Unfinished Business
Players: Ishtar_Marik and NPC Steven Gant
Scene: Business and caffeine, only this time on very different ground; some old ghosts should not be disturbed. Backdated to Friday, May 4, 2007. (The coffee's domestic this time.)
Friday, May 4, 2007; voicemail sent to Marik Ishtar from an unrecognized number at 11:40 a.m.:
"Hey, Marik? Steve Gant here. Sorry I missed you, guess we're playing phone-tag today. I got your message-- you're already finished with digging up the info on my clients? Holy shit; fast work, man, and I appreciate it. Look, I've taken a couple of days off to go through my father's effects at his apartment-- I've been putting it off for months, but the lease is about to be up and... nevermind. Anyway, I'm in the middle of a stack of boxes; think you could meet me here? Call me back and I'll give you an address and directions, you've got my number-- **beeeep**
* * * * *
It had been an early start for Marik considering his meetings with Foreign Affairs down town, and it was during this time his phone remained silent. However it wasn't too long before he received the voice mail from Steven, called him back, and was on his way to the apartment. It had been a small challenge finding all the information for the list of clients in such a short amount of time, not to mention his other weekly obligations. Parking a ways down the street from lack of available space, Marik made his way up the stairs of the apartment complex and reached the door. Checking the address once more to ensure it was the correct number, Marik knocked on the door.
There was a brief thump from inside the apartment; then a clatter, then a series of several more thumps and an indistinct sound, almost like someone might make if a box fell on their foot. A few moments later the door creaked open, and a rather disheveled Steven Gant appeared, brushing off his jeans and grey Steelers t-shirt. "Sorry 'bout that, got caught up in what I was doing," he said tiredly; there were shadows under his eyes and a tightness to the skin there, indications that whatever he had been working on had not been very pleasant. What was the man doing to himself? "C'mon in, Marik, make yourself at home... as much as that's possible," added Gant a little sourly as he waved a workgloved hand at the apartment. "I've got coffee set up in the kitchen if you want some, and bottled water in the fridge. 'Fraid that's about all, though..."
The set of rooms belonging to the former Jackson T. Gant (the 'T' stood for 'Theodore', Marik knew) had a strong air of disuse about them. Dusty sheets shrouded the furniture and turned the living room into a meeting-place of ghosts; blinds hung shut in what few windows could be seen and an all-pervading scent of something one could only identify as emptiness filled the air, stiflingly. No lights shone in any of the front rooms, though a faint radiance filtered out from a single half-closed doorway down the hall. Gant led the way, sneakers silent on the thick carpet underfoot.
Jackson Gant had died back in... November, hadn't it been? His son had mentioned that.
Everywhere there were boxes: open cartons with books jutting out, containers lidded and taped, heavy stacks labeled BOOKS, MEDICAL or TO BE DONATED or, more cryptically, DOCUMENTS. Nothing much seemed to be in any sort of order; nothing much seemed to have happened with the dead man's belongings at all if the layers of dust could be trusted, other than the half-hearted attempt at sorting and packing. Five months and this was all that had been done? It felt... unclean, somehow. Haunted.
Unfinished--
"This way," said Gant, and pushed the door open.
A desk and green blotter, thickly flocked with dust; papers everywhere, walls full of framed certificates and diplomas. Whatever else Jackson Gant might have been, he had been a man of letters, certainly... Shelves lined the room, books neatly packed into every available space like tombstones in rows (why did he think that?); their spines read like someone's dissertation, impressive Latin phrases full of their own importance in gilt on leather or buckram. Not that anyone was reading them now, of course...
Steven hadn't been kidding when he mentioned the amount of boxes sporadically located through the apartment. Stepping in he made sure to make himself small in order not to disturb any of Steven's previous work. " Quite a load you have here.." Marik said surveying the entirety of the apartment from his vantage point. Placing his computer bag down he reached in and grabbed the folder with all the information he had gathered, and handed it over to Steven to look over." This is all the information you requested."
One smudged hand cleared packing supplies off a chair while the other took the folder; Gant waved Marik to his seat, leaning back one hip against the corner of the desk as he riffled through the results. "Mm... perfect. Yeah, this is just what I needed." Tired china-blue eyes scanned across print; one of them had developed a twitch at the corner. "I've already got the response template set up; if I get the letters out this evening, I ought to be hearing from 'em some time next week. People are so funny about being vulnerable; gets them right where they live, doesn't it?" And he chuckled, closing the file and looking up, smiling his easy smile. "Think this calls for some coffee; it's almost traditional by now-- cream and sugar, right? Back in a sec." Taking the folder with him, the blond slid off the desk and left the room for the kitchen.
