Mayfair caught the cast-iron gate just before the heavy hinge slammed it shut, and followed her sulking partner to the front door. He used the key to open that door and they found themselves in a small reception area with a heavy door directly behind a reception desk. They went to the door and used the last key to open it. Inside was the lab, about a thousand square feet of nothing but machines and test tubes. Two desks were at the front of the room, near the entrance door, and were turned parallel to the door, facing each other. Each had a name plate saying ‘Dr Unger,’ but one was pink and one was blue. A joke, Mayfair thought. She sat down at the pink desk, while DeWitt took the blue desk, and they began to rummage through what was left. They figured the Houston police, and possibly the perps, had already done most of the rummaging, leaving little of any interest behind. There were no computers on either desk, so Mayfair assumed the HPD had already rescued them. She’d ask, but it was a given.
Giving up on the desk, Mayfair walked around the different stations, noting subtle differences – one had one kind of machine, along with test tubes and other crap, including binders, and the next another kind of machine, along with its paraphernalia. She checked out the first binder and found it full of numbers and symbols that meant nothing to her. But possibly would to another scientist? Why didn’t the HPD take this with them? She put the binder under her arm and went on to other stations. Each had a binder – some were empty, and some had pages filled with the same kind of numbers and symbols. She gathered up the binders with writing in them, and left the empty ones.
‘Why not take ’em all?’ DeWitt asked her upon seeing her bounty.
‘Because these have been written in and the others haven’t,’ she said, enunciating clearly as one would to a child.
‘Fuck you,’ DeWitt said. ‘What’s in ’em?’
‘Stuff,’ Mayfair said.
‘I’ll stuff you in a test tube, Mayfair! Give!’
Mayfair opened one of the books to let him see. ‘So, what does it say?’ she asked.
‘Well, this is the symbol for aluminite, and this symbol means gestation,’ he said.
Wide-eyed, Mayfair said, ‘Are you shitting me? You can read this?’
DeWitt laughed. ‘Naw, just having some fun at your expense. I have no idea what it means.’
‘Jesus, you’re a shit,’ Mayfair said, and headed back the way they had come.
‘Don’t leave on my account,’ DeWitt said, still laughing. ‘Just leave!’ Which cracked him up even more. By the time he got outside, their unmarked sedan was gone and his partner with it.
While Gerald was practicing his duet with the lady from the Louisiana church, I went back into the library room – that’s what they called it, the library, even though there were only a few books in there and the spines on them looked like they’d never been cracked. I got out my cell phone and called Linda, our church secretary, knowing she’d be busy printing out the bulletins for tomorrow’s service. Which made me wonder who Brother Joe had gotten to replace him. I’d have to ask Linda.
She answered on the third ring. ‘First Baptist,’ she said, her voice harried.
‘Hey, Linda, it’s Vera Pugh. You sound like you’re busy,’ I said.
‘Busier than a cat covering up poop in a windstorm. What can I do for you, Miss Vera?’ She only calls me that because I asked her to stop calling me Mrs Pugh. The woman’s in her sixties – not that much difference in our ages that she needs to go and call me ‘Miss Vera,’ but I ignored it as usual. But before I could answer, she added, ‘And how’s everybody doing? Y’all having a good time?’
‘How can you not have a good time at a Southern Baptist convention?’ I asked back. ‘And everybody seems to be enjoying themselves.’ Getting back to business, I said, ‘I need two things: first, who’d Brother Joe get to cover for him tomorrow?’
‘Nobody! He told me to do it. Couldn’t find a retired preacher available to save my life, so I got Brother Leeman Hodges to do a layman’s service,’ she said.
‘Well, that’ll be better than a lot of them retired preachers we got before,’ I said.
‘Don’t I know it! Some of those old codgers can be long-winded, boring, and loud.’
‘I hear ya. Listen, second question: what’s Sister Rachael Donley’s maiden name?’
There was a slight pause, then Linda said, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
‘Don’t you have it written down somewhere?’ I persisted.
‘Why would I? She wasn’t married in this church, was she?’ Linda asked.
I sighed. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Well, now, let me look at her file. Sometimes women, specially these younger ones, like to use their maiden names as their middle names. So let’s look. While I’m looking, how come you need it?’
‘Well, she had to leave to go visit her mother. She gave me the number but I lost it, so I want to look up her mother’s name – it’s got to be the same as hers. Her parents were never divorced or anything.’
