The gray triceratops’s eyes that were just moments ago probing and inquisitive have turned downright menacing. I’m not sure if he already knows Pierce and I were up to no good right before he arrived on the scene, but I can’t shake the feeling that we are well and truly fucked.
But… how would he know? I mean, dinosaurs got some good senses, especially carnivores, but would an herbivore like him be able to sniff out… I don’t even know what? A bit of dust from the vent? I brushed myself down, made sure of it, and everything was put back in its place. He hasn’t even been in his office yet. How could he know?
It’s not just the stupid look on my face, is it? I’m not gonna win any awards for acting, but I’ve spent enough time at the poker table to know I can stifle my expressions when I need to, and I haven’t stopped practicing my neutral face since I heard Pierce’s tail spikes clattering against the wall. I scrambled my ass out of that office on the double and made sure to look as calm, cool and collected as possible.
I know Charles isn’t an idiot, but I pray to whatever mystical deity will hear me that we aren’t completely screwed already.
There’s no mirror nearby for me to know how well I’m playing my part, but Pierce doesn’t even look phased by the request. He merely glances down at me, paperwork scrawled with incriminating evidence held gently between his fingers. He wisely holds the forms at his side, obstructing their surfaces from Charles’s view—it’d be pretty damning for our boss to notice the blank fronts and inked backs of that purportedly “official” paperwork.
The triceratops’s terrifying purple orbs practically drill a hole through me. “After you, Samuel.”
I look to Marty who stands by wholly uninterested in this cataclysmic development. I know before my mouth opens that it won’t work, but I make a play all the same. “M-Marty’s my ride. Will I—”
“I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry about it.”
Shit. Could he have phrased that any more threatening than he just did? Pierce doesn’t react, merely working his way down the hall toward the staircase leading up to the Accounting department.
Marty springs to life, taking a break from his soda-induced stupor to follow his partner. He glances back at me. “See ya at Santiago’s in a bit, bud!”
If I even make it that far. I might already be dead.
Resigned to my fate, I slide past Charles into the office with which I had so recently become acquainted. Everything is as I found it, I’m sure of it. I might have flaws, but one of ‘em ain’t being a klutz. Even though I was rushing to get the hell out of there, I tucked his black notebook into the drawer from which I had plucked it, I nudged the chair partially underneath the table, and I tugged the vent cover back into place where it belonged.
The door latches shut behind me, causing my skin to crawl. A premonition of his triplicate horns puncturing into the back of my skull and exiting the front of my head drizzling with brain matter fires through my still-intact mind. No such death befalls me. Instead, Charles steps to the other side of the conference table and takes a seat, extending a sickly-pleasant smile as he meets my eyes.
“So, my boy. How have you been holding up?”
My boy? “Uhh… I’m alright.”
He leans forward, his hands folding on the expanse of table between us. “I trust the past few work days have been a bit less stressful?”
“I mean, it’d be hard for them to have been more stressful than that pool hall…”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it, and again, I am sorry that you had to go through that.” The honey sweet words that ooze with duplicity slide past his widening grin. “Pierce has made it back to us in one piece, more or less. He has you to thank for that.”
I wince unconsciously. Shit, how much do I tell him? He’s obviously probing for information. Several options rocket through my brain before I respond. “Y-yeah. He spoke to me about that. He did thank me.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Oh? The two of you becoming friends now?”
God damnit. “U-uh… no, I w-wouldn’t go that far—”
“Please, Samuel. You don’t need to be nervous around me. I’d hope you would understand that by now.”
I take a deep breath to steady myself. “Yeah. You’re right. And I’m not. I mean, nervous about you, in particular. It’s just—”
“You haven’t had a good relationship with dinosaurs. I know.”
Wait, how would he—
“I’ve interacted with humans like you before. Humans that can’t keep eye contact, who stutter and mumble and do everything in their power to remain unnoticed. I know your type, Samuel. That’s part of the reason I took an interest in you.”
All I can do is stare in befuddlement. His saccharine smile does not falter.
“I have a special job for you. It’s one that requires a man of your talents. A man who would prefer to be unnoticed, who can do what’s asked of him, without question.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Nothing intense. Just a little security and cleanup.”
“Security?” I gulp. “C-cleanup?”