Silence lay thickly in the air of the disused room, silence and... there was another scent besides that of disuse, no, a smell: something acrid, something bitter despite its faintness. Without its current owner blocking the view, a few more details of the more disturbing kind became evident-- shriveled, musty plants on the room's single windowsill, obviously unwatered and long since dead; an aquarium on a shelf, its light still plugged in but illuminating a murky tank half-full of thankfully-unrecognizable floating objects that had no life to them. That must have been the source of the stench, although the moldy china teacup on the blotter probably played its part too; how long had it been there?
Since November?
There were things on the dusty carpet, too: tiny tablets, medicine, spilled across the pile in a scatter with an open prescription bottle at the end of the trail. Nitroglycerin sublingual 0.6mg read the label. How long had they been lying there? Why were they on the floor? Didn't people take Nitro for--
A clatter of cups and the gurgle of a coffeemaker broke that train of thought.
Hiking up his slacks, Marik took his seat, but kept and eye on Steven as he looked over his work. When the words of approval came Marik smirked inwardly and moved his concentration to the rest of the room. Despite the room recent occupancy the dust had found a home seemingly permanently on the boxes and shelves; an allergy stricken individual's nightmare.
Returning his attention to Steven on the mention of coffee, he nodded slightly to the mention of the preferred condiments..." take your time" Marik replied.
* * *
In the kitchen, Steven rinsed a dusty cup, mind still dwelling on the information in the folder lying on the counter so close at hand. It was, in a word, perfect. For his business, yes-- he hadn't lied; and he had with him samples of his proposal letters and responses just like he had said, just in case Marik wondered whether or not he had been blowing smoke.
Lying was crude; it was so much more clever to tell only so much of the truth as was necessary and not a word more.
Samples, yes.
...but not from every name on the list. A sample was, by definition, a representative part of the whole, right?
The now-clean cup joined its partner on the counter; and Steven admired the fine ting! of the porcelain as he sat it down. It was one of the good set, the set that only came out for visitors; some snobbish ancestor had bought the lot-- Royal Dalton, gilt and landscapes-- and not a piece was chipped or missing. Dad had been really proud of it.
You never used it when I came over, though, did you? Not for your jailbird son. Well, who gives a shit?
As the last of the coffee gurgled into the pot, Steven Gant spared his Krupps coffeemaker an appreciative smirk while he scrubbed at two tarnished silver spoons. His father hadn't drunk coffee, only decaf tea; he'd had to bring the Krupps over himself.
Daddy Dearest never did anything that might damage his heart, did he? No caffeine, no saturated fats, no stress... heh. Ever since he had that little scare back during the trial-- Bastard. Preached about letting things go, moving on, forgive and forget and all that shit-- selfish as anybody, he just didn't want to admit it. Said he had a touchy heart, least little thing could set it off...
Guess he was right, huh?
Steven smiled to himself, drying a spoon. Water hissed in the sink, washing away a half-year's worth of dust.
Wonder what he'd think of my new home business? He always hated like fire that I wasn't a 'professional', hadn't followed in his lily-white footsteps. Hey, Dad? You up there listening? Can you see me? I hope you can; I hope you can, 'cause if you think that heart-attack you had was a shocker, just wait 'til you see some of the other fun I have planned. Deliberately he reached over to hook a fingertip into a gilded porcelain cuphandle; with a flick, the delicate antique tumbled off the counter to shatter, CRASH! on the unswept tiles underfoot.
Ooops. Broke it, didn't I? Just like your goddamn heart.
Still smiling, Steven reached up to bring another cup down. There were plenty of them for him to use-- and break, if he felt like it-- after all.
* * *
It was taking an unnatural amount of time to prepare two cups of coffee, but perhaps there were more steps to be had; possibly unpacking mugs and silverware for the task was probably the delaying element. By now however he relinquished his suit jacket and folded it over the back of his chair.
Rolling up the cuffs of his dress shirt he made himself more comfortable, that is until he heard the crash of what it sounded like shattering glass. Whipping his head in the direction of the kitchen he stayed focused on that direction, and when the second crash occurred Marik stood to his feet and headed towards the kitchen. " Is everything alright?" he asked simply turning the corner and entering the door frame of the kitchen.