‘That makes sense,’ Linda said. ‘Ah ha! Here it is and you’re in luck! I’m pretty sure this is a maiden name, ’cause who would call their daughter this? Rachael Gregory Donley.’
‘Gotta be the maiden name!’ I said with a grin. Then had a new thought that might help with Monday’s trip to Bethesda, Maryland. ‘Could you fax me a picture of Brother Joe? We need the official church photo.’
‘Goodness gracious,’ Linda said. ‘Brother Joe asked you to get this?’
‘Ah, no, we – that is, the choir, thought we could use it.’
‘Well, I hope to heaven he didn’t ask for it! I’ve been trying to get him to sit down with the photographer for over a month and he keeps putting me off. We don’t have any photos of him.’
‘OK, then,’ I said, then thanked her and said goodbye. No photo, huh? Curiouser and curiouser. I knew there was something about that guy I didn’t like!
I couldn’t wait to tell Gerald, but he was in rehearsal, which left me with the computer and Rachael Donley’s maiden name. I powered up, plugged in Rachael’s maiden name and anxiously awaited the four to five seconds it took to spew out this information. There were eight Rachael Gregorys, but only three of them spelled their first names with the second ‘a’ – Rachael rather than Rachel. One was a current high-school student doing quite well in athletics in Wisconsin, one was a housewife with a cooking blog in Indiana, and one was someone searching for a Rachael Gregory who graduated George Washington High School in Farmersville, Texas, in the year 2000.
OK, I thought, a person who graduated high school in the year 2000, would be roughly in their early thirties – depending on their age upon graduation. I would definitely put Rachael in her early thirties. I was pretty sure she was from Texas, although Farmersville wasn’t familiar, but then again, I don’t think she ever said where she was from in Texas, not that I ever asked. I should have thought ahead.
I clicked on that page and found a callout for the graduates of the 2000 class of George Washington High for a reunion this coming spring. She was on a list of people no one knew how to get hold of. There were three of those in a graduating class of eighty-five students, which seemed to me to indicate that Farmersville was a medium to small town.
There was an email address so I clicked on that and wrote the following: ‘I too am looking for Rachael Gregory Donley, who disappeared from her hotel room three nights ago—’
No, that would just scare the bejesus out of whoever I was writing to, so I erased it. The ‘To’ line just said, ‘Reunion Committee.’ Have to be more subtle than that. ‘I’m a friend of Rachael Gregory’s and would be pleased if you could send me some info—’
OK, that didn’t sound too stalkerish! So I sat there at the desk, staring at the blank email until I finally gave up. There was something I could do right now, but it didn’t concern the email. I’d wait and have Gerald help with that. I had a feeling he could be more subtle than I. No, the thing I could do right now was get a picture of Brother Joe!
‘So where we going?’ Mr Jones asked Mr Brown.
‘That’s on a need to know basis,’ Mr Brown said, ‘and you don’t need to know.’
‘Yeah, I do!’ Mr Jones said. ‘If I’m supposed to do something, I need to know what it is, dumbass!’
‘You’ll do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. Is that clear?’
Mr Jones shook his head. ‘You’re not the boss of me,’ he mumbled to the side window.
‘Huh!’ Mr Brown said. ‘Yeah, I am, asshole. And don’t you forget it.’
‘If I killed people as easily as you do, you’d be a dead man, Mr Brown.’
Mr Brown laughed. ‘Good thing I’m riding with a pacifist then, huh?’
Mr Jones continued to stare out of the side window as they left the beauty of River Oaks and in only minutes were in the ghetto. Ten minutes driving through the worst streets he’d ever seen, and they pulled up in front of a white cinderblock building with a high wrought-iron fence around it.
Mr Brown handed Mr Jones a bunch of keys. ‘This one,’ he said, pointing at one of the keys, ‘opens the gate. So go do that.’
Mr Jones gave Mr Brown his version of the evil eye – which unfortunately wasn’t nearly as evil as Mr Jones thought it was – and got out of the car. They were no longer in the Toyota; that had been dumped, but were in one of Mr Big’s cars, a pristine 2010 Mercedes SUV.
Just as he stepped on the sidewalk, Mr Jones noticed movement behind him and to the right. He turned. A man was walking toward them. A white guy in a black neighborhood, cheap suit, gut, and an extra bulge on his hip. He threw himself back in the Mercedes. ‘Cop!’ he said.
