George (Fourteen)

I found Casper John's office downtown. Big glass building with a front desk. They made me check Joan. I didn't like it, but I had to let her go. I hate letting go [All of my searches yielded nothing on a Joan Lowell. I've had to start looking for all Joans in the area within the past fifty years, a monumental effort. There is no guarantee that she is any different from Trace and his nonexistent digital footprint. -Dara]. Counted to 60 waiting for the elevator to make it downstairs, so I could get on it and go to the top floor.

Real dame secretary, her lip curled soon as I walked in them big glass doors. Asked if she could help me, using the tone of voice people use when they talk about picking up rotten cantaloupes. I told her I needed to talk to Mr. Johns. She said he was busy, so I walked right on in. Could tell already I ain't never gonna get this close again, and I gotta take a risk. Some days, I love my job.

CJ's corner office door was opened, and I stepped on in. Dame followed, apologizing nonstop for the contusion [Intrusion. The contusions usually come later with Trace. -Dara]. CJ's sitting there, phone in each hand, third one on his cedar desk. He waves at us, screams into all 3 phones 1 after the other, slams them all down, then sneers at us. There's a vein across his forehead looks ready to burst out his skin and crawl away. Even when he's just talking instead of yelling, his cheeks shake too much. He looks like Santa Claus came to town with coal instead of presents.

He's screaming at her for letting me in, hasn't even looked at me yet. Asks why this homeless bum come into his office, starts throwing stuff from his desk at me. Stapler, picture frame, organizer, whatever he's got his hands on. That stuff I can deal with, but then he says something about my momma. Something not nice, something you'd say to a lady of the night.

I push CJ's secretary out the office, slam the door closed, one of them real thick, heavy wood with metal core doors. Wedge one of his nice chairs between the knob and the floor. Don't wanna think about how much this thing cost, probably more than a month's rent. Any rate, I ain't gonna get answers from him without some prodding. I don't wanna be nice no more. I just want what I want. Figure the guards downstairs, they were as pear shaped as the slobs on the phone up here. It was gonna take them a while to hoof it up here. I had 3 or 4 minutes before they came up here.

CJ's on his feet, gone all red, even his hands. Starts throwing words I need a dictionary to even spell, forget about what they mean. Big thing is he's threatening to sue me, far as I can tell. I point at my clothes, and say the 2 magic words that shut him up quick: judgment proof. He ain't the only 1 can throw around fancy terms.

I tell him I'll leave him alone if he answers some questions. I ask him about Wilder, the Diablos.

CJ's shaky, but he rolls his cuffs up. He plays dumb, says he doesn't know nothing.

There's some banging behind me, they're trying to get in, but the door's holding. Not for long, though.

I lean over the desk, get in his face. His breath smells like hot dogs with extra kraut and mustard. I ask if he's behind the graffiti. It's just 1 big fat confused look on his face. He's so thrown off, and not the fake kind. He has no clue what I'm asking. It's not him. Then I tell him he should say sorry for what he said about my mother.

They bust down the door, then knock me around. Show me that when you got enough money, nobody gets close to you without getting theirs. I curl in a ball and take it. One of them kicks my kidney, and I blank out a second when everything goes white.

They ask if he wants to press charges. I look up at him from what I think are bloodshot eyes. I taste some salt from somewhere.

He tells em not to press charges. Then, he leans real close to me, whispers “You don't threaten me, I threaten you.”

They take me back downstairs, throw me out on my duff. Like I said, you don't go looking for enemies. They'll come find you.