Incongruously bright lighting shone down on dusty tiles and countertops; Steven Gant stood in front of a sink in the disused kitchen, face blank. "...fine. Everything's just fine-- just dropped a couple of cups." One cup, clean and freshly washed, stood on the edge of the sink; the remains of two others littered the floor, their gilt edges reflecting the overhead fluorescence. Without another word the man retrieved a broom and dustpan from a nook by the stove and began sweeping up the mess. "Sorry 'bout the delay," he said calmly. "Go ahead and fix your coffee however you want it, okay? Cream's in the 'fridge-- shit! Ow!" He paused, dropping a shard of porcelain into the dustpan and holding up a hand. "Damn thing bit me," he muttered as blood beaded up on the curve of his palm.
The common act of breaking glassware was normal, as well as the aftermath of cutting oneself when picking up shards of said glass. Nevertheless Marik couldn't help but feel that there was something more out of place, but it wasn't his business to ask. "Let me finish sweeping, Steven. Get something for your cut, and afterwards we will enjoy the coffee" Marik offered up earnestly.
But the other man shrugged, wiping his hand against his palm as if nothing had happened. "It's not bleeding much; and anything here'd be rotten anyway," he said; the blood left a dark smear across the faded denim. "Won't take long; go ahead, fix your coffee and I'll be done in a sec." A droplet splattered on the tiles underfoot, dark red making Gant into a liar. He ignored it and went on sweeping, that disturbing blankness still present on his face.
The cream was indeed in the refrigerator; so were many objects that did not bear close examination-- plastic gallon milk-jugs, for instance, did not usually have black interiors. The smell was curiously unimpressive; apparently anything in there had long since withered to the point where emission of odors was a thing of the past. It was appalling. Had nothing been touched at all until recently?
The cream, however, did seem to be fresh (if one could trust the expiration-date.)
Marik wasn't the type to be persistent beyond peoples wishes, and thus he left it alone. He poured himself coffee and added all the necessary condiments. " As you wish.."
It took a few moments for Gant to finish up; by the time he rejoined his guest in his father's office, the entire incident might have never happened... except for the dark smear on his jeans and the thin red line that had at last stopped leaking. The disturbing blankness had vanished; an easy, somewhat derisive smile had replaced it. It grew more prominent as the man gestured around the office with his cup. "A real mess, huh? Haven't been here since right after the old man died; I closed up the place and just left it." Gant laughed; the sound hung bizarrely out-of-place in the unkept silences of the room. "Dad'd have a cow; he always like things clean and neat-- everything had to be in it's place, y'know? Everything had to be just perfect. Bet he didn't care much for dying like that... heart attacks're so untidy." And he chuckled, sipping his coffee as he leaned a hip once more against the desk. "D'you have any family left, Marik?"
Steven obviously hated his father..or had strong bitterness towards him, considering Marik saw it odd to talk about one's deceased Father so much to a varitable stranger. " Yes, mother and a sister. Father's deceased as well." The coffee seemed a bit bitter all of the sudden, but he kept drinking it anyway.
"A sister, huh? Never had one of those-- or one that lived, anyway." Pale blue eyes studied him over the rim of a fine china cup. "And as for Mom, I lost her when I was a kid. If I ever had her, anyway. Some parents should never be allowed to have kids." Gant seemed to be in as much of a loquacious mood as usual, if verging a little on the odd side. He waved his cup at the room again. "I mean, look at all these books... Dad was one of those real ivory-tower types, educated, intelligent... but the asshole couldn't even tell his meds apart!" A small smirk crossed his face. "A heart condition like he had, and--"
A pause; Gant seemed to recollect himself and visibly recovered. "Sorry. Guess this place brings back a lot of old memories. Old ghosts. And some not so old, either." Oddly enough, the thought-- whatever it was-- made him smile.
"I suppose these things happen, everyone has a vice." Finishing off the coffee, Marik sat down his mug and took a deep breath. " So, what's next?, is there more you wish me to uncover? Also I would appreciate seeing those sample letters of consent." Marik asked trying to move the conversation from un-needed talks about family and back to business.