Mr Brown looked in his rearview mirror, started the car and slowly drove away.
After Luna left, the four of us – Graham, Alicia, Willis and I – sat in the family room and discussed the situation, ad nauseum. Willis and I side by side; Graham and Alicia glued to each other.
‘So, what do you think?’ Graham asked us. I knew in my heart it didn’t really matter what we thought. This wasn’t a first crush like Lotta – young as they both were, this was the real thing.
‘I think it’s very mature of both of you to come up with this plan—’ I started.
‘Ha!’ Graham said. ‘The only mature one in this household is Bess. It was her idea. My gut reaction was hell no, but after thinking about it, I realize it’s the only thing that makes sense.’
‘I agree with your idea, but not your statement that Bess is the only mature one—’ Willis started.
Graham grinned from ear to ear. ‘You didn’t see what I saw when I innocently came downstairs early this morning for something to eat. I didn’t make it to the kitchen.’
Alicia giggled, covering her mouth with her hands, and I felt like doing the same, but restrained myself.
‘We’re adults! And we’re married,’ Willis said, obviously trying to hit all the bases. He cleared his throat and said, ‘OK, so going back to school. That’s a good idea. And I have an idea for after that. You know there’s a junior college in Brenham,’ he said, mentioning a town maybe twenty miles away where Blue Bell Ice Cream is made. Best ice cream ever – right up there with Ben & Jerry’s and Häagan Dazs. Only shipped by order outside of Texas.
‘Have you shared this with me?’ I asked.
‘I am now,’ he answered. ‘Anyway,’ he gave me a withering glance, ‘with your grandmother’s permission, of course, and I can’t see her saying no, you move in with her, which would put you even closer to Brenham, and you commute there. Then you and Alicia can date like normal people.’
‘Move in with Grandma?’ Graham said, eyes big. ‘I don’t think so!’
‘Why not?’ Alicia asked him.
He just looked at her for a long moment, then said, ‘Hell, it’s Grandma! Would you want to live with her?’
‘Hey, now, that’s my mother—’ Willis started.
‘She’s a hell of a cook,’ I interjected. ‘She goes to bed at eight every night. And we just bought her that wide-screen TV.’
‘And we could date,’ Alicia said. ‘And Mom and Dad can have their bedroom back.’
‘So I can’t live in my own home anymore?’ Graham said.
Alicia stood up. ‘Maybe I’m the one who should go live with Grandma, if she’ll let me,’ she said, and headed for the stairs, Graham on her heels, saying, ‘No, now, Alicia, I didn’t mean that …’
Later that night, Willis and I were alone in the family room. Megan and Bess had gone to a party, and Graham and Alicia were on their first date. And, for some reason I’m yet to fathom, the TV was off.
So I took that opportunity to turn to my husband and ask, ‘Just what the hell do you think we can accomplish by accompanying Luna to Houston tomorrow?’
He shrugged and pulled me to him. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘But we didn’t get the weekend we wanted at the Driscoll, so I thought we’d make reservations for us and for the Lunas at the Four Seasons. And we’ll pick up the tab for Elena and Eddie.’
I kissed him. What a guy, my husband. Of course, it was my book money he was spending, but hell, he’d supported me for almost twenty-five years, and still was. My new-found book booty just took care of the fun stuff, like a plethora of electronics – new iPhones, tablets, laptops, etc., large flat-screen TVs, new cars, and, in April next year, a two-week trip to Italy.
‘What a wonderful idea,’ I said.
‘I’m a wonderful guy,’ he said.
‘Yeah, you are. But can you prove it twice in one day?’ I asked with a grin.
He sighed. ‘Well, I’m no longer the young stud that I once was, but, hell, I’ll give it the old college try.’
And we went to our own bedroom – together.
I was able to sneak in a side door of the conference room on the mezzanine being used for choir practice, and with my new iPhone I took several shots of Brother Joe from several different angles. It was hard to get a picture of his face straight from the front, but I got enough side and partial full face shots to piece together a full face photo properly – if I could still remember what my grandson taught me about photo-shopping. I was sitting in the back of the room when Brother Joe called a lunch break. I waved at Gerald and he came with me for a quick lunch.
‘I found Rachael’s maiden name,’ I told him as we sat down at the table.
‘Really? How?’ he asked.
So I told him. The waitress came and we gave her our order, then he said, ‘How does this help us?’