This elicits a chuckle from the triceratops. “As I said, nothing unbecoming of your station! You really must learn to relax. Can I count on you for this assignment?”
Do I really have a choice in the matter? I nod my head, doing my best to not glance in the direction of the corner vent. “Yeah, of course.”
“Excellent.” Charles leans over, draws out the same black leather-bound notebook I had just perused not minutes ago, and casually flips it open. “I’ll need you at Olwark Port, building six-seventeen at ten o’clock PM this Wednesday. Do not be late.”
A blood vessel in my eye nearly pops from straining so hard against reacting. I wrote a lot of shit down from that notebook, but that particular location on that particular day and time is seared into my memory. I made sure to memorize the hell out of that entry, if only for four little letters attached to them that Charles has omitted from his request:
OYPD.
Instead of gasping or blurting out something stupid that would tip my hand and get me strangled to death, I speak matter-of-factly. “Uh, that isn’t a problem. Should I take a taxi out that way, or—”
“I did consider that, and I’ve got an answer for you. But know that I’m not just giving this to you. At least not yet. Do well on the job, and you might be able to keep her.” As he speaks, he fishes around in another cabinet drawer, one in which I didn’t spend much time, before withdrawing a set of car keys. He casually slides them across the table to me. “1957 Ford Fairlane. Not the newest top of the line car, but it’ll do the trick for you. I apologize beforehand about the color.”
“The… color?”
He shakes his head and sighs. “You’ll know it when you see it in the employee lot. I’m not a fan of the color, but it wasn’t my choice. Belonged to a former Herdster employee who left it in our care.”
I stifle a gulp, realizing what that probably means. “O-okay. Thank you, Charles.”
He extends another garish smile, its undertones so drowned in murky subterfuge they’re almost entirely imperceptible. “Oh, and one more thing, Samuel. Please don’t share this with Pierce.”
I almost don’t want to ask, but I feel it would be more incriminating to not do so. “Why?”
“This is a sensitive mission, and one I do not think he is well-suited for. I know the two of you are beginning to get along, but there will come times when you’ll need to operate autonomously of him, and this is the first of those. So, please, keep it to yourself.”
I hesitate before acknowledging. “I understand. What about Marty?”
His smile falters, but only for a split second. “Martin is being included on this job, but I’ll be making a similar request of him to keep it from Pierce. I’ll be informing him of his duties once we get to Santiago’s Bar.”
Part of me wants to ask if Marty has been given this sort of assignment before, but… he must have, right? Especially if Charles didn’t need to take Marty aside privately like he did me.
His palms lightly clap the tabletop as he prepares to rise from his seat. “Well! That settles your transportation! Let’s head over to Santiago’s. You can get a feel for how she drives.”
His imposing gray figure straightens and I quickly get to my feet in response. With a wave of his hand, he offers me first egress from his office. I follow him down the hall to the employee parking garage, within which he points me toward a vehicle tucked into an unused corner. Its color can only be described as loud, the two-tone white and lime green seeming to project their own source of dazzling light from the darkened space.
Sheesh. If I end up keeping this thing, it’s gonna need a paint job.
Charles climbs behind the wheel of his Buick Roadmaster parked in a convenient reserved space near the entrance, and I follow suit in my new, ostentatious mode of transportation. He waits for me at the exit to the parking garage and, as I pull up behind him, he begins the journey toward Santiago’s. To my surprise, the Ford drives like a dream. Its steering is responsive and it manages the few turns we have to make on Old York’s packed streets with aplomb. It offers little resistance when accelerating, the disused engine purring happily at being given purpose again. I expected the thing to be a heap of rattling bolts and dislodging rust, but this isn’t a bad ride at all.
I briefly consider pawing at the radio to find my favorite jazz station before my mind wanders. What the hell am I gonna do about Wednesday? When I was in Charles’s office privately, I scribbled everything I could from his black-bound notebook onto the sheets I handed Pierce. Most of it was comprised of dates tied to either names or abbreviations, neither of which I really understood. I didn’t see anything about Murphy or his pool hall, unless it was hidden in one of those cryptic entries. However, one day and location stood out to me. Wednesday, September 2nd. Olwark Port.
