Post by Kenneth Ashland on Jun 1, 2005 13:21:23 GMT -8
Pioneer Square was busy.
The recent summer heat had begun turning the engines of youthful commerce: the end of classes for the term, the promise of vacation days, and more than enough incentive to come out now that the rain was retreating. Though his body was no longer in a condition to fully appreciate it, downtown Seattle, for the moment, seemed more like Savannah.
Well…after a fashion…
It was becoming harder and harder to overlay the current state of affairs with his nostalgic memory of home. The rose-colored glasses were now dingy with months of stark reality.
These things take time, he reminded himself. If the only community I can effect is my own, then so be it.
New beginnings were sometimes just around the corner.
“Please, have a seat. Mister…?"
The potential client sat carefully, as though cautious of some malady of age, though he did not look more than forty. His dress was formal, if ever slightly anachronistic.
But then, eccentricity was nearly the city’s official motto.
The well-dressed man gazed around the office, seemingly oblivious to the other man or the welcoming question. He followed his guest’s eyes: first to his diplomas, then the bookcase and then, curiously, a long examination of the copy of his family tree, kept unobtrusively framed above the writing desk in the corner.
He waited, politely. It was not the first time a customer had taken time to examine the background quality of the service, prior to purchase. He flicked his eyes ever briefly to the desk clock. The late hour, combined with the man’s wardrobe, spoke volumes of just how interesting things were likely to get.
Finally, the man’s eyes, steady, gray eyes, settled on him.
“My humblest apologies. I have an unhealthy habit of examining interesting documentation, especially that which provides details of one’s station in life.”
He took the hand that was extended across his desk. It was like gripping iron in winter.
“My name is Allen. Fredrick Allen. The third.”
He nodded to the passersby, some looking surlier than others. He was always amazed how the old manners tended to overtly offend the modern culture. More than one over-muscled boy scowled at a polite “Good evening;” temper flared under, probably, the paranoid thought that he was attempting to make some play upon the requisite girlfriend on his arm. He forced a private sigh.
Not at all. Well…not yet, in any case.
He steered his hobble around the corner, the now-familiar trek to the Martini Heaven providing a sort of abstract comfort. While it was not his domain, officially, he had certainly made it his turf.
And it was from within this comforting abstract that he was abruptly pulled out. Literally. An arm extended from the shadow of an alley, the attached fist wrapping around his cane hand and, put off balance, he stumbled in the lured direction.
In short order, a knife was at his throat and his face was bathed in the fetid breath of too much cheap liquor. He was, he conceded, being mugged.
It was not an unfamiliar sensation.
He released his hand from the brief shake, resisting the urge to massage warmth back to his fingers. But even this was ignored as he squinted just aside of his guest, attempting to connect the name.
“Fredrick Allen? As in, the Allen Building & Trust?”
The man proffered a small smile and nod.
“Indeed.”
He returned the smile while inwardly thanking the Lord for having sent such a prosperous client his way. Times had been lean, of late. And with the war on…
“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Allen?”
The man paused a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. Then:
“Robert Massart.”
For a moment, he did not react at all, his mind trying to piece out the odd reply. But quickly it registered: a recent client.
“Mr. Massart? Why, I completed that case but a month ago. He was acquitted.” There was no pride in the statement, merely fact. His guest nodded.
“Quite so. Though he was as guilty as sin.” The man’s face, previously accommodating, instantly took a turn towards grim.
He leaned back in his chair, as though pondering the man. In reality, not knowing exactly what was going on here, and planning for the worst, he was positioning himself to make the pistol hidden beneath his desk more easily accessible.
“I am not certain I understand, Mr. Allen. How is Mr. Massart your reason for calling?” His mind edged towards the pistol more and more. God help him if one of Massart’s victims had been this man’s child.
Fredrick Allen’s voice took on a tone of reluctant concession.
“Massart is an associate of a…business rival of mine. By all rights the man should be in a cage by now. And yet you were able to secure a full acquittal. All things considered, this was a very impressive feat on your part. I thought it best to approach you before my rival had a chance to.”
He relaxed, slightly. No longer did he seem as one perhaps seeking vengeance but, rather, expressing admiration?
“Well,” he began slowly, “Mr. Massart’s guilt was the burden of the state. Every man is entitled to a proper defense. I can only hope that my efforts have,” he paused, again not wanting pride to become a part of his role in the matter, “have…served the justice system."
The grin in response was that of a serpent, eyeing a suitable meal. The gray eyes locked with his.
“Well said. Evasive, but well said. Your reputation does you credit, Mr. Ashland. Yes, I think you’ll serve my needs nicely.” The man checked his watch stiffly.
“But, the hour becomes late and, I think, Mr. Ashland, you’re soon for sleep.”
The darkness of sudden exhaustion consumed him.
“Gimme yer wallet!” The hissed demand was followed with a wet and entirely unhealthy cough. He was sure some of the man’s spittle had gotten on his tie. He felt the flat of the knife press harder against his throat.
This was annoying, not to mention infuriating. In his periphery, he saw nothing but an empty alley in both directions. He decided subtlety was not a requirement.