Gant blinked and sat his cup down as well onto the desk, directly beside the moldy one; it clicked softly, china against china. "The letters. Of course, one sec, got 'em right here." He took a small portfolio from one corner of the desk, rifling through it to draw out a folder. "Here you go; I'm still waiting for some've the responses to come in, but here's a pretty good chunk of the letters I sent out, the responses I got, and a template for what I'll send 'em from what you've given me today." He passed the folder over; it was fairly thick. "The template'll tell the customers just how vulnerable they are, and that my company has a solution..."
He smirked again, picking up a cup. "...and that's where you come in again. Some of 'em won't go for it, but most of 'em are interested-- that's why they were on the list." He sat the cup down once more without drinking from it (which was fortunate since he had picked up the wrong one.) "You ready for that bit, Marik? Promise you, it'll be worth your while. And speaking of which..." Gant fished out a checkbook from his hip pocket, scribbling briefly in it with a pen from his father's desk. When he passed the check over, a faint smear of blood marred the signature-line.
Marik took the rather thick folder and skimmed over the letters and template inside. From the looks of them, they seemed legit. He would look over the letter and such more thoroughly when he returned home. Nodding at the contents he returned his gaze to Gant. "These look in order, thank you." Placing the folder down on the table he reached for the check made out to him and noticed the blood stain near the signature line. It should be known however that he wasn't the motherly/care-taker time, but letting yourself bleed was plain stupid. "If you have a bandage or cloth somewhere I will bandage this for you, it's a bit ridiculous to continue ignoring it, Gant."
But the man only shrugged. "I won't use my father's crap," he said flatly. "Not for anything good, anyway. I wasn't any use to him, so-- and it's just a little cut; I'll wrap it up. Sorry 'bout the check, though."
"It's fine, but I'm not so sure the bank would approve of it" Marik said, shrugging.
A threadbare tissue came out of a pocket and went around the damaged area, which still bled sluggishly; the man shrugged one shoulder in that characteristic gesture of his and ran his undamaged hand across his dusty face. "If they have any trouble with it they'll call me, I guess, though they ought to be used to handling money with blood on it-- Look... This place, it's getting to me a little, I guess, I--" He paused and visibly gathered his composure; what was wrong with the man? "...Okay, I've got the stuff from you I need for the next step; you want to meet again later on? Should take me a few days to get my responses out to my customers-- next week, maybe? We can start on the security setups then, or rather you can." Gant gave him a half-smile; it looked more than a little forced. "Don't know how you do any of that stuff; I'm just a beginner. But you sure seem to know what you're doing, Marik."
"Well, I wouldn't be a professional if I didn't know what I was doing" Marik said giving Gant a light but genuine grin. " Get in touch with me when you are ready to move on to the security procedures."
"Yeah; will do." The ex-Californian seemed a little preoccupied, but nodded. His eyes strayed to the desk, and he picked up his cup (the correct one this time, thankfully.) "Give me a week or so to set things up-- maybe this time we can meet at my office; that sound good to you? Maybe around the 20th or so? --or anywhere else'd be fine, too; just not here," he added, pale gaze sliding back towards Marik's. "This place-- I was going to pack it up myself, but I don't know; maybe I'll hire somebody to do the job." He sighed. "People used to burn their dead relatives' belongings; maybe they knew something we didn't.... Hey, you know anybody in the moving business?"
Marik thought for a moment--"Sounds good. As far as movers go however, I don't know anyone with that particular skill. However if you'd like I have some time to kill so I'd be willing to help if you need it?"
An odd look passed across the man's face for a second; he seemed to consider the idea from several angles before replying. "You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe in a few days?" He sloshed his half-full cup back and forth for a moment without drinking it. "I've got a little errand to take care of over the next few days, but-- are you free Tuesday? Maybe in the afternoon? And-- thanks; nice of you to offer, y'know?" He seemed a little surprised by the other man's generosity.
"Tuesday... I will clear the schedule" Marik said grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. " Give me a call with the exact time, and I'll see you then. Don't get up, I can see myself out." Brushing his pants off, he made his way to the door.
The other man was silent until he had nearly reached the door. Then: "Thanks, Marik; be seeing you."
"Good day" Marik said exiting the apartment.
* * *
After the door had closed, the apartment settled back into the silence that had blanketed it for the past six months, stale and unliving; the only sound, faint as it was, was the tiny liquid slosh of cooling coffee being tilted back and forth, back and forth within a cup. Steven Gant continued to lean against his father's desk, fingers hooked through china; his eyes were distant, seeing nothing before him and giving nothing back in return.
