?”

Kelton didn’t answer. He didn’t even
acknowledge Henry. He was too busy sizing up the young man. He
didn’t bother worrying about the other three.

Henry was four inches shorter than Kelton,
but he weighed at least forty pounds more. He had a shaved head and
a perfectly trimmed goatee. His shirt read LIMP BIZKIT and the
cuffs of his jeans covered the tops of his Doc Martens.

“
You got a hearing problem, buddy?”
Henry said, his smile growing wider with every word.

Whispers and barely suppressed laughter
escaped from the mouths of his three cronies.

Kelton held his ground as Henry came to
within two feet of where he stood.

“
Fuckin-A pal,” Henry said, smiling no
more. “You better answer me or you’re gonna get hurt.”

Kelton let his cold stare wander from Henry
to the other three, pausing to lock onto each one’s eyes for just a
second before returning to Henry. “You have no idea what hurt is,
kid.”

Henry returned the stare. “Is that
right?”

“
Yes,” Kelton said. “It
is.”

Henry laughed and reached behind his back,
but before he could bring his arm forward, Kelton stepped towards
him, brought his right hand up and grasped Henry’s throat.

Henry’s three friends took a collective step
forward. Kelton shot them each a glance and very calmly said, “Back
the fuck off.”

One by one, each of them took a few steps
back.

Henry also tried to take a step back,
forcing Kelton to squeeze his thumb and forefinger together,
tightening his grip on Henry’s larynx. A soft gurgling sound came
from the young man’s mouth.

“
Not a good idea,” Kelton said. “Now
show me your hands. Slowly. And leave whatever you were grabbing
for in your waistband behind your back.”

Henry’s throat clicked as he attempted to
swallow. He brought his empty hands to a position in front of his
chest, palms out. He was breathing in ragged spurts and his face
was a dark shade of crimson. His eyes held equal parts fear and
hatred.

Kelton relaxed the pressure slightly but
didn’t release his grip. He reached around Henry’s waist with his
free hand. With a quick tug, he pulled a six-inch SpyderCo knife
with a serrated edge from the waist of Henry’s sagging jeans and
tossed it on the roof of the library.

Kelton was just about to release Henry
without harming him further when he felt the young man’s body tense
in anticipation of some sort of an attack.

Shaking his head slightly, Kelton released
Henry’s throat and kicked him in front of the knee with the tip of
his heavy work boot. Henry’s upper body leaned forward just a bit,
and Kelton hit him in the center of the chest with a closed
fist.

Henry stumbled backwards a few steps before
slamming into the side of his car. He sat down heavily and held an
arm to his chest. He had a pained look on his face that grew more
intense every time he took a breath.

Kelton waited to see what Henry’s cronies
would do before making his next move. After a few seconds of
silently glancing at one another, one of the three kids turned and
walked over to Henry. The other two soon followed. Kelton relaxed
his guard.

Kelton held his ground as the three friends
helped Henry into the car and sped off, shouting curses as they
left. Only after they disappeared around the corner did he turn and
start walking.

2

Kelton stopped at his regular haunt, a bar
called The Garage, for a couple of drinks before heading back home.
The place was nearly empty, as usual, with just a couple of locals
minding their own business at the bar, drowning away their sorrows.
Kelton ordered a pitcher of Guinness and headed for a table near
the rear of the bar, right next to the emergency exit, giving him a
clear view of the entire room. He didn’t expect any trouble but had
long ago conditioned himself to not take any unnecessary
chances.

Kelton had just started on his first glass
of beer when an unfamiliar man dressed in an expensive suit stepped
into the bar and headed back towards Kelton without so much as a
pause. He was smoking a cigarette and carrying himself as though he
had a specific purpose in mind. His haggard, wrinkled face pegged
him at around 65 years old but he carried himself like a much
younger man. And his eyes shone like those of a teenager, full of
mischief, like you were the punchline of some joke only he
knew.

Kelton just sat there, instinctively
knowing that the man was here to see him. He wasn’t concerned—there
was no threatening vibes coming from the old man—but he
was
curious. He wasn’t a man that
got approached often, and never without a legitimate
reason.

The old man took one final hit of his
cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and stepped on it. He blew the
smoke out and covered the final couple of steps to Kelton’s
table.

“
Hello,” the old man said pleasantly.
“How are you doing tonight?”

“
Better than you,” Kelton said, not
missing a beat. It was his standard greeting whenever someone asked
him that question. Normally it was someone he already knew. But he
saw no need to change things up just because he was talking to a
stranger.

Walter looked glanced at the surroundings.
“Oh, I beg to differ.”

“
Beg all you want,” Kelton said. “It
won’t change anything.”

The old man laughed.

“
What’s so funny?” Kelton
said.

“
You are, Mr. Kelton. I mean, I’d
heard you were a bit of a callous man, but to be able to pull an
exchange like that off so adroitly . . . I must say I’m impressed.
And that doesn’t happen often, I assure you.”

Kelton felt a tickle of concern that the old
man knew his name but didn’t let it show. There was no reason to
admit weakness. Ever. Better to feign strength. Or at least
belligerence. “Who are you and what do you want from me?”

“
My name is Walter and I would like to
inquire as to your availability to do a job. A specific type of
job. One that you specialize in.”

“
I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” Kelton said. “I’m just a janitor.”

This comment drew another laugh from the old
man. “A janitor, yes. I forgot. Over at the Hoover branch of the
San Diego Public Library, right?”

More specifics. The old man had done his
research, that much was certain. Kelton wasn’t sure how that made
him feel.

“
I’ll take your silence as assent,”
Walter said. “And what about little thing you do on the
side?”

“
What little thing is
that?”

“
The one where you take money to do
things that other people don’t want to do.”

“
You must have me confused with
someone else,” Kelton said.

Walter smiled. “I don’t think so. Not after
how you handled those kids outside the library. No, I’m pretty sure
I know exactly who you are.”

Kelton eyed him carefully. “How’d you know
about that?”

“
I watched the whole exchange. You
handled it expertly. Nice and smooth, without using too much force.
Just what I was hoping for.”

“
Are you saying that you put those
punks onto me?”

Walter smiled like a kid caught stealing
cookies from the cupboard.

“
What the hell for?” Kelton
said.

“
To see your skills in action,” Walter
said. “I wanted to see for myself if you were the right man for the
job.”

Kelton scoffed. “A hell of a way to find
out. What if things went wrong?”

“
From what I’d heard of you, I knew
they wouldn’t.”

“
And if what you’d heard was
wrong?”

Walter shrugged. “Then you wouldn’t have
been the right man for the job anyway.”

Kelton drank from his beer and turned his
attention to the old-school jukebox on the far side of the bar,
where one of the regulars was typing in a number. A few seconds
later the twangy, strangled sounds of what passed for modern
country music started leaking out of the speakers, adding to
Kelton’s frustration.

He sighed and shifted his eyes back to
Walter, who was just sitting there, waiting. There was no reason
denying things any longer. The old man obviously knew all about
him. And it was just as obvious that Walter wasn’t just going to go
away on his own. Kelton was going to have to give him a nudge.

“
Look,” he said. “I don’t know what
you’ve heard, but I don’t work with strangers, so you might as well
just go find someone else to do what you want to do.”

“
So you’re not even going to listen to
what I have to say?”

“
Nope. Don’t care.”

“
Not even for a hundred thousand?” the
old man said. “Half now. Half after the job is done.”