He cowed the man with his unnatural charisma, the pressure on the knife abating almost instantly.
“Now, you don’t want to do that, do you?”
“Nuh, n-no. I-I, uhh…” The drunkard stumbled backwards against the opposite brick wall, staring at him with what almost looked like rapture. He brushed himself off, and stepped nearer the man.
“Give me the knife.” And it was done.
He examined the thing: old, pitted, slightly rusty. Probably used more for prying off the caps of beer bottles than for such high-scale robbery. Without pause, he stepped forward, thrusting the knife up and under the throat of the beggar, pressing it to his skin as he had just had it pressed to his. From somewhere within him, it felt right.
“Do you enjoy it? Hm? Do you like having your existence dangled by a total stranger?” He felt a cold heat rising into his voice, the muscles beginning to tighten around his almost snarling jaws.
"Do you? !"
The wretch shook with a combination of both fear and admiration.
“N-no. Puh-please, d-don’t. I…I…”
He released a low growl. And with a flick of his wrist, it was over.
Consciousness returned painfully, and disorientation came along for the ride. He groaned, reflexively pushing himself back up into his chair, which he had apparently slumped out of. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and he squinted against the light of the desk lamp.
Standing but feet away was Fredrick Allen III, tightening the band of his watch onto his wrist.
“Hm? Are you all right there, Mr. Ashland? I had feared you had fainted, or somesuch.”
He paused, and felt his senses returning rather quickly.
“No. No…I’m fine, I suppose. My apologies. I’m not certain what just happened, but I…yes, I think I’m all right, now.”
“Good. Good. Well then, shall I call on you tomorrow evening? We can further discuss the business I might have for you."
The well-dressed man turned and exited without waiting for a reply, but all Kenneth Ashland could think to do just then was to nod and say
“Yes sir, Mr. Allen.”
The knife clattered to the pavement, the bum running sloppily away in fear, but otherwise unharmed.
The would-be thief was ignored. His eyes were locked on the blade, glinting in the streetlight.
Close. He had come…very close.
He shut his eyes, forcing calm to return. The stresses of office and…familial obligations were obviously beginning to overwhelm, and things were not improving. He needed counsel.
He brushed himself off, adjusted his tie, and exited the alley: step, click, and shuffling back to his car. The Martini Heaven would be forgotten for this evening.
His nods to passerby were still doled out, though mechanically. He ignored the occasional scowl or indifferent glare. His mind was elsewhere, and needed to be brought back into focus.
He needed to consult with his new teacher.
The recent summer heat had begun turning the engines of youthful commerce: the end of classes for the term, the promise of vacation days, and more than enough incentive to come out now that the rain was retreating. Though his body was no longer in a condition to fully appreciate it, downtown Seattle, for the moment, seemed more like Savannah.
Well…after a fashion…
It was becoming harder and harder to overlay the current state of affairs with his nostalgic memory of home. The rose-colored glasses were now dingy with months of stark reality.
These things take time, he reminded himself. If the only community I can effect is my own, then so be it.
New beginnings were sometimes just around the corner.
* * *
“Please, have a seat. Mister…?"
The potential client sat carefully, as though cautious of some malady of age, though he did not look more than forty. His dress was formal, if ever slightly anachronistic.
But then, eccentricity was nearly the city’s official motto.
The well-dressed man gazed around the office, seemingly oblivious to the other man or the welcoming question. He followed his guest’s eyes: first to his diplomas, then the bookcase and then, curiously, a long examination of the copy of his family tree, kept unobtrusively framed above the writing desk in the corner.
He waited, politely. It was not the first time a customer had taken time to examine the background quality of the service, prior to purchase. He flicked his eyes ever briefly to the desk clock. The late hour, combined with the man’s wardrobe, spoke volumes of just how interesting things were likely to get.
Finally, the man’s eyes, steady, gray eyes, settled on him.
“My humblest apologies. I have an unhealthy habit of examining interesting documentation, especially that which provides details of one’s station in life.”
He took the hand that was extended across his desk. It was like gripping iron in winter.
“My name is Allen. Fredrick Allen. The third.”
* * *
He nodded to the passersby, some looking surlier than others. He was always amazed how the old manners tended to overtly offend the modern culture. More than one over-muscled boy scowled at a polite “Good evening;” temper flared under, probably, the paranoid thought that he was attempting to make some play upon the requisite girlfriend on his arm. He forced a private sigh.
Not at all. Well…not yet, in any case.
He steered his hobble around the corner, the now-familiar trek to the Martini Heaven providing a sort of abstract comfort. While it was not his domain, officially, he had certainly made it his turf.
And it was from within this comforting abstract that he was abruptly pulled out. Literally. An arm extended from the shadow of an alley, the attached fist wrapping around his cane hand and, put off balance, he stumbled in the lured direction.
In short order, a knife was at his throat and his face was bathed in the fetid breath of too much cheap liquor. He was, he conceded, being mugged.
It was not an unfamiliar sensation.