So I told him about Googling Rachael Gregory’s name and how I came up with three names and narrowed it down to the one closest to her age from Texas. Gerald smiled at me. ‘You are so clever, Vera!’ He reached for my hand and I let him hold it.
‘So here’s the thing,’ I said. ‘Rachael’s high-school class is having a reunion and they’re looking for her. I thought about emailing the reunion committee – even started to a couple of times – but I’m not as clever as you think. Couldn’t come up with a darn thing.’
‘First off, what do we want to know from these people? If they’re looking for her, how can they help us?’ Gerald asked.
He had a point. I thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, maybe we can find out who her closest friend was back then. Maybe they’re still in touch, or a favorite teacher or something.’
I could see him shrug his shoulders in the reflection of the monitor. ‘If they knew that, wouldn’t they have asked those people first, before they put it out on the Internet?’
I was beginning to think Gerald was too damn smart for his britches.
‘We’ll figure out something,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to the library as soon as we finish here. We should have a little time before rehearsal.’
‘You poor baby,’ I said and squeezed his hand. ‘Your poor vocal cords are gonna be plum tuckered out before this day is over!’
By the time we finished eating – as you get older, your eating speed decreases – we only had fifteen minutes to spare in the library. But Gerald was quick on his feet. ‘OK, how’s this?’ he said, standing behind me real close, his hands resting on the back of my chair, his thumbs on my shoulders. ‘“Dear Committee Chairperson, my name is whatever, and I work for attorney whoever, who is currently searching for a woman named then put her whole name in there, married included. We wish her no ill; in fact, she has been mentioned in someone’s will. Please contact me as soon as possible if you hear from Mrs Donley, née Gregory.” How’s that?’ he asked.
I changed the ‘whatever’ to my name, and named the attorney after Gerald. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I asked him.
He smiled. ‘Not at all,’ he said.
‘And I think we should take out the “we wish her no ill” part. Don’t give ’em any ideas,’ I said.
He patted my shoulder. ‘You’re right! That makes perfect sense.’
So we hurried out of the library and back to the rehearsal hall, where all three choirs rehearsed together for the next few hours. After that, we all headed to our rooms to rest and get ready for our concert. We were gonna be singing at eight o’clock but nobody wanted to eat before the concert for fear of throwing up once on stage, so we made arrangements with the kitchen for a late seating for all of us – all three choirs – around ten.
We were, as my grandchildren would say, awesome! Not one bad note from all three choirs. But that was because we were just one choir that night! And we sang for His glory! And the duet Gerald did with the lady from Louisiana brought tears to my eyes, it was that good.
Afterward we were a raucous bunch in the dining room. The place was empty when we got there, so we sorta took it over, pulling tables together so we ended up sitting in one giant circle. It was nice that I was sitting next to Gerald. There was a certain faction that ordered alcohol, but they were on the other side of the circle from me and Gerald, and even though they got loud, so did everyone else. It was a fun evening and neither of us brought up Rachael Donley.
Mr Jones and Mr Brown spent a great deal of the afternoon spying on the Ungers’ lab, to no avail. The cop sat in an unmarked car across the street from the lab, reading a Lee Child book. They got close enough to see that the second time they drove by. After that they just parked and watched him. They were not aware that he was watching them back over the top of the Jack Reacher novel and had already taken down the license tag number of the Mercedes SUV. Unfortunately the Mercedes was registered to a holding company, which would take the authorities on a chase through many layers before it finally hit at an account in the Cayman Islands simply called ‘The Cars Account,’ and that only had a number attached to it, which the authorities in the Cayman Islands were not allowed by law to reveal. Of course, the police officer didn’t know this and, even if he did, would probably have taken down the license number anyway.
After two hours, Mr Brown called Mr Big and explained their situation. Mr Big said something in Russian that sounded bad and a little scary, then said, ‘Come back. We wait,’ and then he hung up.
Mr Brown didn’t want to go back. There was something about Mr Big that scared the hell out of him, but he wasn’t about to let Mr Jones know that. Mr Jones was already skittish – he’d panic and run if he thought Mr Brown was thinking about panicking and running.