And, of course, the initials OYPD. Unmistakably the Old York Police Department. There was no context attached to it. No names, no notes, no further clues as to the purpose behind its inclusion. Whether the initials mean that the police are involved in some way or not isn’t clear, but after the conversation Aubrey had with me I get the terrible feeling that there’s something fishy going on.
I omitted the OYPD notation from the frantic scrawling I turned over to Pierce. After all, it’s the reason I ultimately agreed to help him with his mysterious and sudden request. Aubrey had asked me to keep an eye out for anything regarding the police, and I thought prowling around Charles’s office would be an opportunity to get some information. I had no idea that I’d instantly come across the letters, let alone they’d be attached to a rendezvous to which I’ve now been assigned.
And what do I do about Pierce? Charles told me outright that I shouldn’t tell him about this special assignment. But isn’t that what Pierce warned me about? That Charles isn’t to be trusted?
Raptor Christ. I just want one easy day. This is a nightmare.
Several minutes on the stoplight-riddled roads of Old York bring us to Santiago’s Bar. It’s far enough from the bustling portions of the city that parking spots aren’t yet a premium, so after Charles pulls into his seemingly reserved spot, I find my new car an opening not too far down the sidewalk. The triceratops’s tail disappears past the door to the bar as I approach; a moment later, I push my way into the establishment.
The last time I stood in this well-kept bar and restaurant, I was certain my life was going to come to an end. Now, the mood is drastically different as a gaggle of dinosaurs drink and make merry, entertaining one another with anecdotes and gossip. Liquid relaxation pours liberally from the innumerable immaculate bottles that rest along the mirror-backed shelves. I’m already recognizing faces from the Herdsters headquarters, including the woman who processed my paperwork when I first got hired. A few unfamiliar eyebrows raise in my direction, but they quickly fall when Marty waves me over to an open seat at his table.
“Heya, Sam! Glad you could join us!” The diplodocus quaffs a sizable portion of his beer, sending it down his elongated neck like it was a bendy straw. Before I can spend too long trying to imagine the miracle of anatomy occurring inside his extensive throat, Pierce’s eyes come to rest on me. He carefully watches me as I cross the room and sit with the two of them, just as analytical as Charles but without the same vibe of underhanded design. Whether that’s my imagination or not, I can’t be certain. A burp escapes Marty’s mouth before he smiles at me. “What’ll ya have, bud?”
I hadn’t even considered a drink before this moment; too many other things racing through my mind. “Uhh… they got spiced rum?”
“Sam, my guy, they got everything from beer and wine to freakin’ absinthe, though that shit’ll knock you on your ass like that!” He snaps his stout fingers to emphasize the point. With a grin, his head raises higher and he calls toward the bar. “Hey, Lou! Spiced rum for my friend Sam!”
An affirmative voice answers Marty, followed closely by the telltale clatter of glassware. Before his head descends to eye level again, a familiar voice catches his attention from across the restaurant. “Martin. May I speak to you for a moment?”
Charles reclines in the corner three-quarter circle booth that overlooks the entire establishment. It seems to be his usual residence. Tucked away from prying ears and without blind spot, it’s clearly a well-chosen sanctuary for a man of his stature. Offering a quick, apologetic shrug, Marty rises from his seat and traverses the restaurant to sit with our boss. His head lowers so the two can speak quietly; I already know the subject of their conversation.
As I shift in my seat, Pierce’s continued gaze startles me. He nurses a glass of brandy and appears to be several rounds behind Marty based on the collection of empty beer mugs in front of the now vacant seat. Pierce doesn’t say anything out loud. Instead, the minuscule flare of his diamond-shaped irises communicates everything I need to know:
We’ll talk later.
The bartender, a portly tyrannosaurus gentleman with pock marks peppering his impressive snout, sets a glass in front of me, the amber liquid within swirling with the motion. He gives a polite but almost indiscernible nod as he heads back to the other side of the bar, demanding no payment for the drink. Whether it’s on the house or I’ve just opened a tab, I suppose I’ll find out later.
I take a quick sip of the rum, its pleasant burn coating my tongue and working its way down my throat. The warm distraction doesn’t last long as the discomforting, silent presence of Pierce still lingers. I can’t talk to him about anything important, nor can I just leave things as quiet as they’ve been—it might be even more suspicious if we aren’t at least sharing a few meager words.
