Not allowed to have any other dreams in a three piece suit.
He walked out of the school, adjusting the cufflinked sleeves of his shirt.
Neither the shirt or the cufflinks was expensive, nor was the suit that covered it, and they would know.
Rayon and synthetics reeked of dismal failure. This wasn't the sweet, softly salty waft of Italian silks and wools, with imported cotten, this had thrift shop in it, and that couldn't ever be washed out.
Ordinarily, he wouldn't mind, but it was important to be taken seriously today.
He walked into the hotel, and immediately spotted the large thing standing with its back to the doors. This wasn't even a human being, it was a six-foot tall thumb that someone had painstakingly painted and shaded to look like a thick-necked man in a double-breasted suit. They were both trying very hard not to notice the other, but he had to pass Mr. Thumb, and take the right-hand elevator to the second floor, where he then took the other elevator, past another fingeresque gentleman.
He arrived on the fifth floor, accessible by this means only. It was small, almost cramped, in stark contrast to the sprawling foyer, the grand ballroom, and plentiful dining rooms below. It was no less luxuriously detailed, but it was surprisingly devoid of persons. Having been up here before, he was prepared for it, steeled for the sudden, ghostly emptiness of the hallway with three doors.
The door on the one side led to the elevator. The other two doors led to the same room, but he wasn't sure if there was some subtle, unspoken difference. He had always used the leftmost of the two, and felt it could be wise to be somewhat predictable in this matter. If they had wanted him dead, they wouldn't go to elaborate extremes, like rigging a door. Mr. Thumb would have just followed him into the elevator, the gun in his suit coat pocket cocked, or his jackknife palmed in one of those immense trash compactor hands. Maybe that was it, he reflected grimly about being crushed to death between those huge hands. "Yeah, I'm not worth the cost of a bullet, of throwing away a brand new gun." The place was covered in cameras anyway. If he had used the right-hand door, it wouldn't have surprised anyone on the other side. They didn't need security thugs up here.
He imagined they would be on him if he stepped out of line, instantly, appearing from some unseen door.
He turned the knob. The door almost opened of its own volition.
The white light flowing, gently curtained with linens, from the windows made the figure in front of him a shadowed outline. This was as it had been before. He stepped up to the chairs which formed a perimeter in front of the silhouetted, square shouldered person, a person softer in outline, somehow, than the man that had indicated the duffel full of cash and drugs the last time. An older woman's voice reached him like pipe-smoke crosses a study. That was the difference: whomever it had been last time, they were gone, replaced by this woman.
"I suppose you know that you're in trouble with us?"
She sounded fifty-something, but not at all bad-looking. He was surprised when she turned and came over to him, her face suddenly visible. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go at all. He wasn't ever supposed to see this person, to be able to identify them if pressed. As she sat down on the chaise across from him, in a delicately crafted women's suit, she carried twice her usual weight, and she knew it. She must know it, or she wouldn't have come over to him. He was about to die, and that certainty closed around his throat like Mr. Thumb's hands.
"Actually, I was going to ask if you needed me to-"
"We don't, and the only person the organization -needs-," he could plainly hear the italicized letters of the last word, "is me."
"Oh." It was all he could think to say. In every movie with someone dealing with the mafia, or a drug lord, or something, the main characters were always so clever, so quick to shoot back verbally. Why did he suddenly feel so stupid, like a scolded child?
"You've run up quite the debt to us, on that card we've given you. Or, judging by the look on your face, someone else has."
He realized he was pulling a face, and tried to settle into the studded leather chair nearest him, tried to relax that look of horror off his stupid face.
She spoke gently and calmly to him. She would protect him, he felt. He pulled out his wallet and searched desperately through the year-old receipts and scraps. The yellow and white card was gone. How could he not have noticed it missing? The weight of that card was heavier than anything else he owned or carried.
He felt defeated, he looked defeated, and he could feel that too.
"How would you like to handle this? Do you know who has our money, our should I put you into hiding?"
Ordinarily, he wouldn't have liked the connotations of being put into anything, but the way she said it now, it was air after being held underwater.
"I'd like to make a call." He spoke quietly. The phone rang, trying to connect him to his girlfriend's number. While it rang, he contemplated the choice set in front of him. He could die trying to get back any amount of money serious enough to result in this perverse situation, or he could cut all ties from everything he knew, and become someone different. It wasn't a bad thought, until he realized that he might be safe if he did.
If he was safe, then they would come after the next person closest to him. He would take his girlfriend with him. No, she wouldn't go if it meant she couldn't ever see her father again, her sisters and brothers. He wouldn't be able to see his family, either. They'd be watched forever, possibly tortured, for any indication of the debtor's whereabouts. If he left, his family would be in danger...