It was after three in the afternoon when they got back to Mr Big’s mansion in River Oaks. Mr Brown thought that this section of the city was the quietest he’d ever been in, and he’d lived in Houston for almost twenty years. But River Oaks – man, the only people he’d seen since he started working for Mr Big were Mexican gardeners and black maids. Even Mr Big had some of those – a whole crew of Mexican gardeners and three black maids who came to clean every other day. No cook – he and Mr Green, the henchman, took turns with breakfast and lunch, and dinner was usually delivered by fancy restaurants that brought you take-out. Pretty cool, Mr Brown had thought, eating T-bone steak and a baked potato out of Styrofoam. But since he and Mr Green had snatched Mrs Unger, she’d been doing all the cooking. And she was pretty good at it.
Once inside the mansion, Mr Brown and Mr Jones both squared their shoulders, went to the door to Mr Big’s library and knocked. A brusque ‘Come in’ reply and they entered. All three were there – Mr Big, Mr Green, and Mrs Unger. Mr Big was sitting on his throne-like chair, Mr Green was standing at rest by the French doors, and Mrs Unger was tied to a Louis XVI side chair, her mouth taped with duct tape.
Mr Jones appeared to be the only one who noticed that Mrs Unger, who was again crying, was also trying desperately to breathe, as her mouth was taped shut and her nose was filled with snot from all the crying. She was turning bluish and rocking her very expensive chair.
‘Hey, y’all!’ Mr Jones cried and ran to the widow and pulled off the duct tape.
Mrs Unger gulped in mouthfuls of air.
‘Mister Jones!’ Mr Big said in a loud voice. ‘May I ask what you think you are doing?’
‘She couldn’t breathe!’ Mr Jones said.
‘Then it would behoove her to stop crying,’ Mr Big said.
Mr Jones just stared at Mr Big. Finally he said, ‘You mean you were letting her suffocate as punishment?’
Mr Big looked at Mr Brown. ‘Can you not control your hired hand, Mr Brown?’
Mr Brown looked at Mr Jones and jerked his head toward the door. ‘Out!’ he whispered with a menacing snarl.
Mr Jones bent down to Mrs Unger. ‘Ma’am, you OK?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No, not even a little bit,’ she said, tears starting up.
‘Don’t cry,’ Mr Jones whispered.
‘Out!’ Mr Brown snarled louder.
Mr Jones left the library and went in search of the kitchen. When he found it, he checked out the fridge, found a Dr Pepper and sat down with it at the large round table. He opened the soda and his cell phone simultaneously and pushed the button to call Alicia, the brown-haired girl. The phone rang four times, then her sweet voice came on the line asking him to leave a message. He did. ‘Hi, Alicia, it’s Mr Jones. I’m in Houston at Mr Big’s house. He’s Russian, I think. Anyway, they’ve got this lady here against her will and I think it’s that guy’s wife, the one who fell off the Driscoll? Anyway, they’re torturing her! The house is in River Oaks, but I don’t know what street—’ Hearing footsteps, he turned off his phone and put it in his pocket.
Mr Big’s henchman walked in the kitchen. ‘He want peanut butter samwish,’ the hulking henchman said.
Mr Jones nodded at him. ‘Make it,’ the henchman said.
So Mr Jones got up and made a peanut butter ‘samwish.’ ‘Does he want jelly?’ Mr Jones asked, while still in the assembling phase.
The henchman turned and walked out of the room. Mr Jones stood there for two full minutes before the henchman came back. ‘Grape,’ he said.
While looking in the refrigerator for the grape jelly, Mr Jones asked the henchman, ‘So what’s your name? Or rather, what do we call you?’
‘I am Mr Green,’ he said.
‘Of course you are,’ Mr Jones said under his breath, getting a little tired of all the aka’s. He finished the sandwich, put it on a plate and handed it to Mr Green. Mr Green set the plate down, opened a cabinet and brought out a silver tray, upon which he sat the plate with the sandwich, reached in the fridge and brought out a Yoohoo, set that on the tray next to a crystal glass, opened a drawer and pulled out a monogrammed linen napkin, then, without a word, left the kitchen.
As Mr Green left, Mr Brown came in.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing in there?’ Mr Brown spat at Mr Jones.
‘The woman was dying!’ Mr Jones said.
‘He wouldn’t have let her die!’ Mr Brown said. ‘He needs her.’
‘For what?’
‘That’s on a need—’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ Mr Jones said.
Mr Brown sighed. ‘I’m not really sure, but I think he wants her to make something for him. He’s got a whole lab set up in the basement.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all I know and, personally, I just want my money so I can blow this whole scene.’
