James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

Paul stepped around her and walked back to his apartment door and gave the knob a good, hard twist. “See?” he said. “Locked up tight.” Maybe she hadn’t seen anything, he wanted to tell her. Maybe she ought to lay off the gin and tonics after dinner, or whatever it was that floated Mrs. Prettyman’s boat. Maybe, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, she’d tidied up his apartment herself and was concocting a story to cover her behavior. But if that was the case, why did she have to mention that the gentleman she saw was pale? It certainly hadn’t been Mrs. Prettyman who had left the Tiffany’s box glowing balefully in the middle of his bed.

He edged past her again and got into his car. “I have to go to work,” he said, starting the car.

Mrs. Prettyman stepped back and raised her voice over the tin can rattle of the Colt. “Is there something the owner needs to know?” she said as Paul backed out. “You don’t want to be keeping anything from the owner.”

Paul threw her a nervous little wave and pulled away. Fifteen minutes later he was waiting in traffic in the middle of the Travis Street Bridge, peering anxiously between the looming SUVs and back through his rearview and side mirrors looking for Boy G. His pulse fluttered; his mouth was dry. But the pale, homeless man was nowhere to be seen, nor were any of his pale compatriots, and Paul rattled across the bridge and into the TxDoGS lot. He found a space against the river embankment and rolled up his windows and locked the car. Then he climbed the embankment and descended the other side nearly to the river. The sky was still a delicate blue — the sun had not yet bleached it white — and the slanting light picked out the bright yellow jerseys of a pair of rowers on the river, sculling in rhythm across the water like a pair of long-legged insects. Paul dug in his lunch bag and brought out the sharp-edged square of the Tiffany’s box. He hefted it for a moment. Then, as the rowers passed under the bridge, he hurled it as hard as he could out over the river. It sailed, tumbling, over the humped back of the storm drain culvert and landed far enough out in the water that Paul could not hear a splash. The morning light caught a little sparkling crown of water, but to Paul’s dismay, the box did not sink. Instead it wobbled slowly away on the greenish current, bobbing in the rounded swell thrown up by the two rowers. He watched it for a moment, hoping it would go under, but finally he furled his lunch bag shut and went inside.

AS PAUL PASSED THROUGH THE MAIN LOBBY, Preston beckoned him. “You got a minute?” he said.

“I have a badge, remember?” Paul plucked the new ID out of his pocket. “I don’t have to sign in anymore.”

“Just take a second,” Preston said, beckoning again.

Paul stopped but kept his distance. “I’m kinda late. .”

Preston glanced to either side. “I’m sort of conducting my own investigation of”—he lowered his voice—“recent events.” He beckoned Paul one more time and leaned over the desk. “You ever see anything weird, you’d tell me, right?”

Paul started to edge away again. He really did not want to talk about this. “Preston,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder, “I really have to get to work.”

Preston started to say something else, but suddenly he stood back from the counter and stiffened.

“Gentlemen,” boomed the Colonel. He sailed gut first, spine erect, across the lobby between Preston and Paul. Preston’s leathery face turned red, and he picked up a clipboard and studied it hard. Paul caught the Colonel’s slipstream but not too close.

He stashed his lunch and took the stairs to the second floor. His stomach knotted as he passed the elevator and the recycling box and came into the subterranean light of cubeland. Who knew what horrors awaited him? Dennis the Dying Tech Writer sprawled in Paul’s chair, gray skinned and grinning like a skull? Boy G crouched in a corner of Paul’s cube, his eyes glowing green like Gollum’s out of the shadows? Or Charlotte herself, sprawled like the Cheshire cat across the top of Paul’s monitor, her switching tail strobing across Paul’s screen? Or perhaps all three — Paul’s skin tightened at the thought — hunched around his monitor and turning slowly, in eerie unison, to grin at him as he came through the door. .

But as he swung into his cube, what Paul saw was worse: a new Post-it from Olivia pasted against his streaming screen saver. It read, in her razor-sharp print:

RFP TEAM MEETING

RICK’S OFFICE

8:00 AM .

SHARP .

— O. H .

Paul whirled. Olivia was not in her cube, so he jerked the Post-it off his screen and ripped it in half, then ripped it in half again and stuffed it into his wastebasket. He jiggled his mouse to get rid of the screen saver — the motto was beginning to annoy him — and marched out the door, around the corner, and up the aisle towards Rick’s office to announce his decision not to work for Olivia. He blundered straight into Renee and caught her by the shoulders. “I’m, I’m, I’m sorry,” he stammered, the two of them wheeling round each other like square dancers. Renee stamped her foot against the carpet, instantly red faced and speechless, and Paul let her go — gingerly, so that she wouldn’t fall — and rounded the corner. Ahead, all three of his luncheon companions were gliding out of their cube doorways like wooden soldiers on an antique clock. The Colonel cocked his eye at Paul and waved him alongside, putting his arm around Paul’s shoulders. “What’s going on here, Professor?” he murmured in Paul’s ear. “What’s Olivia up to?”

“How should I know?” Paul said.

“You sit across from the little bitch.” The Colonel’s blunt fingers dug into Paul’s arm. “If there’s something we need to know, you might give us a heads-up.”

As they approached Rick’s office, Nolene looked up at them from her monitor and rolled her eyes. Inside, Olivia had pulled a chair up to the front of Rick’s desk, her knees together, her heels lifted, the balls of her feet pressed to the carpet. She clutched a notepad on her lap, her hands neatly folded over the pad, her pen clutched between them. She nodded as each man came into the room. Bob Wier cowered in the corner, putting a chair between himself and the rest of the room, and J.J. tried to prop himself casually on the lip of the little round table across from Rick’s desk. The Colonel maneuvered Paul into the office ahead of him, then set his feet at parade rest, crossed his arms, and lifted his chin. Paul hunched near the door with his hands in his pockets. Behind the desk Rick lifted his eyebrows at the little crowd. A copy of the RFP, heavily emended, was spread before him.

“Looks like we counted our chickens before the barn door was shut.” Rick’s eyebrows danced. “I’ve asked Olivia to join the team, and she’s hit the ground flying.” Olivia dipped her head.

J.J. edged off the table, and after a glance at the Colonel, crossed his arms and affected a pout. Bob Wier looked wildly about like a trapped animal. The Colonel sniffed and said, “Welcome to the team, Olivia.”

“Thank you,” chirped Olivia, without looking at him.

Rick waved his hand vaguely. “Olivia, why don’t you, uh. .?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of making copies of the RFP with my edits.” Olivia half rose from her chair and lifted a stack of fresh copies, collated and stapled, off the corner of Rick’s desk. She thrust them towards Paul who, after a sullen pause, heaved himself out of the doorway and took the stack. He handed a copy each to J.J. and the Colonel. Bob Wier reached gingerly out from behind his chair and snatched a copy from Paul’s grasp.