I clear my throat. “So… Pierce. You, uh… you got a family?” I already half-know the answer to the question after Marty’s chided remark back at the fancy salad joint, but I hope—
“Yes.” His narrowed eyes punctuate the curt response, followed by more silence.
Welp. Guess that’s the end of that line of questioning from Sam the expert conversationalist. I take another awkward sip of my rum as Pierce’s eyes finally wander away from my frazzled face. He seems to peer at a horizon of deep thought, but what might be going through that hulking stegosaurus’s mind… I have no clue. Is he mulling things over regarding Charles? Trying to deduce where my allegiances lie, or what Charles pulled me aside for? Of course, the fact that I’m even sitting across from him instead of lying dead behind the Herdsters headquarters should be proof enough that Charles doesn’t know anything. But I just can’t—
Pierce lets out an irritated huff. “A wife. And two kids.” His eyes flick to me for a moment before wandering away again. “I don’t like talking about family. Not with…” His words trail off. I notice his tail twitching behind his seat, the bone-colored spikes flanking its tip swaying like buoys atop restless waters.
I lower my head and apologize instinctively.
He sighs. “I know you’re just trying to make conversation. I’d rather it be a different topic.” His claw taps the surface between us before his focus returns to me. “How about baseball? You got a team?”
“Uh—well, I don’t follow it religiously, but I try to catch games when I can. I’m definitely a Yankees fan.”
Almost as though I uttered a magical spell, Pierce’s eyes light up and a grin overtakes him. “Is that so? I tell ya, they’ve had some rough years but I think they really got a shot this time. Especially with hitters like Yogi Terra—can that fella swing or what?”
I can’t help but smile along with him. “I think he hides powder kegs in his arms or somethin’!”
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To my complete and utter shock, Pierce laughs. The guffaw rumbles forth from his stomach in decompressing waves. The entire mood of the evening brightens; though no one else is presently seated with us, the mirth seems to be infectious as several of the bar-adorning patrons share their own laugh together.
Pierce raps his knuckles against the table as he recomposes himself. “You can say that again! The game last weekend where he hit that grand slam—I figured the ball was goin’ to the fuckin’ moon!”
The next several minutes are a dervish of factoids and gushing praise for what is apparently a big-time passion of his. I do my best to be polite and engaging, even though some of the statistics he rattles off go right over my head. It’s a welcome change of pace from his usual stoic and reserved demeanor around me, showing a side of himself I didn’t even know existed before now.
A few minutes go by before Marty rejoins us. A grin spreads across his face as the topic of discussion becomes clear to him, and he interrupts the first time Pierce stops to take a breath. “Uh oh. You got him started on baseball? Better buckle up for a long night, Sammy.”
“Shut the fuck up, Marty. So, anyway, like I was sayin’, Mickey Mangle’s batting average might be a little low, but he’s slugging at four-fifty-five and he hit six homers this month! I still think he’s got a solid shot at MVP!”
The three of us keep at the conversation for quite a while, making predictions and waxing poetic about the fate of players traded away and the prospects of those who have joined the team’s ranks. I’m not a huge baseball fan but I realize it’s pretty late in the season, and despite having some stellar players it ain’t looking like the Yankees are gonna make the playoffs this year, let alone the World Series. Still, I can’t help but admire Pierce’s boundless optimism and devout allegiance to his favorite team.
I’m uncertain how much time goes by, but eventually the other Herdster employees begin filing out. Given the dwindling but still present light outside the drape-covered storefront windows, I surmise that it’s a little past eight. Charles also vacates his position of power, offering a “Have a good evening, gentlemen,” with his movement toward the front entrance. His gaze lingers on me as he passes, wordlessly reiterating his warning from earlier.
The table conversation begins to elude me as my mind wanders. I still don’t know what I’m gonna do about Pierce. I mean, it seems like we’re getting along well enough now, but what’ll happen if I spill the beans on this secret mission Charles lined up for me? There’s no way it’s gonna go well, that’s for sure. Plus I need to tell Aubrey about it; it’d just add an extra layer of headache for Pierce to try to get involved, too.