‘You and me both,’ Mr Jones said, elbows resting on the table, and feeling more dejected with every passing minute.
The kitchen door opened and Mr Green came in with one beefy hand squeezing Mrs Unger’s upper arm. She was untied and ungagged. Mr Jones stood up as they came in the room.
‘Where you taking her?’ he asked.
Mr Green held up an index finger and moved it from side to side. Then continued to a door at the far end of the kitchen.
‘That’s the door to the basement,’ Mr Brown said. ‘I guess she finally agreed to work for him.’
Mr Green and Mrs Unger disappeared behind the door as Mr Jones and Mr Brown listened to the footfalls going downstairs.
Mr Jones said, ‘I never heard of a basement in Houston. I thought we were too close to the ocean or something.’
‘Naw, it’s the ground water. We’re too close to that. Not having basements is more of a southern thing. But these big mansions, like buildings downtown and whatnot, they got basements.’ Mr Brown shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’
Mr Jones squinted his eyes at Mr Brown. ‘How come you’re being nice to me all of a sudden?’
Mr Brown sighed heavily. ‘Because I’m tired of being cranky, and, besides, what you did in there, with Mrs Unger in front of Mr Big, I’d say normally that took balls. But with you, I’m just not sure if you’re too stupid to realize how close you came to death.’
‘Well, Mr Nice Guy’s gone back into hiding,’ Mr Jones said.
‘No, I admire what you did. Wish I had the balls to do it. This whole situation here stinks. How come y’all killed Mr Unger in the first place? All Mr Big wanted was that damn satchel.’
‘We didn’t,’ Mr Jones said. ‘Well, I didn’t, but Mr Smith didn’t mean to. Mr Unger was too close to the edge, and me and Mr Smith had been running after him for a while, and Mr Smith was out of breath and mad, so he poked the guy in the chest too hard, I guess, and he just went over backwards.’
‘So it was a fucking accident?’ Mr Brown asked.
‘Yeah, I guess that’s what you’d call it.’
Mr Brown sighed heavily. ‘That’s not what the courts will call it – they’d call it murder in the commission of a felony and you’d be just as guilty as Smith.’
‘What felony?’ Mr Jones asked.
‘Snatching the bag – no, you didn’t. Chasing Unger? Not a felony.’ Mr Brown smiled. ‘You might be OK.’
‘You think I should turn myself in?’ Mr Jones asked.
‘Jesus! Just when I’m beginning to think you’re not a stupid asshole! No, doofus, you don’t turn yourself in. Ever! Shit.’ Mr Brown got up and left the room.
They didn’t see Mrs Unger again that evening. Not even for dinner. Someone delivered what Mr Jones thought of as a whole bunch of Greek food around eight o’clock, and he and Mr Green spread it out on the table in the kitchen. Mr Green again loaded the silver tray for Mr Big, and told Mr Jones to make a similar tray for Mrs Unger. Mr Jones couldn’t find another silver tray, but did find a plastic one. He found the plates and served the lady a little of everything, eager to go downstairs and see this lab, and especially to check that Mrs Unger was OK. He was worried about her. Not knowing her drink preference, Mr Jones fixed her a glass of ice water and a Diet Coke, knowing ladies liked the diet stuff. He found one of the monogrammed linen napkins, placed the ornate silverware on the tray, and headed to the door to the basement.
Mr Green caught him halfway there. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Give.’ He held out his arms for the tray. ‘Open,’ he said, indicating with his head the door to the basement. ‘Key,’ he said, nodding at his pants pocket. A large placard, like one you’d see at a gas station for the men’s room, hung out of Mr Green’s left side pocket. At the end of it was one key.
Mr Jones used it to open the door. Mr Green just stood there. Mr Jones nodded his head at the door. ‘It’s open,’ he said. Still Mr Green just stood there. ‘What? Aren’t you going down? I fixed all the food for her—’ It was then that Mr Jones noticed the look on Mr Green’s face. It wasn’t pleasant. In fact, he had the distinct feeling Mr Green was contemplating doing harm to Mr Jones for reasons unknown to Mr Jones. And then it clicked. He put the key on the tray and Mr Green stopped looking at him and went down the stairs to the basement.
Mr Jones sighed audibly and headed for the table. That encounter had taken the steam out of Mr Jones. He wasn’t even hungry any more. He grabbed a dolmas out of the bag and slowly ate it.