Tribulation House: Reloaded

Chapter 11

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- 11 -

Mob soldiers Ross Cleaver and Bill Lamb were in the car, Cleaver driving. Lamb looked out the window, wrinkled his nose. “So, where we going?”

Cleaver didn’t take his eyes off the road. “The church—to speed up matters. Like the boss said.”

“This isn’t the way to the church.”

Cleaver rubbed his thumb against his nose. “We’re swinging by my ex-wife’s on the way.”

“So this isn’t the way to the church.”

Cleaver growled, “Want me to stop this car?”

“I’m just saying—”

“You want me to stop the car?”

“I’m just—”

Cleaver directed his palm at the passenger. “You do not want me to stop the car.”

Lamb sulked, staring out the window. “Why are we stopping at your ex-wife’s?”

“I don’t think that is any of your business.” After a few blocks, Cleaver grunted, “Meeting a guy.”

“What kinda guy?”

“I swear, I will stop this car.”

A few minutes later, Cleaver parked in front of a little yellow box house. On the porch was some guy with a clipboard.

Cleaver turned off the ignition, pulled the keys, and held them in his hands a second, jangling them. “You staying in the car or coming in?”

Lamb yanked the handle, shoved the door open, and jumped out of the car. He scampered toward the porch while Cleaver sauntered, taking his time.

When Cleaver finally got there, the stranger, a tall, broad-shouldered man, stuck out his hand and grinned. “Bull Winkler.”

Cleaver ignored the outstretched hand. “You with the company?” At the sound of Lamb chuckling, he sighed and glanced toward his partner. “What?”

Lamb mock whispered, “‘Bull Winkler.’”

Cleaver rolled his eyes. Shook his head, pulled open the storm door, and unlocked the yellow wooden front door.

As he pushed through, the dummy squeaked, “Why don’t we knock?”

Stepping inside, Cleaver didn’t bother to answer. He walked into the middle of the living room, where sunlight streamed through the crack in the curtains.

Winkler stood a good two feet taller than Cleaver, his linebacker shoulders almost bursting out of the polo shirt. “So, where do we start?”

Cleaver motioned toward the fireplace. “This trim is all messed up here.” In front of the mantel, which sported an assortment of framed photos, he waved a hand at the shoddy craftsmanship around the edges. “Your boys shoulda finished the job.”

Winkler pulled a pen from his ear, clicked it, and scribbled notes on the clipboard. “Uh-huh.”

“And then back here.” Cleaver led the other man to the kitchen, flipped on the lights, and pointed toward the sink. “This counter is all wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Winkler, pen poised over clipboard.

“It’s crooked. It don’t fit the wall.”

“You mean it isn’t flush?”

“It is crooked. It does not fit the wall.”

From the next room, Lamb yelled. “Hey, is this your wife?”

Cleaver furrowed his brow. Yelled toward the hall. “What?”

“These pictures here. This your wife?” Lamb appeared at the door. “She looks like a young Jessica Lange.”

Cleaver paused. Set his palms on the counter, trying to get back on track. “This is cut all wrong. It leaks around the edges of the—”

The dummy squeaked, “Like in King Kong.”

Cleaver pressed on. “Around the edges of the, uh, the edges of the counter here. The sink.” He turned to see Winkler scribbling and nodding again. “It leaks around the edges of the sink.”

The dummy added, “I mean, the 1970s one.”

Cleaver waved him to shut up. Glared at Winkler, who was still scribbling some notes. “Now, you gonna finish the job right?”

Winkler dropped the clipboard against his side. Puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “I’ll be honest with you. It’s going to be tough.” He pointed the pen toward the counter. “You can’t really fix something like that. The counter needs to be re-cut. But it’s a time-intensive and cost-intensive procedure to just do that over again.” He headed for the living room. “Plus, we have a full schedule in the near future. Now in here…”

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Cleaver followed into the other room. The big man kept yammering, pointing that pen of his.

But Cleaver wasn’t listening. The room was turning a shade of red. He calmly, quietly headed for the staircase, nodding. He heard the guy still yammering.

Cleaver kicked at the banister, and the man stopped talking. He kicked again and one of the posts came loose. He grabbed it and walked over to the big man. “You gonna finish the job right?” The big man just standing there, Cleaver swung the post hard, hitting the man across the side of the head.

The man shrieked, “What are you doing? You can’t—”

Cleaver swung again, the wood hitting the man in the back with a meaty thunk. “Gonna finish the job right?”

Winkler, on hands and knees, spit blood. Nodded.

Cleaver grabbed the man by the arm, helped him up. “Good.” He wiped his hands on the man’s polo shirt. Then he turned and motioned toward the broken banister. “You hafta fix that too.”

In the car, the dummy squeaked, “I think it was the best one.”

“What?”

“The ’70s King Kong was the best one. They used a big robot.”

“Do you want me to stop the car? I swear, I will stop this car.”

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There are 70 chapters for Tribulation House. You can purchase the whole eBook right now from Amazon, Apple, Smashwords, Kobo, B&N, and more! 

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