Maybe I’ll just keep this one to myself and we can reconvene afterward on how to proceed with Charles.
A few minutes go by before I finish off my drink and give the most sincere sleepy stretch that I can. “Well, fellas. It’s been a lovely night chattin’ with you, but I gotta get home. I’ll see you both tomorrow, have a good night.”
Marty grins at me, his words slurring. “G’night to you, buckaroo! Get home safe, awlright?”
I give him a serious look. “Double for you, pal.” This elicits a hearty chuckle from my inebriated dinosaur friend. Pierce gives a quick nod and the semblance of a bid farewell via grunt before continuing his in-depth analysis of the failings of every other baseball team in the division.
Withdrawing my wallet, I approach the bar and ask how much I owe. The response given me isn’t a number, but instead a quick tap of a glass mug stuffed with several bills of varying denominations. The word “Tips” is scrawled in black pen on a cocktail napkin, its taped edges yellowed with time. Shrugging, I stuff a few singles into the mug and wish the restaurant employees a good night. With one last summary glance at the establishment, I push through the front door and into the perpetually muggy air. The sun is almost fully disappeared at this point, its lingering beams painting the clouded sky in fading oranges and reds.
I take a few steps toward the nearest bus stop before pausing. Oh, yeah. New car.
Fishing the keys out of my pocket, I cross the street to the lime green monstrosity. If it weren’t for the gaudy color it’d be quite a handsome ride. Can’t argue with the price, though, so I suppose this radioactive gradient ain’t the end of the world. The cushions come to rest under me as I scoot behind the wheel. I didn’t have much time to fiddle with everything’s position earlier, causing me to feel diminutive on the drive over here. Whoever owned this car before me was a much larger creature.
I bring the steering wheel down a few clicks so it doesn’t dwarf me. The key slides into the ignition, but before turning it I hesitate. Is it too late to give Aubrey a call? She’s probably still up, right? And I’d love to hear her voice again, maybe even—
A sudden kerchunk and groan of metal cause me to spin toward the passenger seat, recoiling away from the massive intruder that invites himself into my vehicle. The blood pulsing through my eyes keeps me from immediately discerning the shape, but as he pulls the door closed behind him and turns my way, recognition slowly dawns on me.
“P-Pierce? Wh—”
“What did Charles talk to you about?” His stern tone does nothing to alleviate my heart palpitations; his demeanor is a complete reversal of the joviality he demonstrated in the restaurant just a few minutes ago.
I gulp. “It wasn’t—that is, I didn’t—”
Midnight blue orbs with diamond irises bore their way through my skull. Words so icy they could cut through this ceaseless heat repeat themselves with deliberate menace. “What did Charles talk to you about?”
Well. There goes the resolve I had about keeping my trap shut. “It w-was a job. A s-special job, I guess. He… told me not to tell you about it.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that so? And you planned to do what he told you? Keep me in the dark?”
“N-no! I mean, I was gonna—”
“Did you already forget what I told you about him? This is exactly the way he operates, manipulating people into being at each other’s throats.” His teeth grit into a scowl. “If you let him worm his way into your head, you’ll be his puppet, and I’ll have no choice but to—”
Now it’s my turn to cut him off as the words blurt from my mouth. “For crying out loud, Pierce! I’m not in Charles’s pocket! I don’t trust the guy, why would I after everything you told me?!” The stegosaurus stares at me as I catch my breath and try to decelerate my heartbeat. “He told me specifically not to tell you about this meeting. Basically threatened me. Said it’s some special job for me, Marty, maybe some other guys, I don’t know. He told me nothing about the job aside from it happening on Wednesday night at Olwark Port.”
Pierce’s eye twitches before he slides a hand into the centerfold of his jacket. I wince, fully anticipating a slender steel barrel pointing in my direction, but instead he withdraws two folded sheets of paper. The ink adorning their surface is immediately recognizable. He peruses the page, flips to the second, and scans it before pausing.
“Six-one-seven. Building six-seventeen at the port, then. At ten PM. It’s here, all right.” His eyes flick up to me. “Not sure if anything else on this form is of great use, but this is certainly an appointment Charles means to keep.”
