ASIDE FROM Livingstone’s Bentley, the lot is empty. Morning dew on the windshield suggests he’s been here a while. He made the call to me from his office, I suspect.
The air is heavy with damp. In the treed valley to my right, the crickets chirp a dirge for an end to the summer season. My tee shirt clings to my torso. Droplets of sweat dribble from my forehead into my eyes. I blink once, twice, to clear my vision. My heart thumps hard enough to crack a rib. Removing my service revolver from its shoulder holster, I disengage the safety.
The twelve-story building is mostly dark. On every other level, the dull-blue glow of incandescent night-lights illuminates the interior.
Approaching the double-glass entry doors cautiously, I pause. The doors slide automatically open. The lobby is dimly lit. I make my way across the foyer to a bank of elevators. At the elevator, I press Up. Once inside the elevator, I press Twelve.
Inside the box, I have time to think. Am I walking into a set-up? As Gabby wagers, it’s seventy-thirty I come out on the losing side of a confrontation with The Chatterbox/Livingstone. Though my math is fuzzy, either way I lose. Just as easily, I could be inviting an administrative fuck-up of epic proportion. As I worry over my options, the elevator stops, leaving me no options at all.