The Smoke Blower

© 2013 by Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/20/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7642-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7691-6 (e)

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Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Rules for life

About the Author

About the Book

For my parents,

who said I could be anything I wanted when I grew up.

To my brother, for leading the way.

To my friends and colleagues,

who had the option to leave but didn’t.

One

A soft murmur hummed from the bonnet of the Mustang for a moment after Lloyd switched the engine off. It took a few moments before his eyes adjusted to the darkness. There were no street lamps here. The silhouette of the tall fir trees contrasted the dark-blue sky. Lloyd made his way to the trunk and took his waxed jacket. As he slammed the lid, birds scattered at the sound.

A heavy smoke stifled the densely wooded forest. Lloyd strode past the thick tree trunks. He walked tall, with purpose. The leaves that were damp from a light rainfall that morning meshed together underfoot to create a carpeted walkway. The rustling of leaves and the sound of trickling water in the distance calmed his senses. A full spectrum of stars was visible now that the city was far behind him. Within a couple minutes, he could see the clearing where the small wood cabin stood. Lloyd took a deep breath as he entered the clearing. The stale, dense air that lingered beneath the towering trees no longer smothered him.

The door of the cabin crashed open as he gave it one thundering kick. A warm glow from the fire was the only source that illuminated the figure sitting in the armchair. The whiskey tumbler crashed to the floor as the thick oak door boomed against the wall. A warm, oaky vanilla smell wafted through the air. The person’s face was now riveted towards the doorway. The figure’s eyes were the only source of movement as they strained to make out the person that loomed in the doorway. A swift breeze swept through the cosy one-roomed cabin.

Shoulders relaxed, the individual sat back in the leather armchair after recognizing the figure that had so rudely entered the cabin. Lloyd remained in the doorway. The figure turned to the floor, where crystal shards had scattered all over the floor. ‘What has you bursting into my cabin like this?’ the resident finally said, turning back to Lloyd.

It took Lloyd three strides to go from the doorframe to the fireplace. Lloyd was outmeasured in stature, but the inhabitant of the cabin tensed up again as Lloyd ripped the shotgun from on top the fireplace off the wall and spun around in one clean movement. Eyes darted around the room as the person tried to stand up, using the sides of the armchair for leverage. Lloyd jabbed the shotgun into the sitter’s neck while pushing his target into the chair.

‘What has gotten into you?’ the individual asked, gasping in fear. Lloyd said nothing; as he transferred his weight onto his back leg, he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder. ‘This is for what you did to Howard.’ Lloyd paused to study the reaction of his target. A look of confusion passed across the victim’s face. This person began to mumble. ‘My father.’ Lloyd interrupted. ‘Howard was my father, Frankie.’ His tone was condescending. The figure now gazed at the coal fire that burned bright under the great wooden mantelpiece. The gaze soon lurched up from the fire to look at Lloyd at this revelation.

‘You’re the spawn of Howard?’ Moments later, Frankie struggled to get out of Lloyd’s hold.

Lloyd held his breath. His eyes narrowed, and he drew his tongue slowly across his top lip. He pulled the trigger.

One Year Earlier

Down below, the cars looked like toys as they whizzed through the streets of the Upper East Side. The buzz from the thoroughfare bounced off the facades of the skyscrapers and echoed up to Lloyd’s hotel room on the thirty-ninth floor.

He stood in front of the mirror, lifted his oversized brown shirt collar, and began to tie his tie that was navy with white-and-red stripes. He had a slim frame, and his shoulders were hunched slightly forwards. He combed his mousy hair to the side. The room was not large, but it was luxurious. The wood-panelled walls made it dark, but the abundance of cloth lampshades more than made up for this. On the dresser stood a small TV, a light with a pale yellow lampshade, and a square black vase. The flowers were changed every morning.

Lloyd forced a smile, and his fresh-faced cheeks bulged somewhat. He turned to the wardrobe, where he meticulously transferred his navy suit jacket from its hanger to his shoulders before examining his appearance in the full-length mirror by the door. He quickly scanned the room, ensuring nothing was out of place and the television was switched off.

With his hair neatly combed, tie straight, and shirt collar in place all the way around, he looked sharp. He fastened the top gold button on his jacket, checked his cufflinks, brushed down his chinos, and then inspected his new leather shoes. He smiled to reveal a slight overbite. When satisfied, he locked the door behind him.

In the breakfast room at the Plaza, the waiters milled around the tables of all the important guests. Their freshly starched shirts were all covered with crisp, white, folded napkins on their forearms. As Lloyd entered, he acknowledged the maître d’s greeting but did not engage the man in any further pleasantries. He found a quiet table by the far wall away. A waiter poured Lloyd’s coffee and gestured towards the breakfast buffet.