---
This is the point in the story when I awakened. I'm not sure what to make of all that.
Neither the shirt or the cufflinks was expensive, nor was the suit that covered it, and they would know.
Rayon and synthetics reeked of dismal failure. This wasn't the sweet, softly salty waft of Italian silks and wools, with imported cotten, this had thrift shop in it, and that couldn't ever be washed out.
Ordinarily, he wouldn't mind, but it was important to be taken seriously today.
He walked into the hotel, and immediately spotted the large thing standing with its back to the doors. This wasn't even a human being, it was a six-foot tall thumb that someone had painstakingly painted and shaded to look like a thick-necked man in a double-breasted suit. They were both trying very hard not to notice the other, but he had to pass Mr. Thumb, and take the right-hand elevator to the second floor, where he then took the other elevator, past another fingeresque gentleman.
He arrived on the fifth floor, accessible by this means only. It was small, almost cramped, in stark contrast to the sprawling foyer, the grand ballroom, and plentiful dining rooms below. It was no less luxuriously detailed, but it was surprisingly devoid of persons. Having been up here before, he was prepared for it, steeled for the sudden, ghostly emptiness of the hallway with three doors.
The door on the one side led to the elevator. The other two doors led to the same room, but he wasn't sure if there was some subtle, unspoken difference. He had always used the leftmost of the two, and felt it could be wise to be somewhat predictable in this matter. If they had wanted him dead, they wouldn't go to elaborate extremes, like rigging a door. Mr. Thumb would have just followed him into the elevator, the gun in his suit coat pocket cocked, or his jackknife palmed in one of those immense trash compactor hands. Maybe that was it, he reflected grimly about being crushed to death between those huge hands. "Yeah, I'm not worth the cost of a bullet, of throwing away a brand new gun." The place was covered in cameras anyway. If he had used the right-hand door, it wouldn't have surprised anyone on the other side. They didn't need security thugs up here.
He imagined they would be on him if he stepped out of line, instantly, appearing from some unseen door.
He turned the knob. The door almost opened of its own volition.
The white light flowing, gently curtained with linens, from the windows made the figure in front of him a shadowed outline. This was as it had been before. He stepped up to the chairs which formed a perimeter in front of the silhouetted, square shouldered person, a person softer in outline, somehow, than the man that had indicated the duffel full of cash and drugs the last time. An older woman's voice reached him like pipe-smoke crosses a study. That was the difference: whomever it had been last time, they were gone, replaced by this woman.
"I suppose you know that you're in trouble with us?"
She sounded fifty-something, but not at all bad-looking. He was surprised when she turned and came over to him, her face suddenly visible. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go at all. He wasn't ever supposed to see this person, to be able to identify them if pressed. As she sat down on the chaise across from him, in a delicately crafted women's suit, she carried twice her usual weight, and she knew it. She must know it, or she wouldn't have come over to him. He was about to die, and that certainty closed around his throat like Mr. Thumb's hands.
"Actually, I was going to ask if you needed me to-"
"We don't, and the only person the organization -needs-," he could plainly hear the italicized letters of the last word, "is me."
"Oh." It was all he could think to say. In every movie with someone dealing with the mafia, or a drug lord, or something, the main characters were always so clever, so quick to shoot back verbally. Why did he suddenly feel so stupid, like a scolded child?
"You've run up quite the debt to us, on that card we've given you. Or, judging by the look on your face, someone else has."
He realized he was pulling a face, and tried to settle into the studded leather chair nearest him, tried to relax that look of horror off his stupid face.
She spoke gently and calmly to him. She would protect him, he felt. He pulled out his wallet and searched desperately through the year-old receipts and scraps. The yellow and white card was gone. How could he not have noticed it missing? The weight of that card was heavier than anything else he owned or carried.
He felt defeated, he looked defeated, and he could feel that too.
"How would you like to handle this? Do you know who has our money, our should I put you into hiding?"
Ordinarily, he wouldn't have liked the connotations of being put into anything, but the way she said it now, it was air after being held underwater.
"I'd like to make a call." He spoke quietly. The phone rang, trying to connect him to his girlfriend's number. While it rang, he contemplated the choice set in front of him. He could die trying to get back any amount of money serious enough to result in this perverse situation, or he could cut all ties from everything he knew, and become someone different. It wasn't a bad thought, until he realized that he might be safe if he did.
If he was safe, then they would come after the next person closest to him. He would take his girlfriend with him. No, she wouldn't go if it meant she couldn't ever see her father again, her sisters and brothers. He wouldn't be able to see his family, either. They'd be watched forever, possibly tortured, for any indication of the debtor's whereabouts. If he left, his family would be in danger...
---
This is the point in the story when I awakened. I'm not sure what to make of all that.