The Fate Merchant

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

     Paul Hyatt returned to his office, picked up his briefcase, and headed for the elevator. He strolled, didn’t rush, kept his chin up and his eyes level. He smiled at anyone he passed, sometimes throwing in a nod. Both his posture and his pace said: Nothing suspicious here. Go about your business, dear co-workers. No reason to suspect me of anything.

     The receptionist in the lobby rolled her eyes at him as he passed her desk. She was tanned and blond and held a phone to her ear. She made a gun with the thumb and index finger of her left hand and shot herself in temple with it. “Reporters,” she mouthed.

     Paul gave her a thumbs up: Hang in there. Good work. At the elevator, he waited calmly and patiently for the car to arrive, and when the doors opened, he entered, punched the button for the underground garage, and waited for the doors to close.

     They closed.

     The elevator whirred softly and started its descent.

     Paul Hyatt lost his shit.

     He flung his briefcase against the elevator wall, picked it up off the floor, gripped the leather case in both hands, and bashed it against the doors. Once, twice, three times: Barry, Arnold, Frank Sullivan.

     Why (BASH!) couldn’t they mind (BASH!) their own business? (BASH!)

     The elevator chimed as it slowed to a stop. In the polished and now slightly dented doors, a face stared back at Paul, an unpleasant face, a face distorted and stretched by rage. He’d seen that face before, only he’d been holding an axe, not a briefcase.

     The doors slid open and the face vanished. He still didn’t understand the picture. Photoshop, obviously. Bad Photoshop. The little fucker in the park had taken his picture without him knowing it, manipulated it, and tacked on a bullshit story about a magic camera. He wanted money. He hadn’t said it, but money was always there. It was society’s big, ugly engine. Well, if this was a con, it was the dumbest fucking con he’d ever heard of. And how the hell was Frank Sullivan involved? He guessed he’d find out. He would ask that question after he asked the more important one: Who else have you told about me?

     He’d have to get some rope. And maybe research how to tie a decent knot. He’d also need a secluded location where he and Frank could have their conversation. He thought of the picture again. The axe. Not a bad idea. He liked the idea of a long handle. It would minimize the chance of getting his hands bloody.

     But first he needed to go home, pack a bag, and get out of sight. He’d wait to see if Paul called the police on him, wait to see if anyone came knocking on his door with the intention of dragging his ass back to Los Angeles. He hoped Frank would take his bribe. It would make his life simpler and lower Frank’s defenses.

     Then they’d talk.

#

     Paul steered his car into his driveway and saw the woman sitting on his stoop. She smiled and waved. Paul waved back and thought: Holy shit son-of-a-bitch.

     His brain, which had been on the cusp of moving his foot toward the brake when it was unjustly forced to deal with the appearance of the woman, fired off a message to his foot to step on the gas.

     The car surged forward.

     His brain corrected itself, wrenched his foot off the gas and forced it down on the brake. The car stopped two inches from the garage door. His brain would later lodge a grievance in the form of a splitting headache to protest what it felt were unfair working conditions.