Nothing at all.
Scene: Business and caffeine, only this time on very different ground; some old ghosts should not be disturbed. Backdated to Friday, May 4, 2007. (The coffee's domestic this time.)
Friday, May 4, 2007; voicemail sent to Marik Ishtar from an unrecognized number at 11:40 a.m.:
"Hey, Marik? Steve Gant here. Sorry I missed you, guess we're playing phone-tag today. I got your message-- you're already finished with digging up the info on my clients? Holy shit; fast work, man, and I appreciate it. Look, I've taken a couple of days off to go through my father's effects at his apartment-- I've been putting it off for months, but the lease is about to be up and... nevermind. Anyway, I'm in the middle of a stack of boxes; think you could meet me here? Call me back and I'll give you an address and directions, you've got my number-- **beeeep**
* * * * *
It had been an early start for Marik considering his meetings with Foreign Affairs down town, and it was during this time his phone remained silent. However it wasn't too long before he received the voice mail from Steven, called him back, and was on his way to the apartment. It had been a small challenge finding all the information for the list of clients in such a short amount of time, not to mention his other weekly obligations. Parking a ways down the street from lack of available space, Marik made his way up the stairs of the apartment complex and reached the door. Checking the address once more to ensure it was the correct number, Marik knocked on the door.
There was a brief thump from inside the apartment; then a clatter, then a series of several more thumps and an indistinct sound, almost like someone might make if a box fell on their foot. A few moments later the door creaked open, and a rather disheveled Steven Gant appeared, brushing off his jeans and grey Steelers t-shirt. "Sorry 'bout that, got caught up in what I was doing," he said tiredly; there were shadows under his eyes and a tightness to the skin there, indications that whatever he had been working on had not been very pleasant. What was the man doing to himself? "C'mon in, Marik, make yourself at home... as much as that's possible," added Gant a little sourly as he waved a workgloved hand at the apartment. "I've got coffee set up in the kitchen if you want some, and bottled water in the fridge. 'Fraid that's about all, though..."
The set of rooms belonging to the former Jackson T. Gant (the 'T' stood for 'Theodore', Marik knew) had a strong air of disuse about them. Dusty sheets shrouded the furniture and turned the living room into a meeting-place of ghosts; blinds hung shut in what few windows could be seen and an all-pervading scent of something one could only identify as emptiness filled the air, stiflingly. No lights shone in any of the front rooms, though a faint radiance filtered out from a single half-closed doorway down the hall. Gant led the way, sneakers silent on the thick carpet underfoot.
Jackson Gant had died back in... November, hadn't it been? His son had mentioned that.
Everywhere there were boxes: open cartons with books jutting out, containers lidded and taped, heavy stacks labeled BOOKS, MEDICAL or TO BE DONATED or, more cryptically, DOCUMENTS. Nothing much seemed to be in any sort of order; nothing much seemed to have happened with the dead man's belongings at all if the layers of dust could be trusted, other than the half-hearted attempt at sorting and packing. Five months and this was all that had been done? It felt... unclean, somehow. Haunted.
Unfinished--
"This way," said Gant, and pushed the door open.
A desk and green blotter, thickly flocked with dust; papers everywhere, walls full of framed certificates and diplomas. Whatever else Jackson Gant might have been, he had been a man of letters, certainly... Shelves lined the room, books neatly packed into every available space like tombstones in rows (why did he think that?); their spines read like someone's dissertation, impressive Latin phrases full of their own importance in gilt on leather or buckram. Not that anyone was reading them now, of course...
Steven hadn't been kidding when he mentioned the amount of boxes sporadically located through the apartment. Stepping in he made sure to make himself small in order not to disturb any of Steven's previous work. " Quite a load you have here.." Marik said surveying the entirety of the apartment from his vantage point. Placing his computer bag down he reached in and grabbed the folder with all the information he had gathered, and handed it over to Steven to look over." This is all the information you requested."
One smudged hand cleared packing supplies off a chair while the other took the folder; Gant waved Marik to his seat, leaning back one hip against the corner of the desk as he riffled through the results. "Mm... perfect. Yeah, this is just what I needed." Tired china-blue eyes scanned across print; one of them had developed a twitch at the corner. "I've already got the response template set up; if I get the letters out this evening, I ought to be hearing from 'em some time next week. People are so funny about being vulnerable; gets them right where they live, doesn't it?" And he chuckled, closing the file and looking up, smiling his easy smile. "Think this calls for some coffee; it's almost traditional by now-- cream and sugar, right? Back in a sec." Taking the folder with him, the blond slid off the desk and left the room for the kitchen.
