Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [10]
“You do know that most shark attacks worldwide occur in the waters off of Australia, right?”
She sticks her tongue out at me and rises from the stool.
“What? Get eaten by a shark and miss out on more of these delightful chats? Besides,” she adds with a conspiratorial wink, “if I don’t come back, maybe they’ll rent the apartment to a pretty co-ed.”
I consider that for a moment, a manufactured smile on my face to let her know I might be enjoying the idea. But when I too stand, I return her wink. “You’re all the woman I need, Angie.”
I reach for the candy dish on the counter and pilfer a pair of bite-sized chocolate bars. I slip them into my pants pocket and start for the door.
“If you really think that, then you’ve got to get out more,” she calls after me.
And she’s probably right.
As I climb the steps I hear the hum of the elevator motor through the cinder-block wall. I know that elevator inspectors come out to certify the thing’s safety but I have yet to chance it. I’ve just never had a good feeling about it, and I need the exercise anyway.
By the time I reach the third-floor landing, I’m breathing heavy and my left knee reminds me that I may need to look for an apartment closer to the ground. I’m sweating as I approach the fourth floor—not much, just a thin sheen on my forehead and an uncomfortable warmth beneath my heavy coat. It’s almost anticlimactic when I reach my floor and push through the metal door, some vague sense of accomplishment on my person.
I am halfway down the hall, my feet silent on the dirty carpet, before I notice the man standing near my door. He wears a dark suit that is nicer than anything I own, and his hands are in his pockets. I get the feeling that he’s been waiting for some time.
My feet slow and then stop, and I am standing in the middle of the hallway with a heavy briefcase in one hand, a box of expensive cigars and my mail in the other, and a curious feeling.
“Hello,” I say.
The man rocks on his heels and smiles, although it’s a strange expression, as if he is not used to it. It’s enough to send a shiver up my back; déjà vu with substance. I can almost feel the sand under my shoes. Except that I know I’ve never seen him before.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says with the hint of an accent that suggests his roots are in northern dairy country.
I doubt it is a good thing that he knows my name. I’m not a paranoid person, but when someone in a dark suit is waiting for me outside of my apartment, and when that person also knows my name, and I see no balloons or television cameras signaling I’ve won a lottery, I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I conduct a mental inventory, searching for something I’ve done that could engender a visit from a law-enforcement official, because this guy is giving off a professional vibe, like Duckey might have before giving up government service for higher education. As far as I can tell, I’m clean. Except for . . .
“They’re not directly from Cuba, if that makes any difference,” I say, raising the cigar box for his inspection.
I see puzzlement flash across my visitor’s face as he looks at the package, still half wrapped in red foil.
“Relax, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says once he realizes what I’m proffering. “I’m not here about cigars.”
I’m feeling a bit like a player in an odd film noir—the part in every such movie where two people meet in a place where shadows cover all but the parts of their faces below the nose, where a single bead of sweat runs down an actor’s cheek, and where someone, invariably, pulls a gun. The only things missing in real life are concealing shadows—the hallway is actually quite bright—and the requisite sense of danger. And I’m reasonably confident no gun will come into play.