1 Chapter 1

The Allure of Barefoot Beach

August, 20—

Zeninen Brow called for me again, needing my services and professional skills. I obliged, knowing the money he offered for his bizarre gigs was rather substantial, a hefty payment that could easily last six or more months regarding my existence in Barefoot Beach, Florida. Again, I listened to his message on my cellphone, clarifying its details: Julian, I need your assistance, of course. Please meet with me at dusk in the Rudiment Garden at the Astor House tomorrow evening.

His instructions simplified his location as being near Chicago, southeast of the city; the place where we first met seven years ago. I was fond of its lavish mansion, gardens, and secret semi-illuminated underground passageways. And I was still fond of Zeninen as a friend, and his younger lover, Davido Marchaletti.

Strangely, Davido looked exactly like me with his onyx-colored eyes and hair, and he was also the same age as me, thirty-one. Our differences were quite varied, though. Davido was a wealthy Italian wine maker with bashful traits and little zeal and I was an outgoing American who was unruly at times and always living on the edge of life.

I had often wondered if Zeninen had purposely dated a man who looked just like me. What secret mind-affair did he have going on his mind regarding my professional services provided to him? Both of us knew that he couldn’t have me, therefore he just happened to find someone like me. How interesting, I thought. How torn he must have felt while in my presence, sexually attracted to me, but always on his best behavior.

I had my doubts visiting Zeninen, but I wasn’t really sure why. An eerie sensation twisted beneath my skin and bothered me. Fear was not something that hindered me, but Zeninen was one to fear since he could have me offed in less than an hour. The man was powerful beyond anything I could imagine. Anyone under him knew that when he wanted to be a tyrant, he could destroy with ease, allowing men such as myself to plummet to their deaths.

I was somewhat drunk on a fruity alcoholic beverage and was semi-numb along the Gulf Coast, enjoying the evening sun and sand when his voicemail arrived on my cellphone. Comfortable and well-rested, my schedule was empty of work. Such relaxation convinced me that I was better off flying to Chicago and stop being lazy. Once there, I would learn important details for my next job, which could have easily entailed a kill, robbery, poisoning, or some horrendous crime involving loads of foreign or American currency. Who knew where Zeninen would place me and what my next feat would encompass. But of course, I was ready for whatever the man had prepared for my travels.

And so it was done. I kept my flight schedule to the Midwest. My passport was currently updated and I could fly anywhere around the world. London, Berlin, Brussels, Paris, and Charik, Afghanistan were just a few places that I had traveled to of late. My next adventure was a mystery to me and I didn’t know where Zeninen would be sending me. I could be flying to Springbok, South Africa to steal diamonds, or to Cairo to thieve a golden urn. No matter where Zeninen was sending me next, I knew that the escapade would be dangerous and tough. When had the man ever placed me into a tranquil and nonviolent situation? Never, that I could remember.

Would I miss the warm sand of Barefoot Beach against my soles while traveling yet again? I would. There was something poetic that I enjoyed about the white grains and its impervious heat on a sunny afternoon. I would also long for the salt in the air, seagulls, and the creaking boardwalk. Barefoot Beach was my home; the place I had truly fallen in love with and felt most comfortable. How could I not enjoy my hometown and its lavish tropical island-like appeal?

No matter how much I wanted to stay along the Gulf, it was time to head to Illinois and the Land of Oprah. Someone important was waiting for me. Someone I had respect for and would never betray, or so I thought. 2: Some Men Cannot be Trusted

I packed an overnight bag and flew from Barefoot Beach to Chicago the following day. Once there I dined at one of my favorite bistros, napped at The Drake Hotel, and traveled outside of the city in a rented BMW 6-Series Coupe.

As requested, I met Zeninen at dusk in the Rudiment Garden, which was spectacular in the purple-blue-red evening sun. The strong scent of tea roses wafted passed my nostrils. Honeysuckle lingered about the concealed garden like wispy ghosts. An owl, hidden among walnut trees, hooted mysteriously and witnessed my every move. The garden was shaped like an isosceles triangle and was garnished with a fountain of granite men wrestling, four stone benches, and two cobblestone pathways leading in opposite directions. It was said that there were graves under the garden, chambers of bones and skulls from the Chicago fire in 1911. Most in the city believed the garden haunted, but I was not one of them

I saw Zeninen smoking on one of the benches. The sweet-flavored scent of a clove cigarette filled the garden. He was alluring in the dim light, two days away from his fifty-sixth birthday, twenty-plus years older than me, and quite enigmatic, as always. His long legs were crossed and a file was positioned on his lap. One could have thought he was a handsome vampire that bestselling novels are written of. Others could have sensed that he was a peculiar man that was untrusting and hedonistic. I thought neither, of course, out of respect.