Early Monday Morning
In this life, there are three truths you should never, ever forget. First: the world’s out to get you, no matter how hard you try and deny it. The other two things don’t matter.
I’m standing outside a frosted glass door that reads ‘RICHARDSO’, arguing with a man who looks like he was birthed from some kind of bearded slime monster in a part of the world where they really ought to consider drowning their malformed kids. I’m trying to be pleasant, but it’s way too early to be pleasant.
“I still don’t see why you won’t just finish the sign first,” I say.
“I ain’t got paid yet, das why,” he grunts, reeking of garlic, onions and a healthy amount of sweat.
My eyes are starting to hurt.
“I’m not going to pay you a damn cent for this. Can you even read what you’ve written here?”
He glances at the door, probably for show. Poor illiterate wretch.
“‘M not done,” he says, as if it somehow makes everything okay.
“I know you’re not done! You’ve barely gone 20% into the job! I don’t know how things work with you sewer people, but here in the real world, we don’t count 20% as a milestone! You’ve gotta do the whole job before I cut you a cheque!”
The slugman considers this.
“‘S not my problem,” he grunts.
“So what do you propose I do? The company isn’t called ‘Richardso’, is it?”
Pause.
“You can change th’name?”
I take a deep breath to avoid pummelling him to death (slime on hands = yuck).
“Listen, it’s our first day of business today, so do you think you could maybe cut me some slack and at least get the ‘Richardson and Marx’ part on there before trying to extort me?”
His yellowing pustule eyes slip open and closed a few times.
“Nope. Cash first.”
I’m starting to lose my cool. I slam my fist against the frosted glass for effect. And what an effect it is! The window shatters into half a million pieces all around us.
Fuck.
“You’re paying for this!” I sputter. I know I’m sputtering. What would you do?
“Yer a toad,” grunts the slugman, grabbing his toolbox and waddling for the elevator.
For a moment I’m stunned by the irony.
By the time I come to my senses, the elevator doors are closing, so I make a mad dash for the stairs, running so fast that I’m not actually using the steps so much as flying over them. Three storeys go by in a flash, and I’m beaming with confidence as I land on the ground floor.
(Considering my general philosophy of life and track record of luck vs curse, I should know that any small victory means a horrific blowback. But in that moment of adrenaline and ecstasy, all I care about is body-checking the slugman into a wall so hard he squirts his evil brains all over the marble floor.)
I skid out into the foyer just in time to hear a noise that sounds very much like “thud/scritch/thump/sploosh”. This is not the kind of noise you want to hear after bursting through a door. I hear “bad karma” echoing off the walls.
Since I’m out of breath anyway, I take a moment to check it out. Behind the door I just bounded through lies a woman, mid-30’s, brunette, slim and prim and dressed in impeccable business attire — except for roughly three grande lattes sprayed all over her chest and face. She has the aura of someone who has been scalded very suddenly. Hmm.
“Which way did he go?” I gasp, hoping to distract her.
She screams very, very loudly. I consider just toodling off as if I’m deaf, but somehow I think she could catch me if it came to that.
“Jesus Christ!” she gasps, trying to keep her blouse from burning her any more. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m... just... um...”
“Give me your jacket!” she orders, and for some reason I’m obeying her without question. “Turn around! NOW!”
I do as she commands, observing the ceiling in this building is a wonderful shade of ochre, until the moment she slams me into the wall and twists my arm behind my back so strangely it cracks.
“I should break your fucking arm,” she seethes.
“No you shouldn’t,” I suggest, just in case she didn’t think of it on her own.
“I’m keeping your jacket. And I never, ever want to see your face again. Do you understand?”
I nod sheepishly. She lets me go very abruptly, and I try not to move until I hear her go up in the elevator.
The elevator!
I dash for the front door, skidding into the street just in time to see absolutely nothing.
The slugman lives to slime again.
I flip out my phone, running my impending conversation through my head. It rings twice, then goes to voice mail (“This is Matt Richardson, PI. Leave a detailed message and your number or addy and I’ll ping you back just as soon as I can!” Suave jerk), and I literally let out a sigh of relief as it beeps at me.
“Hi Matt. Gare here. You’re probably not up yet, so... yeah. Funny thing happened just now. Our... uh... the front door kinda got smashed. The glass part, not the wood. So. Er. When you get this, maybe give me a call? Or. You know. You can come down and see it yourself when you... uh... get in. So. Yeah. See you soon!”
I hang up, hoping it’s not too soon.
“Mr Marx!” comes a voice from behind me, which scares the shit out of me, and I drop my phone. I snatch it back up feebly and look around at two large men in slick leather sports jackets and wrap around shades. The right one is new, but the left one I know.
“Mr Scazoli!” I say, turning on my best businessman smile, holding out a hand for shaking.
Mr Scazoli is a friend of Matt’s. He’s a respected construction executive in town, and knows all the big players. Matt has told me on numerous occasions that simply being seen in a room with Mr Scazoli is enough to get us years of employment in the investigation racket, which is exactly the kind of thing I like to hear. This man is my future Sugar Daddy, and I want to give him a hug, not a handshake.
But no shake comes. Mr Scazoli and associate are exuding a very powerful aura of non-shake-participation. Said associate cracks his knuckles simply by flexing his hand.
“In the future, Mr Marx, you can call me Jimmy Scaz,” says the increasingly ominous Mr Scazoli. “And how much of the future you get to see, depends on how much of my money you’ve got on you.”
What a fantastic first day of business so far.