Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

She couldn't possibly. At nine forty-five in the morning, Al Newberg walked into the reception room of the Lobster Corporation. He started to walk past the reception desk, as he did every morning, with nothing more than a brusque nod. Today, he stopped midnod. Gloria, his regular receptionist, wasn't there. Instead, there was a woman with streaked blond curly hair. Before Newberg could say anything, he felt another presence behind him. He turned, saw a man with a gun. The gun was pointed at Newberg's chest. The man's eyes told Newberg that this was someone who was more than capable of pulling the trigger.

He quickly ran the calculations through his mind. It was instinctual with Newberg. He was not a physical person. He never had been. At five foot two and a hundred and fifteen pounds, he was incapable of intimidating anyone on a physical level. Nor could he make himself appealing in any sort of visceral way. He was a ratlike man with thinning dark hair, a scratchy beard, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and a nose that was twice too big. He had two things that had carried him through life since he was quite young: money and intellect. Passion had never ruled his life. It was possible that he had never even experienced genuine passion other than his lust for the possessions he'd managed to acquire over the years and his desire to defeat anyone who could possibly interfere with his climb toward success and thus thwart his acquisitive nature. Newberg was, by necessity, a logical, practical man who saw all existence in terms of problems and solutions. Life was, for Al Newberg, one lengthy list of prioritized items waiting to be checked off. So that's how he dealt with his current situation. He knew no other way. He shifted his gaze to take in the woman at the reception desk, then swung his eyes back to the man holding the gun. He mentally checked off item after item as he ran through his potential choices. There was no question who these two people were. He had no idea how they'd found him-he had felt very secure that he had insulated himself from those on the outside-but he absolutely knew who they were. Why they were here was another matter. The most logical possibility was to get information. Something specific, possibly. Or an attempt to get a general sense of what they'd stumbled into. It could go either way. The first question Newberg asked himself was: Could he bluff them? Could he feign ignorance, pretend to be what he was not? The answer was no. It was too late for that. The cop was no idiot. If they were here, they knew too much to be bluffed. Next attempt at a solution: Could they be bought off? Maybe. People's responses to money were often amazing-they took enormous risks, they sacrificed lifelong ideals-but his instinct told him that in this instance such a solution was unlikely. What was left? Get them talking. Find out what they want. Then find out what they'd settle for. It was all about negotiation.

Everything was about negotiation.

"Congratulations," Newberg said. "You're obviously much cleverer than anyone gave you credit for."

"Shut up," Justin said.

"And much more dangerous."

Justin didn't speak again. He took one step forward and backhanded the grip of his pistol into Newberg's mouth. Deena gasped as the man went down on one knee and blood began to gush from his lip and gums. The expression on Newberg's face was one not just of pain but of shock and fear. Justin learned what he'd needed to know: This was someone who had other people commit violent acts. He was a stranger to real violence and to pain.

"There's no need for-" Newberg began, but he didn't get to finish the sentence because Justin hit him even harder. This time the little rodentlike man's eyes rolled back in his forehead and the color in his face, a rich man's smooth tan, drained and was replaced by a sickly green.

"Justin…" Deena said, but he turned on her, a ferocious expression on his face, and she cowered back from him. When he was satisfied that Deena was not going to say anything more, he turned back to Newberg, who was still crumpled on the floor, but his hand was groping at his side, trying to find a position to help support his weight as he tried to sit up.

"I'm sure you're a smart guy," Justin said to the little man on the floor, "so you should be able to absorb what I'm telling you. From this point on, I don't want you to say one fucking word unless it's to tell me what I want to know. Don't ask a question, don't try to tell me anything you think might interest me, because it won't. If you say anything that I don't want to hear or if I think you're lying to me, I will hurt you beyond anything you can possibly imagine. If you make too many mistakes, I'll probably hurt you so badly you'll die right here on this floor. If you wait too long before telling me what I want to know, my guess is you'll wind up crippled for life. If you somehow think that the two women who work for you can possibly help you, they're locked in the closet over there. They're bound and gagged. They can do you no good. I hold you personally responsible for everything that's happened to us. And for a lot of deaths. So I have no qualms whatsoever about reciprocating. Is that understood? You can answer me now."

Newberg nodded, weakly.

"Okay," Justin said. "This is going to be very simple. I only have one question. Give me the right answer and we're out of here. Where is Douglas Kransten?"

Newberg did his best to lick his lips, to get some moisture in his throat so he could speak. He had no luck. All he could do was croak out the words "I can't tell you that."

"That's the wrong answer." Justin took a step forward, then he looked up at Deena. "I think you should leave," he said to her.

"Jay, don't."

"The best thing is probably for you to go to the ladies' room. I don't think this will take very long. This guy uses other people's balls-he doesn't have any of his own. I'll come knock on the door when I'm done."

"Jay, please don't do this."

"Deena, I told you it was going to be different now. I'm doing what has to be done. Go to the ladies' room and wait for me." His tone was like ice. Cold and even and remote. "There's no other alternative right now. If we don't find Kransten we're dead. And so are a lot of other people. So I'm going to find him. I'm not going to let what happened to Alicia happen to you. So go outside. Now."

She didn't argue. She didn't say another word. Deena nodded sadly. She didn't look at Justin or the broken man on the floor. She stepped out of the office and went down the hall to the ladies' room.

Justin stood over Alfred Newberg. "Where's Douglas Kransten?" he asked again.

"I don't know," Newberg whispered.

And then he began to cry. Twenty minutes later, Justin tapped on the ladies' room door He heard Deena's voice, quiet and faraway, say, "Come in." He stepped inside.

She was crying too. Trying not to, but unable to stop. Looking in the mirror and using brown paper towels to soak up her silent tears.

"I'm sorry," Justin said. He reached out to touch her shoulders, to pull her close to him, but she recoiled. He watched her shudder as if she was repulsed by his touch and he said, trying not to cry himself now, "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry. But I didn't have a choice."

She nodded, still didn't speak.

"Deena," he continued softly. He started to reach for her again, stopped himself. He didn't want to see the revulsion in her eyes. "I can't let them hurt you. I can't. You have to understand."

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Did you find out what you needed to know?" she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes."

"About Kransten?"

"Yes. And other things."

"If you didn't kill him…Newberg…won't he talk? Warn somebody?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he knows if he does, I will come back and kill him. Or worse, I'll hurt him again the way I just hurt him now. People like Newberg, they understand one thing-fear. And he's now much more afraid of me than anyone he might want to warn."