by B Branin
Chapter 3
Sharp needles of pain pierced my eyelids and I let out a groan. Sunlight was peeking through the blinds and washing over my desk. Thanks to my habit of using the desk as a bunk, the sunshine was also managing to cause me pain that only a hangover could conjure. I rolled off the desk and landed on the floor with a hard thud and a curse.
It was gonna to be one of those days.
I vaguely remember what had transpired last night after the incident with Zotkin’s thugs. After gaining entrance to the office building, I woke up the elderly security guard with a few choice words and before marching up to my office. Then, with the aid from a whiskey bottle, I scoured my desk until I found the notepad that I had used to jot down whatever information I had collected from Fiona, with the intention to call her first thing in the morning.
Blinking sleep from my eyes I noticed that my handwriting was atrocious and I had misspelled several words. To be honest, I hadn’t really been paying attention to anything Fiona had said but made the list just to humor her. Along with Fiona’s contact information, the date and time of which she believed she had seen her dead sister, I had also been smart enough to write down the name of the cult that was supposedly responsible for her sister’s resurrection.
Now that I was actually holding the crumbled piece of paper, I was debating whether or not to call Fiona and tell her I was off the case. It couldn’t be that hard to make up a lie for her to swallow. What had Buggy suggested? Tell her I was off to Mexico to hunt a Chobbywobby or something?
I had actually picked up the phone before that damned feeling of guilt blossomed through me. I was, after all, Fiona’s plan Z. If I backed out on her now, what would she do? She was obviously in the wrong state of mind and could be a possible danger to herself and others.
With a sigh, I set down the phone.
I might as well continue with this game until whatever conclusion could be drawn, was drawn. Best case scenario she was having some sort of stress-induced relapse. If I were lucky, I could string her along for a few more bucks until I told her there was nothing out of the ordinary about this so-called cult she was fixated on.
All business matters were pressed out of my mind as my bladder reminded me it was holding half a bottle of whiskey. I hurried over the mounds of trash and into the small restroom of my office and relieved myself. As per my usual sobering up ritual, I washed my hands, then soaked a washcloth in cold water and ran it over my face.
After washing up a bit, I glanced into the cracked mirror and inspected myself for any new damages. Thirty-plus years had taken some tolls on me but nothing I couldn’t hide. In fact with my shirt covering the two bullet wounds and various scars, I looked completely average.
I was proud of that.
With brown hair, brown eyes, and some five o’clock shadow I was completely nondescript. Your very own average Joe. Giving the right clothes and accessories I could play the part of the twentyish grad student to the regal fifty year old. I’d play any age, any part, to get you to give me money and if you’re upset enough about it to go to police, they’ll ask: “Can you describe him?”
You’d answer…but the answer matches the description of a thousand people in the city. I have no tattoos, no visible scars, and absolutely nothing that will leave a lasting impression on you other than anger.
Just like I planned.
After fighting with my hair to stay manageable, I popped some eye drops to get rid of the blood-shot look. If I was going to be asking people about some sort of cult, I didn’t want them to think I was some sort of crack head or wino looking for fanatics with some spiked juice.
With the uncertainty of this entire situation, I was still sorting through the mixed feelings I had about my first client. Like how in the hell had she inspired such loyalty in me?! Still, it wouldn’t be too hard to get a few answers for her so I left my office with a particular location in mind. It was only 3pm which meant an associate of mine would still be at the church of St. Donovan.