Silence lay thickly in the air of the disused room, silence and... there was another scent besides that of disuse, no, a smell: something acrid, something bitter despite its faintness. Without its current owner blocking the view, a few more details of the more disturbing kind became evident-- shriveled, musty plants on the room's single windowsill, obviously unwatered and long since dead; an aquarium on a shelf, its light still plugged in but illuminating a murky tank half-full of thankfully-unrecognizable floating objects that had no life to them. That must have been the source of the stench, although the moldy china teacup on the blotter probably played its part too; how long had it been there?
Since November?
There were things on the dusty carpet, too: tiny tablets, medicine, spilled across the pile in a scatter with an open prescription bottle at the end of the trail. Nitroglycerin sublingual 0.6mg read the label. How long had they been lying there? Why were they on the floor? Didn't people take Nitro for--
A clatter of cups and the gurgle of a coffeemaker broke that train of thought.
Hiking up his slacks, Marik took his seat, but kept and eye on Steven as he looked over his work. When the words of approval came Marik smirked inwardly and moved his concentration to the rest of the room. Despite the room recent occupancy the dust had found a home seemingly permanently on the boxes and shelves; an allergy stricken individual's nightmare.
Returning his attention to Steven on the mention of coffee, he nodded slightly to the mention of the preferred condiments..." take your time" Marik replied.
* * *
In the kitchen, Steven rinsed a dusty cup, mind still dwelling on the information in the folder lying on the counter so close at hand. It was, in a word, perfect. For his business, yes-- he hadn't lied; and he had with him samples of his proposal letters and responses just like he had said, just in case Marik wondered whether or not he had been blowing smoke.
Lying was crude; it was so much more clever to tell only so much of the truth as was necessary and not a word more.
Samples, yes.
...but not from every name on the list. A sample was, by definition, a representative part of the whole, right?
The now-clean cup joined its partner on the counter; and Steven admired the fine ting! of the porcelain as he sat it down. It was one of the good set, the set that only came out for visitors; some snobbish ancestor had bought the lot-- Royal Dalton, gilt and landscapes-- and not a piece was chipped or missing. Dad had been really proud of it.
You never used it when I came over, though, did you? Not for your jailbird son. Well, who gives a shit?
As the last of the coffee gurgled into the pot, Steven Gant spared his Krupps coffeemaker an appreciative smirk while he scrubbed at two tarnished silver spoons. His father hadn't drunk coffee, only decaf tea; he'd had to bring the Krupps over himself.
Daddy Dearest never did anything that might damage his heart, did he? No caffeine, no saturated fats, no stress... heh. Ever since he had that little scare back during the trial-- Bastard. Preached about letting things go, moving on, forgive and forget and all that shit-- selfish as anybody, he just didn't want to admit it. Said he had a touchy heart, least little thing could set it off...
Guess he was right, huh?
Steven smiled to himself, drying a spoon. Water hissed in the sink, washing away a half-year's worth of dust.
Wonder what he'd think of my new home business? He always hated like fire that I wasn't a 'professional', hadn't followed in his lily-white footsteps. Hey, Dad? You up there listening? Can you see me? I hope you can; I hope you can, 'cause if you think that heart-attack you had was a shocker, just wait 'til you see some of the other fun I have planned. Deliberately he reached over to hook a fingertip into a gilded porcelain cuphandle; with a flick, the delicate antique tumbled off the counter to shatter, CRASH! on the unswept tiles underfoot.
Ooops. Broke it, didn't I? Just like your goddamn heart.
Still smiling, Steven reached up to bring another cup down. There were plenty of them for him to use-- and break, if he felt like it-- after all.
* * *
It was taking an unnatural amount of time to prepare two cups of coffee, but perhaps there were more steps to be had; possibly unpacking mugs and silverware for the task was probably the delaying element. By now however he relinquished his suit jacket and folded it over the back of his chair.
Rolling up the cuffs of his dress shirt he made himself more comfortable, that is until he heard the crash of what it sounded like shattering glass. Whipping his head in the direction of the kitchen he stayed focused on that direction, and when the second crash occurred Marik stood to his feet and headed towards the kitchen. " Is everything alright?" he asked simply turning the corner and entering the door frame of the kitchen.
