Beatitude 15

Game's Afoot

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Northmont University. July, 1984.

I’m breaking my promise to Charlene. She asked me to wait and I said I would.

I lied.

Cos I’m pissed.

Solving the puzzle post mystery was our thing, the thing that brought us together, but I’m gonna ruin our thing. Mostly because I want to hurt her. Like she hurt me.

Charlene discovered a phone number in the posts we found, but we’re missing a number. I’m gonna dial and dial and dial until I find that number and I’m gonna solve the mystery. Without her.

I’m dialing. Disconnected. Dialing again. Sullivan Tire. Dialing.

After only three attempts, an answering machine picks up. Could this be it?

Synthesized Voice: We have your muse. If you wish to be a writer worthy of publication, you will do as we say.

I could stop here. I could slam on the brakes and wait for her. But, dammit, I’m way too angry to do the right thing. And to quote two selfish, mostly fictional bastards* ‘the game’s afoot.’

Synthesized Voice: At the witching hour, bring an uncluttered mind to the Cox building on Central. 244 Central. Come alone.

---

The Cox Building. Central Street. July, 1984.

Instructions from a creepy, distorted voice on an answering machine led me to a strange location on Central Street. Alone.

Sandwiched between a laundromat and a resale shop, the Cox building looks as if it was transplanted from some Hollywood set designer’s romanticized vision of New York. The elaborate Deco detail of its Egyptian revival facade is spectacular, decadent and Charlene would absolutely love it.

I’m still mad at her, but I also hate that she’s not here.

She really should be here.

A few weeks ago, I would have thought the idea of a soul mate was stupid. Now, because I’m such a petty piece of shit, I’m going out of my way to extricate myself from the mystical link that bound me to Charlene. And I can’t help myself.

Compelled by anger, spellbound by a voice on an answering machine, I push forward.

Synthesized : Buzz suite 304. Take the stairs.

No idea what I’ll find inside the building. Tiger? Lady? The Publisher’s Clearinghouse Prize Patrol?

Teeth gnashed, I continue to follow instruction and buzz the third floor.

>BZZZT!<

Entry granted I move through a grand foyer to a huge, wrought iron circular staircase. Then, as ordered, I climb the winding corkscrew three flights to my destination.

There’s a line of Sam Spade-esque office doors on either side of the marble tiled third floor corridor. Each one marked with gilt numbers on pebbled glass. Suite 303 is the last stop. There is no 304.

Funny. Ha.

So, this has all been a scam? A colossal waste of time?

I was already pissed. Now I’m livid.

I should be at Charlene’s game right now, sitting in the stands, cheering her on. But I’m not. And that—that’s her fault.

She didn’t want me there. She asked me not to come and I agreed I wouldn’t. I never should have told her I was okay with it. That was stupid. So . . . stupid.

I’m still not okay. I was never okay. I’m hurt. I’m pissed.

Everything was going great for us. At least, I thought it was. What happened?

Does she think I’ll embarrass her or something?

Synthesized Voice: Knock 2 times.

Light from inside suite 303 flashes across the pebbled glass.

Synthesized Voice: If you contact the authorities, or try anything funny, you’ll never have the facility to write a novel, short story, poem, haiku again - ever.

I knock twice. Nothing.

The door isn’t locked, it easily opens with a turn of the knob.

Inside, there’s a vestibule and — surprise —a door marked 304.

Again, I knock two times before entering.

* Shakespeare’s HENRY V and Conan Doyle’s SHERLOCK HOLMES

---

More Beatitude next Friday.

---

BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts