Almost Human

Almost Human: Part 2

Russ lit a cigarette from behind the wheel of his Ford pickup. Denver opened the passenger side door, hesitant to enter. Empty beer cans littered the floor. Russ took a long drag and tried to assure Denver that they could trust one another. He said his offer was solid and Denver would be a "damn fool" to pass it up. 

Denver asked him how much the job would pay. Russ patted the torn fabric of his bench seat's passenger side. "Get in. We've got a lot to discuss." His insistence only increased Denver's suspicions. Distrust and paranoia came naturally, and the last thing Denver wanted was to be placed in an uncompromising position. He had no money to be robbed of, but it was clear that Russ wanted something from him. The twisted possibilities flooded his mind. Denver remained safely outside the truck and asked again about the money. Before Russ could answer, more questions arose, such as the nature of the job and exactly what Denver would be doing.

Russ' eyes darted toward the rear-view mirror, searching for anyone around. "You're making me nervous standing out there. Now, get in before I change my mind."

"I just want to make sure of what the hell it is that I'm getting into here," Denver reiterated.

A haze of cigarette smoke drifted out of the truck as Russ pulled a leather briefcase from under his seat. He unlatched the case and produced a thick paper binder, tied together with string. "Your answers await, sire." He mashed the end of his cigarette into an ashtray and then loosened the file string, opening it. "You want the job, or are you gonna' waste my time?"

Denver looked around the quiet parking lot. He'd never felt so alone. He figured there wouldn't be any harm in hearing Russ out. He could always decline the job, whatever it was, and walk away. But he remained alert and cautious. Russ was anything but a trustful confidant. Denver hopped onto the squeaky bench seat and closed the door. He nudged aside empty beer cans on the floor with his foot and tried to get comfortable.

A vast mountain ridge lay ahead in the far distance, beyond the forest. There was a certain peacefulness to his surroundings not completely lost to his current circumstances. Russ fished through the large binder in his lap, muttering as he went along. Sunlight beamed in through the windshield, illuminating the faint remnants of cigarette smoke in the air. Denver's grip on the door handle softened as Russ handed him a small stack of photos and newspaper clippings.

"Take a look," Russ said. "His name's Vincent Howell. Lives in a cabin in the mountains all by himself. I want you to pay him a visit."

Denver took the faded clippings and photos, skeptical. "Okay. Why?"

Russ held up his hand. "Cool your jets, and I'll explain. Howell was a big shot around here. Owned a lot of real estate. He even had his hands in my salvage business, but no one has seen or heard from him in ages."

One Polaroid photo showed a younger Howell with trim, slicked-back hair, a crisp, white-collared shirt and tie with his arm around an elegant-looking woman. He wore sunglasses, despite being indoors of a furnished house, circa the 1980s. Behind the happy couple was a big-screen television and entertainment center. They didn't appear wanton of anything. Denver flipped to a more recent photo from a newspaper clipping that showed a thinner, paler version of the man, sitting among a courtroom audience with a blank stare, bags under his eyes and gray stumble on his face. He looked a hundred years older.

"This guy owes you money?" Denver asked.

"Something like that," Russ said without missing a beat.

Denver rightly sensed something off about Russ' story but let it go. He was tired of living destitute. He couldn't recall where all his money had went, but it involved a woman he met in Vegas named Alisha. Cunning and beautiful, she had taken him for everything under the guise of love. He could only blame himself and his own foolishness. All he needed was a fresh start, and he could leave the months of accumulated misery behind him.