Incongruously bright lighting shone down on dusty tiles and countertops; Steven Gant stood in front of a sink in the disused kitchen, face blank. "...fine. Everything's just fine-- just dropped a couple of cups." One cup, clean and freshly washed, stood on the edge of the sink; the remains of two others littered the floor, their gilt edges reflecting the overhead fluorescence. Without another word the man retrieved a broom and dustpan from a nook by the stove and began sweeping up the mess. "Sorry 'bout the delay," he said calmly. "Go ahead and fix your coffee however you want it, okay? Cream's in the 'fridge-- shit! Ow!" He paused, dropping a shard of porcelain into the dustpan and holding up a hand. "Damn thing bit me," he muttered as blood beaded up on the curve of his palm.
The common act of breaking glassware was normal, as well as the aftermath of cutting oneself when picking up shards of said glass. Nevertheless Marik couldn't help but feel that there was something more out of place, but it wasn't his business to ask. "Let me finish sweeping, Steven. Get something for your cut, and afterwards we will enjoy the coffee" Marik offered up earnestly.
But the other man shrugged, wiping his hand against his palm as if nothing had happened. "It's not bleeding much; and anything here'd be rotten anyway," he said; the blood left a dark smear across the faded denim. "Won't take long; go ahead, fix your coffee and I'll be done in a sec." A droplet splattered on the tiles underfoot, dark red making Gant into a liar. He ignored it and went on sweeping, that disturbing blankness still present on his face.
The cream was indeed in the refrigerator; so were many objects that did not bear close examination-- plastic gallon milk-jugs, for instance, did not usually have black interiors. The smell was curiously unimpressive; apparently anything in there had long since withered to the point where emission of odors was a thing of the past. It was appalling. Had nothing been touched at all until recently?
The cream, however, did seem to be fresh (if one could trust the expiration-date.)
Marik wasn't the type to be persistent beyond peoples wishes, and thus he left it alone. He poured himself coffee and added all the necessary condiments. " As you wish.."
It took a few moments for Gant to finish up; by the time he rejoined his guest in his father's office, the entire incident might have never happened... except for the dark smear on his jeans and the thin red line that had at last stopped leaking. The disturbing blankness had vanished; an easy, somewhat derisive smile had replaced it. It grew more prominent as the man gestured around the office with his cup. "A real mess, huh? Haven't been here since right after the old man died; I closed up the place and just left it." Gant laughed; the sound hung bizarrely out-of-place in the unkept silences of the room. "Dad'd have a cow; he always like things clean and neat-- everything had to be in it's place, y'know? Everything had to be just perfect. Bet he didn't care much for dying like that... heart attacks're so untidy." And he chuckled, sipping his coffee as he leaned a hip once more against the desk. "D'you have any family left, Marik?"
Steven obviously hated his father..or had strong bitterness towards him, considering Marik saw it odd to talk about one's deceased Father so much to a varitable stranger. " Yes, mother and a sister. Father's deceased as well." The coffee seemed a bit bitter all of the sudden, but he kept drinking it anyway.
"A sister, huh? Never had one of those-- or one that lived, anyway." Pale blue eyes studied him over the rim of a fine china cup. "And as for Mom, I lost her when I was a kid. If I ever had her, anyway. Some parents should never be allowed to have kids." Gant seemed to be in as much of a loquacious mood as usual, if verging a little on the odd side. He waved his cup at the room again. "I mean, look at all these books... Dad was one of those real ivory-tower types, educated, intelligent... but the asshole couldn't even tell his meds apart!" A small smirk crossed his face. "A heart condition like he had, and--"
A pause; Gant seemed to recollect himself and visibly recovered. "Sorry. Guess this place brings back a lot of old memories. Old ghosts. And some not so old, either." Oddly enough, the thought-- whatever it was-- made him smile.
"I suppose these things happen, everyone has a vice." Finishing off the coffee, Marik sat down his mug and took a deep breath. " So, what's next?, is there more you wish me to uncover? Also I would appreciate seeing those sample letters of consent." Marik asked trying to move the conversation from un-needed talks about family and back to business.
