Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed

[Zinta]

I take a moment to have a last drag before entering the Tower. There's something sexy about clove cigarettes, the way they burn, the smell, the taste, the black paper. Like you're sucking on pure win. They're also expensive as hell, which is why I savor my last one. One pack of cloves a month is the rule. An elbow shifts my backpack back on track before it slips off, and my eyes skip around as I flick the butt.

I'm waiting.

For the stares; the disapproving looks. At my hair, my clothes, my smoking, my littering, whatever. The flicked butt trundles across the sidewalk, still smoking; a woman skips out of the way, and gives it to me. The Look. I slowly lick my black lips at the legal aide and give her the Fuck Me eyes. I laugh as she jumps and turns away.

Mensch. Dear god, what comedy.

My face settles back into a blank, emotionless mask, and I head up to Wallis' office.

[Jmiland1]

Mid-day in one of Sacramento’s most prestigious office buildings means a couple of things. It means crowds, for one; crowds of eager professionals all wearing different designers and yet looking remarkably the same. Z’s presence in the atrium is instantly noticable—striking and obvious—like a blackhead on the nose of a model. It also means standing around for elevators, and elbowing in to elevators, and finding room to breathe in elevators; but while Z is riding the car up to Wallis, she has no trouble finding room at all. There’s no one close to her “bubble.” Those riding up with her have shied away almost instinctively, keeping their space so no one might accidentally associate them with this… issue.

She’s the only one to step off on her floor. From the look of things, WALLIS is the only office to be found here. Giant doors of frosted glass glide open whisper-quiet and give entrance to a spartan waiting room—no magazines to idle away the time, no speakers playing quiet Adult Contemporary from the radio. Instead there’s a desk with a young man behind it, staring at a monitor. The green field of computer solitaire can be seen reflected in his glasses. Registering movement, he looks up and asks, “Can I—“

There’s a pause as he actually sees what’s in front of him. He wets his lips and tries again. “Can I help you?” he asks, with the same tone one might use to placate a crazy homeless person while looking for an avenue of escape.

[Zinta]

I can't express how much I hate elevators. People say that if God had wanted man to fly, he'd have given us wings. I say that if he wanted us packed in boxes, we'd have been born dead. The extra space in the coffin-on-a-slinky is a relief; I think if someone touched me, I'd shriek.

A black nail picks at my teeth, and I can't help but fold my arms as I get off the elevator. As uncomfortable as I make the institution, Newton's Third applies: I'm just as uneasy. These monoliths are the penultimate expressions of The Man, and they make me feel like a little girl again, lost in the machine.

The nail taps one of my teeth, once, twice, before the hand disappears into the leather armor of folded arms.

"I'm expected. Azalea Sanders."

[Jmiland1]

He just stares for several long seconds before replying, "Oh! Um, yes, of course. Ms. Sanders. Right, um, this way, please." He gets up from the desk and shows Z to a conference room just off the lobby. He's smiling as he shows her in, but his eyes seem confused, as though waiting for Ashton to pop out with a camera crew. He leaves Z to her devices and retreats back to his desk.

The conference table is large, with arrangements of plastic flowers adding some color to what is otherwise a mostly sterile environment. The chairs are leather, dark brown, and plush. A sideboard is laden with a carafe of water and a basket of assorted muffins, and another basket that is filled with various fruits.

She has a few minutes of waiting ahead of her. It's like waiting for the principal to come back while he's talking with your parents in the other room.

The hall carpet can't quite dampen the footfalls coming this way. A head pokes in into the doorway: hair slicked back, a day's growth on his chin. "Sanders, right? I'm Harry." He steps all the way in and offers a hand. He's the first one since she stepped into the Tower that hasn't even blinked at her appearance. "Make yourself at home, et-cetera-cetera. You have any trouble getting in?"