“I’m sorry, Pierce. I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you. I’m just at my wit’s end with all these threats and orders.” My hand moves up to the side of my head. “Not even one easy day since I started here. Why the hell did I take this job?”
Pierce doesn’t answer my question, instead stuffing the pages back into his jacket pocket and looking forward. “Go check out the building. See what we’re gonna be dealing with.”
I blink. “R-right now?”
“Yes, right now. You have a car, and my guess is security will be pretty minimal. Slip in, check out what’s in that building, and report back to me tomorrow.”
“What about you? Can’t you—”
“I have a wife and two kids, remember?” He tilts his head down to eye me past his snout. “You got family waitin’ on you to get home?”
“N-no, but…” My palms turn upward as I gesture around myself. “Did you see this car? You think I’m gonna sneak anywhere in this Technicolor terror?”
“Park a few blocks away.”
A hundred other excuses fly through my head, but I already know none of them will work. Pierce has decided that I have to do this mission. Guess that means I’m doing it. Yet another order.
He seems to read my thoughts and softens his expression. “It’s just a quick look around. Nothing dangerous, we just need to get a feel for what’s going on.” His heavy hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “I’ll remember these favors you’re doing for me, Sam. You and me can go far in this organization if we stick together.”
Before I can get another word out, he throws open the passenger door and exits the car. He strolls down the sidewalk half a block before arriving at his jet black vehicle. A few moments later, its tail lights disappear down the still darkening street.
All I can do is grip the steering wheel, the engine sitting lifeless and unignited in front of me. I barely had any time to process his demand, let alone form an adequate protestation. It’s late at night, the job sounds risky, and I’m the one putting my neck on the line by scouting this place. The notion of simply going home crosses my mind but is quickly discarded. Avoiding this unwanted responsibility is out of the question; Pierce would tear me several new holes if I came to him empty-handed tomorrow.
This is just the rest of my life, I guess. Fulfilling the wishes of beings ten times stronger than I am who care more about themselves than about me. The urge to give into the bubbling resentment inside of me is quelled by just one thought: the light blue scales and furtive smile of the woman with whom I’ve fallen in love.
Aubrey.
With a sigh, my hand finds the key and turns it, causing the steel and cylinders a few feet in front of me to work their magic and begin propelling me forward. As much as I want to shirk this task, I need to do it for Aubrey even more so than for Pierce. She wanted to know about any involvement the OYPD might have with the Herdsters, and whatever’s in this warehouse might be the key to the police’s entanglement with my employers.
It’s no short ride to the docks that line the eastern seaboard; the sun completes its journey downward during my drive, leaving only the inky blackness of a still sweltering sky in its wake. I squint to make out the signage pointing toward the appropriate cluster of shipping warehouses. Looks like the six-hundreds are near the southern end of this particular dock, with dozens of buildings lying between me and my destination.
I park the car several structures away from where I perceive building six-seventeen to lie, being sure to douse the headlamps even further before that. Glancing down at my clothes, I utter a silent breath of relief that I didn’t wear anything too bright today. The breath quickly turns to a groan as I realize that I’m without a source of illumination. Digging around in the car’s glove compartment and glancing under the seats proves fruitless; no flashlight, no lighter, not even a book of matches. I’ve never been regretful for not having taken up smoking until now.
I slip out of the car, being careful to close the door quietly behind myself. Aside from the throaty frogs and humming bugs, life seems sparse at this time of night. A few dim bulbs that hang from nearby poles offer minimal assistance as my eyes strain against the darkness, trying to make out any shapes that may find my presence here an intrusion. When none make themselves apparent, I begin moving forward.
The concrete hides my footsteps well enough, but I still do my best to move stealthily, sticking to the shadows as I slink past several warehouses. As I arrive at building six-sixteen, I flatten my back against its exterior, peeking around the corner and through the space between the structures. Nothing. The opposite end of the warehouse faces the ocean with about thirty feet of concrete between the building and the water. From what I saw of the other similar buildings flanking this one, large dock doors are on both ends, some for seafaring supply access and others for anything that may travel in by land.
However, the similarities with its neighbors end there as the decrepit nature of this structure becomes apparent. What little brick still holds its foundation in place crumbles at the faintest touch, and its wooden supports splinter and rot before my eyes. Whatever they’re housing inside this ruin must not be very valuable. If it was, they’d certainly hold it somewhere a bit more structurally sound. That said, Charles brought me in to run “security and cleanup”…
Yeah, it must not be anything valuable.
