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      Creatures of the Chase

      Book One - Richard

      by

      L. M. Ollie

      Published in eBook format by Taheke Press

      Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

      Author’s Note:

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

      are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual

      persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

      First published in paperback New Zealand 1998

      ISBN 0-473-05285-7

      By Taheke Press

       www.taheke.co.nz

      eBook published in 2011

      ISBN 978-0-473-18463-6

      Copyright © 1996-2011 by L. M. Ollie

      Email : [email protected]

      L.M. Ollie has asserted her right under the Copyright Designs and

      Patents Act to be identified as the author of this work.

      Also by the same Author

      Thirteen at Dinner

      A play about King Richard the Third of England 1452-1485

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18356-1

      On the Trail of King Richard III

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18310-3

      Reputed to be the most concise and historically accurate rendering of the life and times of King Richard III set within the confines of an intelligently written, exciting and frequently amusing storyline.

      Soon to be released

      Creatures of the Chase

      Book Two – Yusuf

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18464-3

      Creatures of the Chase

      Book Three - Mikail

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18462-9

      *****

      Creatures of the Chase

      Book Four - Sarah

      Dedication

      Dedicated to the memory of the real

      Sarah

      (1942-1966)

      She loved not wisely but too well.

      Part One

      Man is the hunter; woman is his game:

      The sleek and shining Creatures of the Chase,

      We hunt them for the beauty of their skins;

      They love us for it, and we ride them down.

      Alfred, Lord Tennyson – The Princess

      1

      Boston, Massachusetts – December, 1979

      Davie knew when he was in deep and right now he was in up to his neck. This particular Shit Creek was in flood and no amount of the old charm and razzle-dazzle was going to help him find a paddle this time. He swallowed another ball of saliva, cleared his throat and tried to keep it all together.

      Yeah, that’s what you gotta do Davie boy, just keep it all together man. So the guy you’re lookin’ at is the richest, most powerful son of a bitch that you’ll ever want to see up close. Not to worry, Davie boy, this dude’s specialty is women and the occasional pretty boy maybe, so you’re safe as houses.

      So, why am I here, you bastard?

      Merhot Capritzo’s eyes moved upwards from the piece of paper he was reading to focus on the young man seated, in some discomfort it would seem, across the polished ebony, glass and chrome desk.

      Davie felt his skin crawl as every feature of his face was methodically scrutinized. Blackest damn eyes he had ever seen and the scary part was that they were like dead looking or something. Shit! Hold on man or you’re gonna lose it! And Davie held on - just.

      Three days ago now Davie had been summoned to this almost legendary address by a representative of Mr. Capritzo. Nice looking dude too; real smooth his three-piece suit and shiny shoes; a real class act. He was waiting by Davie’s clapped out old Mustang in the parking lot of the university where Davie was suppose to be studying Pre-med. He was failing his courses but getting straight A’s with the chicks. Knocking them over like ten pins. He ought to get bonus points! Sandy haired, blue-eyed, with the fresh-faced charm and gift of the gab of his Irish ancestors, Davie had the world by the balls. Except that right now he was ah …

      He had been told to wear a suit and tie. It never occurred to Davie not to, so here he sat in exactly the same outfit he had worn last year when his mother was buried in that big, old, fancy cemetery out at Concord. That was no fun, no fun at all man. He remembered the snow falling, landing in big white globs on top of her coffin as it was slowly lowered into the cold, cold ground. His mother had just enough time before the cancer ate her up to say what she wanted written on her tombstone - Beloved Mother of David Michael Kendall - like she was hoping that he would join her someday, but Davie had it all worked out. He was going to live to be ninety-one then die of a massive heart attack while screwing some nubile teenager in the back seat of one of them flash electric cars of the future. ‘Wham, bam I’m outta here ma’am and I DO thank you!’ Then he was going to be cremated in an oven just like a pizza only when he came out he’d have more than his mozzarella melted!

      ‘This is a most regrettable situation my young friend. You are, I believe, not yet twenty years of age. Is that correct?’ Capritzo’s tone was strictly business, almost formal, with perhaps just a hint of condescension as he raked the young man over with eyes that would miss nothing.

      ‘Yes sir. I’ll ah … I’ll be twenty next month, sir.’

      ‘So young,’ Capritzo sighed as he moved the papers aside. The smile that accompanied the sigh was cool, aloof; the lips moistened repeatedly by a quick, efficient tongue that darted in and out.

      ‘Like a snake’, Davie thought, then shuddered inwardly. Actually, come to think of it, everything about his man reminded Davie of a snake - the deadly kind. No, not the kind that bites. That would be too easy, too quick. More like the constrictors. You know; the kind that suffocates you while breaking every bone in your body so you’re more compact and easier to swallow.

      How old? Hard to say; fifty maybe, but with that well-cared-for, smooth-skinned look that only big money can buy. Davie didn’t believe half the stories told about this guy; didn’t want to either. He was Egyptian or something. Immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit made from the finest wool, his slender frame could almost be described as spare, perhaps because he was tall; six feet tall to be exact with the rigid posture usually reserved for military types - or undertakers. And to top it all off, he had jet black hair drawn straight back to accent a high forehead and a widow’s peak. It made him look even more predatory, more evil if you like, and right now Davie didn’t like so he concentrated instead on his fingers resting none too quietly in his lap.

      If it was true that women lined up to sleep with this creep than all Davie could say was that either they had cast iron stomachs or one hell of an itch. Whatever the truth was, one thing was sure, Capritzo had the finest stable of whores this side of the Mississippi. And all of it was high quality stuff

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