Wicked Games: Book Two of The Psychopath Series

Chapter 25

Dust covered the antique bottles filled with priceless fermented grapes. The Cellar was an old, hole hidden in the middle of a state-of-the-art, modernized row of storefronts. Alex would have nearly missed it zooming by on his Ducati if it hadn't been for Malachi's candy-apple green Ferrari paralleled parked out front. Alex leaned against the counter watching Boston come alive as the afternoon turned to evening. Hordes of people adorning Red Sox apparel flocked across the street to Fenway Park.

Jackie Robinson. Willie Mays. Mickey Mantle. Every birthday his father gave him a signed baseball card placed in a glass case since the age of six. When he turned nine his father signed him up for little league with the Rhode Island Raccoons as a center fielder. Day in, day out; practice after school, game on Saturday, Sundays with a private coach. It was always the same thing until the age of fifteen. Leather and dirt hovered around him in a haze like Lionel van Pelt's dust cloud. I love baseball, Dad was all Alex said when his dad checked in on him, not really feeling the words.

"What's taking so long?" Malachi hung over the walnut countertop trying to get look into the office around the corner that the clerk disappeared to.

Alex counted the time on his wide-faced silver Gucci timepiece. They had only been there for eight minutes. "The man said the computer had to boot up. It's old."

"You'd think a place that sells wine worth several thousands could afford a new computer." Malachi toyed with a bottle of Screaming Eagle sitting on the counter.

"Not everyone thinks like you," Alex said.

"Apparently." Malachi pointed to the deep purple and red gash on his forearm, "What happened to your arm?"

Alex traced his finger along the jagged, sore surface of his skin. "Oh. Um. I helped a girl catch her dog."

Malachi stared at him sideways, "You hate dogs."

"I can't ignore a damsel in distress, brother." Alex playfully punched Malachi's shoulder.

"True." Malachi checked the time again, getting antsy. "You wouldn't have a girlfriend if they didn't need something from you."

"I resent that." Alex held up his hand

"Lisa, your first girlfriend at the ripe age of thirteen needed your help changing a flat tire on her bicycle after she ran over a nail on your street. Karen." Malachi held up two fingers. "Your girlfriend at fourteen needed tutoring in history or risked failing and Aubrey had the stalker."

" She was the first one besides our immediate family to know we were brothers." Malachi looked at him blankly. "Come on. You know you liked her. You're just mad she kicked your ass at field hockey."

"Okay." Alex stopped dragging his finger along the cut on his arm. "So, I do have a thing for girls who need me."

"Not Isabeth," Malachi said. "She doesn't need you."

"Correct." Alex gave him a thumbs up and a wide smile for pointing that out.

The overhead lights flashed on as the clerk shuffled to the counter. Alex rapidly blinked his eyes and Malachi shielded his.

"You could've warned us, man." Malachi lowered his eyes as his eyes started to adjust to the daylight-like shine of the light bulbs.

The old man with a shiny, bowling bowl head and whiskers escaping out his nose kept reading the paper that shook his Parkinson riddle hand. "A 1978 bottle of Tchad Élatant was sold—" He drug his finger across the paper. "To a Ben Lemen Jr."

"That's impossible." Alex reached for the paper, needing to see it for himself.

The old clerk swatted his hand away.

"He's Alex.... Benny.... Ben Lemen Jr." Malachi pointed to Alex finally landing the correct name.

"That's what the receipt says." The old clerk waved the paper.

"I'm Ben Lemen. Do I look like the person who bought the wine?"

The old clerk thinly smiled, "I wouldn't know. I wasn't here when the sale was made."

"Then who was?" Malachi questioned.

"Um. You only paid for the name of the buyer of the wine." The old clerk defiantly folded his stick-like arms. "Not the salesperson."

Malachi dug his wallet out his back pocket and flung five hundred dollars across the counter.

The old clerk picked up the money, licked his thumb, and begun counting the greenbacks.

"Name!" Alex furiously snapped his fingers.

The old clerk stopped at the fourth bill. Not needing to look at the receipt his mouth parted,  "Leonard."

"Can we talk to Leonard?" Malachi asked massaged his wrist trying to rub out his frustration.

"He had a stroke last Friday." The old clerk answered. "He's dead. Was cremated just this morning to be exact."

"Well, what about the cameras." Malachi pointed at one the surveillance cameras docked in every corner of the shop. "Maybe you could pull back the video and we could she this man." Malachi pulled out his wallet again. "I'll pay you whatever you want.

"Generous offer." The old clerk said. "But those cameras hadn't worked in about a month. The computer they're hooked to got a virus. I just hadn't got around to call getting it fixed." The old clerk lightly laughed. "I should've had this in a better spot. You're the second people to come by asking about this wine which is ironic because Tchad Élatant hasn't been in demand since 1978."

"The person that asked about the wine before...us wouldn't happen to be an FBI Agent by the name of Clayton Anderson." Alex combed his nervous hand through his hair.

"See, you do know a name you don't have to pay for." The old clerk held out his arms with a jovial smile.

Seems like Clayton Anderson is one step ahead of The Trifecta. Does this spell trouble for them?