* * *
He released his hand from the brief shake, resisting the urge to massage warmth back to his fingers. But even this was ignored as he squinted just aside of his guest, attempting to connect the name.
“Fredrick Allen? As in, the Allen Building & Trust?”
The man proffered a small smile and nod.
“Indeed.”
He returned the smile while inwardly thanking the Lord for having sent such a prosperous client his way. Times had been lean, of late. And with the war on…
“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Allen?”
The man paused a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. Then:
“Robert Massart.”
For a moment, he did not react at all, his mind trying to piece out the odd reply. But quickly it registered: a recent client.
“Mr. Massart? Why, I completed that case but a month ago. He was acquitted.” There was no pride in the statement, merely fact. His guest nodded.
“Quite so. Though he was as guilty as sin.” The man’s face, previously accommodating, instantly took a turn towards grim.
He leaned back in his chair, as though pondering the man. In reality, not knowing exactly what was going on here, and planning for the worst, he was positioning himself to make the pistol hidden beneath his desk more easily accessible.
“I am not certain I understand, Mr. Allen. How is Mr. Massart your reason for calling?” His mind edged towards the pistol more and more. God help him if one of Massart’s victims had been this man’s child.
Fredrick Allen’s voice took on a tone of reluctant concession.
“Massart is an associate of a…business rival of mine. By all rights the man should be in a cage by now. And yet you were able to secure a full acquittal. All things considered, this was a very impressive feat on your part. I thought it best to approach you before my rival had a chance to.”
He relaxed, slightly. No longer did he seem as one perhaps seeking vengeance but, rather, expressing admiration?
“Well,” he began slowly, “Mr. Massart’s guilt was the burden of the state. Every man is entitled to a proper defense. I can only hope that my efforts have,” he paused, again not wanting pride to become a part of his role in the matter, “have…served the justice system."
The grin in response was that of a serpent, eyeing a suitable meal. The gray eyes locked with his.
“Well said. Evasive, but well said. Your reputation does you credit, Mr. Ashland. Yes, I think you’ll serve my needs nicely.” The man checked his watch stiffly.
“But, the hour becomes late and, I think, Mr. Ashland, you’re soon for sleep.”
The darkness of sudden exhaustion consumed him.
* * *
“Gimme yer wallet!” The hissed demand was followed with a wet and entirely unhealthy cough. He was sure some of the man’s spittle had gotten on his tie. He felt the flat of the knife press harder against his throat.
This was annoying, not to mention infuriating. In his periphery, he saw nothing but an empty alley in both directions. He decided subtlety was not a requirement.
He cowed the man with his unnatural charisma, the pressure on the knife abating almost instantly.
“Now, you don’t want to do that, do you?”
“Nuh, n-no. I-I, uhh…” The drunkard stumbled backwards against the opposite brick wall, staring at him with what almost looked like rapture. He brushed himself off, and stepped nearer the man.
“Give me the knife.” And it was done.
He examined the thing: old, pitted, slightly rusty. Probably used more for prying off the caps of beer bottles than for such high-scale robbery. Without pause, he stepped forward, thrusting the knife up and under the throat of the beggar, pressing it to his skin as he had just had it pressed to his. From somewhere within him, it felt right.
“Do you enjoy it? Hm? Do you like having your existence dangled by a total stranger?” He felt a cold heat rising into his voice, the muscles beginning to tighten around his almost snarling jaws.
"Do you? !"
The wretch shook with a combination of both fear and admiration.
“N-no. Puh-please, d-don’t. I…I…”
He released a low growl. And with a flick of his wrist, it was over.
* * *
Consciousness returned painfully, and disorientation came along for the ride. He groaned, reflexively pushing himself back up into his chair, which he had apparently slumped out of. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and he squinted against the light of the desk lamp.
Standing but feet away was Fredrick Allen III, tightening the band of his watch onto his wrist.
“Hm? Are you all right there, Mr. Ashland? I had feared you had fainted, or somesuch.”
He paused, and felt his senses returning rather quickly.
“No. No…I’m fine, I suppose. My apologies. I’m not certain what just happened, but I…yes, I think I’m all right, now.”
“Good. Good. Well then, shall I call on you tomorrow evening? We can further discuss the business I might have for you."
The well-dressed man turned and exited without waiting for a reply, but all Kenneth Ashland could think to do just then was to nod and say
“Yes sir, Mr. Allen.”
* * *
The knife clattered to the pavement, the bum running sloppily away in fear, but otherwise unharmed.
The would-be thief was ignored. His eyes were locked on the blade, glinting in the streetlight.
Close. He had come…very close.
He shut his eyes, forcing calm to return. The stresses of office and…familial obligations were obviously beginning to overwhelm, and things were not improving. He needed counsel.
He brushed himself off, adjusted his tie, and exited the alley: step, click, and shuffling back to his car. The Martini Heaven would be forgotten for this evening.
His nods to passerby were still doled out, though mechanically. He ignored the occasional scowl or indifferent glare. His mind was elsewhere, and needed to be brought back into focus.
He needed to consult with his new teacher.