The food smelt fantastic. It was a full spread of food that appealed to all the senses. Eggs were fried, poached, soft-boiled, hard-boiled, and scrambled. There were pancakes, croissants, pastries, bagels, French toast, and pain au chocolat, not to mention every sort of exotic fruit you could think of. The table heaved under the mountains of meat. The sheer volume of food justified making a pig of oneself. The chef smiled politely at Lloyd as he picked up a thick porcelain plate.

‘Two English sausages and a small portion of scrambled eggs, please,’ Lloyd stated, maintaining eye contact with the chef.

‘Anything else?’ the chef asked, smiling again.

‘No thank you.’

The chef looked surprised as he obliged him with the nearly bare plate across the opulent buffet. Lloyd sat, ate his humble breakfast, and then made his way to the lobby.

There was perhaps more staff than guests in the main entrance hall. Receptionists huddled behind the long, dark oak check-in desk as they greeted incoming guests. The ushers, in thick wool uniforms, scurried across the white-and-black marbled floor, arranging the trollies of bags. An aroma of fresh lilies wafted through the open space, letting one forget for a moment that he or she was inside, never mind in the city.

The porter, in his long woollen overcoat and top hat, opened the large glass doors. Lloyd did not acknowledge him as he shuffled through the open door, avoiding eye contact at all costs. He had declined the offer of a chauffeur, as he wanted to clear his head. He continued out the door and turned right. He walked two blocks until he came to the magnificent Park Avenue. For the first time since Lloyd had arrived in New York, he finally took a moment to appreciate his surroundings.

It was one of the first days of fall, but a gentle summer breeze hung in the air. The enormous grey buildings towered against the fresh blue sky. It was 8.18 a.m. Men in suits filed through the street, to and from the subway, in every direction.

Lloyd had already mapped his route before leaving the hotel room, so he turned right and continued walking. It took twenty minutes to walk the fifteen blocks.

Finally, he reached Grand Central Station. It looked stocky compared to the buildings that surrounded it. Like an iceberg, its true substance lay beneath the surface. Four magnificent columns framed each of its three huge windows and, on top, stood the huge statue of Mercury. The statue capped the thirteen-foot clock that kept time on the network of trains that arriving and departing through this gateway to the city. The commuters were like ants scurrying from the pronounced building.

Opposite Grand Central stood the headquarters of the LB&B Corporation, at 127 Park Avenue. Its oval windows and limestone façade paid homage to the majestic station, but it was nowhere near as grand. Lloyd admired the building for a moment.

The huge silver steel letters that read ‘LB&B Corporation’ protruded from the pale-yellow brickwork above the glass revolving doors. The doors whizzed by as bunches of men in suits vanished into the unknown. Lloyd’s chest felt heavy. His palms felt moist, and his shoulders were tense. He looked down at his new shoes. The smell from the hot-dog vendor half a block away made him feel nauseous. He took a deep breath and one step forward before he lifted his head and entered the revolving doors. He felt more than claustrophobic trapped between the two large doors in the midst of all these strangers racing to enter the building.

Inside the doors, there was a pleasant citrus scent. The expansive marble floor gleamed. Sun fell through an expansive wall of glass that surrounded the door Lloyd had just struggled through. He stepped to the side to avoid getting carried away by the herd. He now had a moment to observe the great space. Black leather Barcelona chairs accompanied by built marble benches and floor pots sparsely furnished the open lobby.

His shoes made a soft click as he paced across the floor. Halfway across the lobby, Lloyd cleared his throat. ‘Good morning, sir, how can I help you?’ the middle-aged, shorthaired receptionist greeted him as he arrived at her desk.

‘Hello,’ he said with a cough. She could sense his nervousness. ‘Good morning, I’m looking for Mr Rankin from the HR division.’ Lloyd announced, his voice a little clearer now. She was used to quick-fired requests. ‘Please,’ he added. The receptionist smiled at this.

She flicked through a binder and traced her finger through one of the pages. ‘Seventh floor, elevators to my left,’ she said as she gestured with her hand. ‘Would you mind signing the guestbook?’ she called after him as he started to walk away. She pushed the thick leather binder across the counter. ‘Lloyd Friedman, 8 August 1972’, he scribbled.

‘Thank you,’ he uttered when finished, but she was already busy answering a call.

That brief encounter had momentarily distracted Lloyd from his anxiousness. Thousands of thoughts rushed through his mind at once. His palms grew increasingly damper, so he rubbed them on the back of his trousers. He tried to