The Killing League

THE STARTING LINEUP





32.

Blue Blood

Douglas Hampton walked into the main lobby of a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska. He thought he could practically smell the shit from pig farms that probably surrounded this a*shole of a city.

What a f*cking dump, Douglas Hampton thought. He envisioned every fat-assed insurance salesman who’d ever schlepped their worn out rollerbag and bulging briefcase into this craphole and jacked off to a porno flick before snoring their way through the night.

“Checking in, sir?” the young woman at the reception desk said to him. He looked at her. Dark hair, a little pudgy. No thanks.

“Unfortunately, no,” he said and smiled. His response earned him a warm and welcoming smile in return. “No, I’m here for a meeting. The KL conference?”

She nodded. “Absolutely, sir. Your meeting is in Conference Room B, just down the hall on your left.” She gave him a big smile and Hampton saw her desire for him like an open invitation.

He found the hallway and walked down to a room with large, double doors. A small placard told him this was Conference Room A. A small sign on a brass stand also told him that this was the location for a meeting of Honda dealers in the greater Omaha metropolitan area.

As he passed by the room, he spotted a cute blonde in a short skirt and white blouse taking a seat. She smiled at him, almost wistfully, he thought.

He returned her expression with a smile of his own and thought that if this bullshit thing he was going to didn’t work out, maybe he’d stop back in and chat up Miss Honda here.

The next conference room, and Hampton could see that it was the last one, had a similar placard out front but adorned with a “B” and he immediately recognized the KL logo from the invitation. Nowhere, however, did he actually see the words “Killing League.” So whatever a*shole was running this thing at least had some sense.

He smirked at the sign, then checked his Oris dive watch. He had switched from the Panerai. The Panerai was for dress and style, the Oris was a solid piece of rock that could hold up to any dirty work he might encounter.

He debated about even going into the conference room. It had been a long drive from Boston and although the travel information had included a room here at the lovely Holiday Inn, he had no intention of staying here. F*ck that. He’d find a 5-star boutique hotel somewhere downtown, get plastered at the bar, go trolling whatever pathetic bars Omaha had to offer. Maybe he’d find some farm girl with cow shit on her boots and a cowboy hat he could knock off her head.

First, though, he had to get this f*ck-ass meeting over with. It was probably going to be a good old-fashioned blackmail attempt. They were going to show a video of him doing something bad, and demand money. Well, the Hamptons had a lot of resources, knew a lot of people who were so bad they would make these knuckleheads wish they’d never been born.

F*ck it. He went in.

There was a big guy with a black jacket, black slacks and a black T-shirt. He had broad shoulders and a thick neck.

Hampton knew security when he saw it.

The big slab of meat gestured at the chairs arranged in a semicircle around a television screen mounted on the wall.

He could have kicked himself. He NEVER was the first to arrive to any kind of meeting or party. Was it because he was deep down kind of excited about whatever might happen? That it was a break from his mundane routine? He thought about it, but was interrupted when a woman who looked vaguely like Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire entered the room.

He almost laughed.

Did this old bag have anything to do with the creepy invitation and the reference to his treasures in Storage Unit #27?

This time, he did laugh out loud.

He took a seat.

This was going to be good.