Get Pointy - The Sequel

Partially because I'm sick and partially because I'm at a loss for what to write about today (and yet I know exactly what I want to write about tomorrow : ) I am posting another benign novel excerpt:

The Point - Chapter 4 Excerpt

     He was ready. He got dressed in his uniform. The plastic bag with the name of the Chinese food restaurants' name on it was removed. The cartons were now in a plain brown paper bag. He drove to downtown Manhattan and parked on 2nd Avenue. He walked past 3rd Avenue, Lexington, and finally he was on Park Avenue. He walked to her building and stepped inside, "Delivery, 8C." His French accent was light and refined.

     "Hold on a minute." The doorman called upstairs, "Hey, there's no answer."

     He knew there wouldn't be. Harold Rosenbaum didn't get off work until well after 7PM, "I do not know about this, but I do know that someone named Rosenbaum called and ordered these meals. I will take them back, but I will not come again."

     The doorman thought a minute, he stopped Peter before he left for good, "Wait, go up, maybe there's something wrong with the line. If no one answers, come right back down."

     He stepped into the elevator and pressed 8. He got off, went directly to the exit and raced to the 9th floor, he didn't have much time. He opened her door using the keys, ran up to her bedroom and placed two cameras, one in the bathroom and one in the bedroom facing the bed - they were undetectable. He jumped several steps back downstairs with the paper bag in hand. He placed a camera in the kitchen along with the transmitter - she was rarely in the kitchen - and the last by the door facing the living space and her desk.

     He left, locking the door behind him, running back down to the 8th floor - leaving the bag in the compactor room - and took the elevator down to the lobby.

     "These people, how dare they make me wait while they check the bag. These filthy Americans!" He muttered to himself as he walked out and tossed one of his hands in the air.

     He got in his car and returned home. He thought of tossing out the jacket, but reconsidered; it might come in handy again. He went upstairs, with the jacket folded over his arm, the first thing he did after locking his door was go to his television and get a view of her home.

     The cameras worked perfectly, he had a great view of her couch and desk, the kitchen and eating area, a view of her huge walk-in shower, and her bed - but he knew how she operated, she would never bring anyone into her sanctuary - she did her whoring away from home.

     It was a bit satisfying, to know he would be able to watch her whenever he wanted without leaving home. He made sure the dvr was connected and on and went to sleep.

     5 o'clock in the morning was his waking hour. He got up and went into the bathroom to get ready, the floor was firm and set and he showered leaving a shadow of a beard behind. He put on a shirt, tie and slacks, grabbed his backpack stuffed with a dark blue jumpsuit and headed out.

     He punched in as he walked into the mailroom. There was a small army of men buzzing around packages, letters, boxes and equipment.

     "Hey, Pete! Over here." His new boss yelled at him from across the room. He walked to where Harry Blumenstein stood, "So what do I do?"

     "You take this cart to floors 16 and 17 and give the people their mail as you pick up. The numbers of the offices and cubicles match the numbers on these hanging folders. You can match the names too. You're early, but you can get started - come back here when you're done."

     "k." Peter walked out the door with the two tiered cart and towards the only elevator well leading down there - the freight elevators leading to every floor. He got in and punched 16, later he'd be punching the 4th floor, where her office was.

     He met many people on his run, a good deal wishing him a 'great!' first day. His run was simple and he gathered by talking to many of the admins that there wouldn't be much outgoing mail. He figured he probably had one of the slower runs. The floors were identical in layout and both dull and grey with niches for cubicles and offices lining the outer walls - like minimum security jail cells with benign lifeless prisoners - for the most part. Security seemed to be low on his route; the floors he serviced were the Corporate Responsibility, Employee Retention and Purchasing departments. He knew that the departments had no information on her that he would be interested in, but he also knew that the lack of the level of security he might find on the 4th floor could serve him well.

      "Hey man, what's up?" A black man got on the freight elevator with a cart of his own.

     "Nothin man, just trying to make it through day 1. What floors are you?" Peter put his foot on the brace by the carts rear wheels.

     "I got 14 and 12. So what are you here for? Tryin to pull a 'Secret of my Success'?"

     "Whatdaya mean?"

     "You know, like that Michael J. Fox guy - what's with the tie?" His tie was flipped up by 2 black fingers.

     "It's what they told me to wear. . . but I guess dress code goes out the window after a while, huh?" He leaned against the elevator wall.

     "Well. . . " the man took a look at Peter's ID clipped to the front pocket of his pants, "Peter, I guess so." the man let out a little laugh. "Gabriel man." Gabriel put his right hand out for a handshake.