I cautiously step over to a door on the side of the building. Its small, cracked window doesn’t shed any light from within, though that’s no reason to get clumsy now. I test the knob, gently twisting it. Unlocked. With a soft creak, the door swings inward.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness within. Small slit windows near the top of the two-story high structure offer the faintest trickle of moonlight. I squint, desperately scanning the surrounding area for any signs of a slumbering security guard, but the coast appears clear. I nudge the door closed, peeking through the glass once more before beginning my search.
Well, two things are for certain. First, this warehouse isn’t any nicer on the inside than it is on the outside, with the heavy musk of mildew and metal hanging in the air like a damp blanket. Second, there’s definitely something being stored here. Dozens of large wooden crates are stacked up, claiming much of the building’s central space with their presence. I can faintly make out a narrow staircase leading up to an access platform above me, likely affixed with pulleys for moving around said boxes.
I move toward the closest crate without others piled on top of it, squinting to try and make out any discernible writing on one of its surfaces. With how miserably low the light is, all I perceive is black against shadow. My hands fumble through the darkness, fidgeting with its edges, trying to find a place for my fingers to squeeze between and pry its lid up. Even if I was successful, I doubt I’d be able to make out the crate’s contents any better than a deaf man could identify celebrity voice impressions.
Stepping back with a huff, I wipe the moisture from my brow with a sleeve. Between the oppressively arid night air and the stuffy confines of this sauna of a warehouse, I find myself wishing I was anywhere else. Glancing around reveals nothing further of note, and the foolish lack of preparation in having no source of illumination causes me to curse under my breath.
Fuckin’ waste of time. I keep getting pushed around and end up with—
Suddenly, a bright beam passes overhead, split into a half dozen smaller columns of light by the boxes separating me and its wielder. I drop down, crouching behind the nearby crate as much as possible, and hold my breath. The splintered rays sweep again in the other direction, followed by a heavy sigh and… footsteps.
Shit. There was a security guard. How did I miss him? Stupid, stupid. I make a start toward the back door through which I entered, but realize from the now-available visibility that I’d pass directly through this guy’s line of sight. There’s nothing around for me to hide under or inside of, except—
A closet, at least what I think is one, pressed into an outcropping of the back wall next to the staircase. Its crumbling wooden planks might offer enough of a barrier for me to avoid notice. Still crouching, I scurry over to it, praying to whichever deity will hear me that it’s not locked. It opens outward, and as quietly and cautiously as possible I squeeze myself between the gap before gently pulling it closed.
Not a moment too soon, either, as less than a second after I tuck myself away the source of light sweeps itself across the spot I had crouched just moments ago. All I can make out is a vague silhouette behind the flashlight’s single piercing eye as its wielder grumbles in a two-pack-a-day rasp. “Probably those fuckin’ raccoons again.” The scanning beam whisks across the space once more before turning away, my dazzled eyes making out a serpentine tail flicking irritably behind the security guard as he leaves.
The light slowly disappears behind the crates until the sound of an unlatching door echoes across the warehouse. An involuntary gasp escapes as the breath I had been holding expires. Sucking in air does nothing to lower my jacked heart rate. I can’t keep doing this… I’ll die of a stroke before I hit thirty.
As the panic eventually subsides, I let out a sigh. I’ll have to wait in this damned hiding hole for a few minutes, otherwise that guard will charge me down. There’s no way I can outrun whatever sort of dinosaur he is, so my only option is to sneak out once he’s distracted himself. I really hope he’s got a magazine or something. If he’s a diligent employee, I might be completely screwed.
A bit of movement from the corner of my eye nearly makes me leap out of my skin. I spin toward its source, meeting a pair—no, several pairs of beady black eyes staring apprehensively at me. The furred shapes cower behind a set of brooms and mops leaning against the edge of the closet, shrinking themselves as small as they can in the darkened corner. I must be blocking their exit. I offer an apologetic smile to the raccoons before peeking back through the door.
