Nameless Fiction Sr. 2
Sr. 2-- In Which Money is Exchanged, But Services are Denied
Beyond Mortimer Lavande's black hair lying like a well-tilled hill, the sky has the dove-grey color of churning fog. Mortimer is not facing the window. He sits behind a salvaged desk whose nicks and cracks make him feel more comfortable with his own faults. It is a solid wood desk, an antique, though Mortimer doesn't know this and has never asked what is is worth.
At your entrance, Mortimer looks up with unfortunate eyebrows. Below their thick and witless curl, Mortimer's eyes are the rare blue that is almost lavander. Hunched in a black sport's coat and cravat, with deep brown--almost black--hair, Mortimer's blue eyes are like sparks in a forge: intense and fleeting beneath his shy eyelids. He does not know about the way this lashes curve against his cheek and frame his eyes in millinery. But since they are a person's eyes, and not a forge spark, the afterglow is memorable and has become an unconscious abettor of Mortimer's likability. His fingers, also, are of pale white, a touch of yellow, with orange-pink pads. Scrubbed fingernails, rubbed short by impatience, draw your eyes next to his hands. He is prominantly holding a letter-opener shaped like a Scott's claymore.
You hand him the manilla envelope.
He opens it and counts the bills: one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five hundred...
You say, in a voice that remembers hysteria, "You have a story for me, I presume?"
"Yes. Your sister--"
"She's not my sister at all, I'm sorry."
"That is unimportant. Your sister left her parents, yes? She travelled by train in the cargo, where she shared a stolen lunch with one of my informants, a young ex-bakery apprentice."
He coughs nervously, and removes some object from his desk drawer.
"They made it as far as Issey. She found her way to a bakery in the market--and was young enough to elicit their pity. Perhaps my informant introduced them. Anyway, they took her in. Here is the address."
Mortimer thinks to himself, that so much hassle and work could be expressed so succinctly. He is glad to be free of this job. Mortimer slides an identical manila envelope from under his desk, where he has been grasping it nervously.
"Do you require me to apprehend her there?"
"No, I have other men for that." With out making eye contact, you slip the new envelope into your coat pocket and exit with deliberately soft footsteps.
Outside, in the crisp autumn, you pause on the brink of the awning. Your mind is unmoving, too focused to feel emotion clearly. You take in a lungful of air, seemingly content, but your face remains expressionless. The yellow scarf, and camel-hair of your beige coat, smells of damp and decomposing leaves. Rustling, you march into the falling linden leaves, brushing your gloves under your nose to smell the intense leather--an unconscious gesture, an old habit, that has lost its pleasure.
You take your gloves off by the fountain, in order to fiddle in your pockets for your tablet. The air is so cold, it feels as if it is pricking your skin with the brush of static electricity. A gentlemen with a black Dobbs is sitting on the fountain near you. He leans in, saying, "A little cold for a smoke outside..."
"No, no, I don't smoke."
The black fedora nods in gentlemanly commiseration over the fashion of addictions. You look at the man firmly for the first time and a jolt of recognition runs through you. It is no longer necessary to look for your tablet.
He says with unnecessary pomp: "Do you know what I am looking for?"
"Yes, she was travelling by train. She made it to The Izz Bakery at the market. She is living with the proprietors." You present the manila envelope like a guilty child caught with chocolates. So close to your ward, a wash of hope and apprehension gentles your knees.
"Yes, of course. I shall visit them on Thursday, unless I call you. Shall we go get ourselves a bit of bitter chocolate?"
The thought of warm chocolate in predictable white mugs is immensely appealing to you. You have met with this man before and found him an amiable companion, polite with a touch of the rake. You are, after all, paying for his time.
"Another addiction."
"Yes, indeed," he says brightly.