[Zinta]

Poking at the fruit to find something fresh, I pick out an orange for later, slipping it into my pack as I deposit it on a chair. I also turn on my digital recorder, opening the pack slightly to give it reception. I'm thirstly, but who knows how long this will take, and trying to do business while not peeing myself is just awkward. I don't bother sitting; I'll just end up standing again to do the meet and greet, so I occupy myself with noting the floor and window facing in my iPhone. A couple of raps on the glass and walls get noted as well.

Slick enters, and I keep my expression neutral, but on the side of pleasant. A moment's hesitation before I take the offered hand betrays that I'm not a touchy-feely sort, but will compromise and/or play nice. I wonder if he knew what to expect, or if he's just one of those super-cool customers who's unfazed by anything. Something to decide later.

"Hi, yes," I offer, and smile slightly. "No... it's all nicely labeled."

Would he get the joke? The smile fades, and I take my hand back. Maybe he'd be offended, god knows how much they pay for this label.

[Jmiland1]

Harry nods, moving past Z to get to the fruit. He plucks a mango from the basket and lowers himself into a chair with a contented sigh, and gestures around the table. ”Have a seat. Or not. Whatever. Not real big on formality with my, eh, outside contractors.” He extracts a pocketknife and cuts a narrow slice off the fruit. ”Don’t want to upset the talent pool, ya know?” He’s quiet for a moment as he looks her over, taking her in top to bottom. “So, Miss Sanders,” he says—emphasizing the name just slightly, as though winking, as though saying “Aren’t we all just clever little liars?”—“You come recommended. Bit of a reputation preceding you. Your, uh, presentation is a bit out in left field but that’s okay. We’ve got people for client relations.”

He lifts the slice to his mouth and chews slowly while he cuts off another.

“So what makes you want to join our little organization when you’ve been doing so well by freelancing?”

[Zinta]

I sit, and it's a symphony of creaking leather between the chair and my clothing. It's a slow movement, like a feline or reptile settling down, but there's nothing particularly graceful in the slowness.

My head cocks slightly as he cues my fake ID; it's not surprise, or even respect. If anything, it's resignation. I wonder if he wants me to be impressed or maybe join in on the dick waving. One thing I've learned about men: if they have something, they want to show it off. A practiced tilt of my head moves my bangs from eyes.

"People don't like finding out something's missing," I finally say. "If that day comes, I'd rather they not... try to deal with me directly."

Did I sound like a coward? Maybe. Did I just tell a man I'd rather have people shoot at him than me? Absolutely.

[Jmiland1]

Harry chuckles. "I can't fault that logic. Not a big fan of that sort of thing myself. But it sure makes the lawyers earn their retainers." He jabs the knife into the mango and blots juice from his fingers with a napkin. "All right, enough small talk. I hope I don't have to put you through company orientation. I got a crew--fuck. I got a pair right now, working something your expertise would have been real handy on. Might still need you there; dunno, we'll see. In the meantime, though, you might just be able to scratch an itch I've had.

"We've recently begun a working relationship with a certain lawyer in the city," Harry says, and bluntly adds, "I don't like him. I don't know him, and I don't trust him. But people vouch for him and tell stories about him and I'm told I gotta kiss his ass six ways from Sunday. Fine. Whatever. But while he's bent over so I can kiss his pucker, I want you to snatch something for me while his eyes are to the ground."

[Zinta]

I arch an eyebrow when he mentions scratching an itch. As he continues his lurid analogy, the eyebrow stays raised. I'm actually impressed that he's managed to be so graphic and throw innuendo --conscious or not-- into such a short amount of words. The fruit stabbing isn't lost on me, either; not that I'm offended (or interested), it just makes me wonder just how frequently the man thinks about sex. It's important to know potential liabilities in business partners.

I stifle my curiosity about the other job, even though it's piqued.

"Tell me about this 'something'."

[Jmiland1]

"A client list," Harry says. "I want to know who he's repping, who he's working for--because those are the people we're working for. I don't know if it's on a laptop or a notebook or a fuckin' sheaf of parchments all signed in blood, but he's got to have one somewhere and I want a copy." He extracts a business card from one pocket and slides it across the table.

Declan Karabas, Esq.

1100 J Street, Suite 227

916-555-8901