wish you were here
Back in New York City, I was at my desk contemplating my next move, absently watching a fly buzzing madly, trapped in the space between two windows. Sonofabitch. I took a draught of whiskey from my glass, and my chair creaked, breaking my reverie.
There was a noise in the hall then. Slight, barely perceptible. My hand rested on the cool steel of the Derringer atop my desk, finger tensing on the trigger.
A key turned in the lock, and I relaxed hearing the tumblers give way. There was a slight rap at my door.
“Come in,” I said, wearily.
The door creaked.
Goddamnit, I thought, I've got to fix that.
“Mr Turner?”
“Julie?”
Light footsteps across creaking floorboards. “Today's mail,” she said, placing it on the desk before retreating.
I waited for the door to close, waited for the deadbolt's click
Three pieces. I flipped through them in the dim light of a banker's lamp. Hydro, Ma, and – what's this?
A post card: the Bahrain Financial Harbour, her grand towers glowing a beautiful turquoise beneath a pitch sky.
Flipping the card over, I was met with four words in a strangely familiar, but curiously stylised scrawl: Wish you were here. I couldn't help but smile, and my finger flew to the intercom.
“Julie, book me on the earliest possible flight to Manama. Call headquarters and let them know I'm leaving, and that I'll touch base with them when I get there.”
“Certainly, Mr Turner.”
“And Julie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Leave my light suit out – it can get a little hot there this time of year.”
“Will do, Mr Turner.”
“Oh, and one more thing, Julie.”
“Sir?”
“Leave my Kevlar and Browning Hi-Power out, as well.”
“Of course, Mr Turner.”
“It sure can get a little hot there this time of year.”
No comments:
Post a Comment