Gant blinked and sat his cup down as well onto the desk, directly beside the moldy one; it clicked softly, china against china. "The letters. Of course, one sec, got 'em right here." He took a small portfolio from one corner of the desk, rifling through it to draw out a folder. "Here you go; I'm still waiting for some've the responses to come in, but here's a pretty good chunk of the letters I sent out, the responses I got, and a template for what I'll send 'em from what you've given me today." He passed the folder over; it was fairly thick. "The template'll tell the customers just how vulnerable they are, and that my company has a solution..."
He smirked again, picking up a cup. "...and that's where you come in again. Some of 'em won't go for it, but most of 'em are interested-- that's why they were on the list." He sat the cup down once more without drinking from it (which was fortunate since he had picked up the wrong one.) "You ready for that bit, Marik? Promise you, it'll be worth your while. And speaking of which..." Gant fished out a checkbook from his hip pocket, scribbling briefly in it with a pen from his father's desk. When he passed the check over, a faint smear of blood marred the signature-line.
Marik took the rather thick folder and skimmed over the letters and template inside. From the looks of them, they seemed legit. He would look over the letter and such more thoroughly when he returned home. Nodding at the contents he returned his gaze to Gant. "These look in order, thank you." Placing the folder down on the table he reached for the check made out to him and noticed the blood stain near the signature line. It should be known however that he wasn't the motherly/care-taker time, but letting yourself bleed was plain stupid. "If you have a bandage or cloth somewhere I will bandage this for you, it's a bit ridiculous to continue ignoring it, Gant."
But the man only shrugged. "I won't use my father's crap," he said flatly. "Not for anything good, anyway. I wasn't any use to him, so-- and it's just a little cut; I'll wrap it up. Sorry 'bout the check, though."
"It's fine, but I'm not so sure the bank would approve of it" Marik said, shrugging.
A threadbare tissue came out of a pocket and went around the damaged area, which still bled sluggishly; the man shrugged one shoulder in that characteristic gesture of his and ran his undamaged hand across his dusty face. "If they have any trouble with it they'll call me, I guess, though they ought to be used to handling money with blood on it-- Look... This place, it's getting to me a little, I guess, I--" He paused and visibly gathered his composure; what was wrong with the man? "...Okay, I've got the stuff from you I need for the next step; you want to meet again later on? Should take me a few days to get my responses out to my customers-- next week, maybe? We can start on the security setups then, or rather you can." Gant gave him a half-smile; it looked more than a little forced. "Don't know how you do any of that stuff; I'm just a beginner. But you sure seem to know what you're doing, Marik."
"Well, I wouldn't be a professional if I didn't know what I was doing" Marik said giving Gant a light but genuine grin. " Get in touch with me when you are ready to move on to the security procedures."
"Yeah; will do." The ex-Californian seemed a little preoccupied, but nodded. His eyes strayed to the desk, and he picked up his cup (the correct one this time, thankfully.) "Give me a week or so to set things up-- maybe this time we can meet at my office; that sound good to you? Maybe around the 20th or so? --or anywhere else'd be fine, too; just not here," he added, pale gaze sliding back towards Marik's. "This place-- I was going to pack it up myself, but I don't know; maybe I'll hire somebody to do the job." He sighed. "People used to burn their dead relatives' belongings; maybe they knew something we didn't.... Hey, you know anybody in the moving business?"
Marik thought for a moment--"Sounds good. As far as movers go however, I don't know anyone with that particular skill. However if you'd like I have some time to kill so I'd be willing to help if you need it?"
An odd look passed across the man's face for a second; he seemed to consider the idea from several angles before replying. "You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe in a few days?" He sloshed his half-full cup back and forth for a moment without drinking it. "I've got a little errand to take care of over the next few days, but-- are you free Tuesday? Maybe in the afternoon? And-- thanks; nice of you to offer, y'know?" He seemed a little surprised by the other man's generosity.
"Tuesday... I will clear the schedule" Marik said grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. " Give me a call with the exact time, and I'll see you then. Don't get up, I can see myself out." Brushing his pants off, he made his way to the door.
The other man was silent until he had nearly reached the door. Then: "Thanks, Marik; be seeing you."
"Good day" Marik said exiting the apartment.
* * *
After the door had closed, the apartment settled back into the silence that had blanketed it for the past six months, stale and unliving; the only sound, faint as it was, was the tiny liquid slosh of cooling coffee being tilted back and forth, back and forth within a cup. Steven Gant continued to lean against his father's desk, fingers hooked through china; his eyes were distant, seeing nothing before him and giving nothing back in return.
Nothing at all.