Cary sat at the rickety card table which served as both a dining table and a desk for his typewriter. The Corona sat there, its carriage empty, a mocking testimony to his inability to come up with anything the night before. Again.
He sipped his sweet, hot tea. That dream kept coming back to him in snatches. He'd been a successful writer in the dream. But the dream had actually been a nightmare. "Ah, well," Tweetie," he said aloud, draining the mug with one quick gulp. "Maybe fame and fortune just aren't in the cards for us."
Cary got up and went back into his bedroom. It smelled faintly of stale sweat and residual fear, but he couldn't open the window thanks to the idiot who'd lived there before him and painted it shut. He went over to his battered old wardrobe and opened it up, selected a contrasting light and dark gray pinstripe and sinfully red bow tie, then got quickly dressed on his way to the front door. "Bye, Tweetie," he called as he slammed the door and pulled it until the lock clicked into place.
When he stepped outside he immediately regretted not bringing his umbrella. The wet, dreary morning mirrored his mood. Although in no hurry mentally, he walked quickly toward the Art Building, hoping he would beat The Old Man in. But that was a slim chance at best. Joshua B. Ryan's whole life was the office, and he was almost always the first in and the last to leave. He ought to set up camp there, Cary thought darkly as he narrowly avoided being run over by a man in a three-piece suit riding a ten-speed. God, how he hated New York. Too damn many people.
Before he knew it, he arrived at the glass double-wide doors of the Art Building. He went inside, walked through the darkened gallery--they didn't open for another hour yet--and made his way to the chrome elevator doors. He pressed the up arrow button and the doors opened silently. He stepped inside and felt an inexplicable thrill of panic when they closed. He punched the 9 button and shut his eyes as the elevator rose. It continued its climb, not stopping for anyone else, until it reached the administrative floor. The doors opened, and Cary stepped gratefully out.
There were already several sales associates there, hard at work. Since the company did so much business with art dealers overseas, they tried to arrange their shifts accordingly. Cary went to his desk without greeting anyone and booted up his computer. He peered into Joshua's shadowy office. Thank God, he wasn't in yet. Cary could at least enjoy a leisurely cup of Oolong before The Old Man started wreaking his customary havoc.
Cary ambled into the small kitchenette and poured himself a cup of tea from the freshly brewed pot. Sarafina Rutledge was there, looking in the fridge. "Hey," she said to him in indifferent greeting as she shut the refrigerator door and left the room.
She had been in the nightmare, too.
Cary laughed softly to himself. He felt like Dorothy at the end of The Wizard of Oz, the part where she's talking about her fantastic Technicolor dream and saying to Auntie Em and the ranch hands, "And you were there, and you were there, and so were you..."
When Cary had finished making his tea sweet and blonde he went back to his desk and sat looking out the window. He was examining the cracks in the building across the alley way when he heard the ominous squeaking of those damn shoes.
"Chop! Chop!" came that damn voice from behind him. "Let's get to work!"
Cary turned around quickly in his swivel chair, ready to plaster on his Good Morning, Boss smile. But the smile died on his lips the moment he turned and looked Joshua B. Ryan in the eye.
His good eye. The other one was run through to the hilt with a shiny Sterling silver letter opener.
"You'd better answer that phone, Care," said The Old Creep as he turned and walked into his office.
The phone was ringing. It was shrill, insistent. Cary snatched up the receiver and brought it to his ear. His heart plummeted with the sudden realization that he knew exactly what to say.
"Old Scratch Press, this is Cary speaking. How may I help you?"
[end]
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The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 29