     The elevator finally stopped at lower level 2 and they got out, "So what do I do now?" They rolled their carts to the mailroom.

     "You gotta sort for the next run. Plus run any packages you got." Gabriel pointed to a large stack of mail in a bin with Peter's name on it.

     "Oh. . ." The frown on Peter's face caused Gabriel to laugh raucously.

     His lunch break came quicker than he anticipated and happened to coincide with Gabriel's. Despite his best efforts, Peter stuck to the excuse he made not to take lunch together - he had to go to the post office. In fact, there was more truth in it than not. He did go to the Post Office - to rent a PO box, but even if he did not plan to go, he still would have found a way out of the lunch date.

     After the day's work was done, he left the premises and went to a diner 15 blocks away to eat dinner. He had stewed cabbage and water without dessert. The waitress that served him jokingly asked if he was on a diet. He didn't answer, but instead asked for a wedge of lemon with his water. That stopped all of her small talk.

     He finished with his dinner at about 7PM and went back to the office building he spent most of his day in earlier.

     "ID sir." The guard stood by an ID scanner. Peter showed it and swiped it then went to the elevator well stopping on the 4th floor. He searched the floor a bit, but finally found her office, which was open. He knew there was a camera recording his entrance, but there was no other way, her admin was here during the times that he might truly have cause to visit her office, and he doubted she would let him walk in and hide a camera along with a transmitter.

     He took his time to find a perfect spot for the camera where it would not be blocked by the door opening or closing, but still had a perfect view of her at her desk. He wrapped the transmitter in a plastic bag and buried it in the soil of her potted plant. He wiped his hands on a napkin, made sure he had all of his belongings and left.

     As he walked back to the elevator well, a guard approached him, "ID."

     Peter took out his ID. The guard looked him over for a second, "Alright."

     Peter left and was on his way to his night job. Peter was back in the Bronx by 8:30. He walked to Bronxwood Avenue and jogged up the steps of Harrison High School. He banged on the door, after the first knock there was an answer, "All right!" An elderly man dressed in a blue jumpsuit smelling of pine and rum opened the big metal door.

     "And who might you be?" His Irish accent was there although not prominent.

     "I'm Peter. . . you know, the guy you hired to cleanup in the night - you remember? Quiet an off the books?" Peter stood at the front door with his backpack slung over his shoulder staring at the old man.

     "Bout time you got here, where’s your clothes? Unless you plan to scrub shit an graffiti in your nancy boy clothes." He and Peter walked down the hallways as Mr. Flannigan showed Peter where the bathrooms were on the floor, explaining that they would be in the same location on every floor except the basement where the locker rooms were. He didn't really need a tour, he spent 4 years here being tortured in one way or another.

      "Can’t bend like I use to, but you go an get to it. I'll be up front waiting for you. The mop, bucket and such are over there. . . . and, I'll know. . ."

     "You'll know what?"

     "Why, I'll know if you fuck it up son." Peter walked away and got to work. He finished in exactly 1 hour attacking the dirt and grime ferociously. By 10:00 PM he was home to start it all over again.

     Adrienne ate another dinner with Carl, this one not as somber as the first couple. She wondered, as they talked about his family, what he would do once he was all alone in this big quiet house again. She wondered what she would do without his company - she did know what she hoped not to do, but old habits die hard. In the mist of their conversation the phone rung, "I'll get it." He'd already forgotten that she was a temporary guest and not family  - not someone with the right to answer the phone.

     He came back into the kitchen with a sour face, "That was Chief Wallace. He says the Andersons and the Fosters do want to hold a memorial service for your friends. . . . . . .but they would prefer if you not show."

     "Thank you for your kindness Carl, but I am almost positive they demanded that I not be there. It's alright, I don't need them or anyone else to help me remember my friends, I just wanted to make sure they were remembered." As Adrienne spoke, tears ran down her face. Carl knew in his heart that she wanted to share her grief with people who felt the same way as she did about her friends, but it couldn't be him. He didn't know them that well and he was a recluse. All he could do was go to her and give her a hug and she hugged back with all of the hurt and pain inside her.

     When they parted her lips muttered a question, "When is it?"

     "Tomorrow at noon."

     "Will you go for me?"

     "I'll go for you."

     "Thank you for everything, everything."

     "You're welcome to everything, everything." She wished he had been her father, she wished she could bring him with her to nurture her and protect her. . . .she wished.

Tomorrow, Play Time Is Over. . .