A few minutes of quiet go by before I muster up the courage to silently push the door open. Neither hide nor hair of the security guard can be seen, so I hustle over toward the entrance that began this fruitless adventure. Cautious peeks around the crate corners give me the confidence to reach the door, peer through its small window one final time, and gingerly pull it open before retreating into the waiting darkness outside.
Finally feeling a sense of relief in the veil of shadows a good seventy-five feet away from the back entrance of the warehouse, I glance at the structure once more. All I gathered from this excursion is that the place is a dump on the outside and housing something serious inside. Something sealed tight that needs guarding at this hour. Something that’s gonna call for police involvement in a few days…
There’s no use thinking about it. Not right now, at least. Not by myself. I climb behind the wheel of my loaner and ignite the engine, still being careful to not turn on my headlights too soon and draw unwanted attention. I’m probably in the clear but, as dad always said, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
After exiting the port, I bring the car to a stop several blocks down the road. It’s pretty late at night for a random human to be using a payphone on a dark street, but I don’t see anyone wandering around who might give me trouble. It should be a quick call, anyway. I just hope it’s not too late for me to be calling her. The dime slips from my finger and disappears into the metallic slot before the dial tone comes to life, and I tap out the number I’ve already memorized. Two rings later, her voice wafts into my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Aubrey. It’s me.”
“Well, hi, Sammy. Pleasure to hear from you, but—” She pauses. “It’s almost ten o’clock. What’s up?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry to bug you this late…” My hand unconsciously finds its way to the back of my neck
“It’s no trouble. I mean, I was getting ready to get to bed, but I don’t mind. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m okay. Sorta. I—well…” I reflexively look over my shoulders, knowing that nobody would be eavesdropping but feeling nervous all the same. “It’s probably something we should discuss in person.”
“Is that so?” She lets out an almost playful hum. “I wonder if it’s just that you want to see me again.”
Her flirtatious words make my heart skip a beat. Truthfully, I do want to see her again. I want to see her many more times than that. After she unburdened herself of her traumatic past to me and we confessed our love for one another on Friday night, she was so exhausted that we couldn’t act on our carnal desires for one another. However, a solid night’s sleep brought resolution to that plight, and I woke up to a ravenous woman staring into my eyes. She brought her lips to mine before I could even finish yawning out a “Good morning,” desperately prying away my clothing as I reciprocated her passion.
I’m glad that all happened on a Saturday. I would’ve had to call in sick if it was during the work week.
“I mean, yeah, of course I want to see you again. But… well, I’ve got some news regarding what you asked me to look into with the Herdsters.”
I hear her sit up. “You do? What sort of—” She cuts herself off. “Right. In person. Why don’t you come over? I’m already in my pajamas.”
“Sure, that’d be fine.”
A twinge of concern fills her words. “Oh. You’ll probably have to call the cab company to get one out your way this late—”
“I’ve got a car now.”
Her concern is replaced by surprise. “You do? When did that happen?”
“More to tell you once I get there, I suppose.”
Though she sighs, I can hear the smile in her voice. “Alright, mystery man. You’ve got lots to tell me when you get here. You have my address, right?”
One of the many things we did together over the weekend besides making love was to exchange important information with one another, the sort of thing one should know about the person with whom they’re romantically involved. I tap the pocket containing my wallet, knowing the sheet of paper with her address is safely tucked between its folds. “Yes I do. See you in about twenty?”
“Okay, Sammy. See you then.”
The clatter of my dime into the payphone’s guts follows the metallic snap of its receiver. The butterflies in my stomach persist, making me feel like a school kid with a playground crush all over again. I’m really over the moon for this gal, but I have to do my best to keep my head straight. I stare at the parked car next to me, its offensively bright colors standing out in the murky darkness like a glowing beacon. Being “gifted” a car by my potentially maniacal boss, getting assigned to some sort of security detail for a warehouse meet-up involving the police in some capacity, and the stegosaurus with whom I’m just starting to get chummy demanding I investigate the meet-up location ahead of time… I can’t help but feel like a wilted leaf stranded inside of a cyclone.
With a deep breath, I clear my head. I’m not alone. I’ve got a beautiful, strong, capable woman that I can confide within and try to figure things out. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this, and we’ll do it together.
I just, uh… have to make sure we talk about things tonight before we wear each other out.