CHAPTER 3

A wide scan of The Godard picked up windows reflecting the sun’s magic-hour reflection.  One window, however, was ablaze with more than just a mirrored sunset.  The drapes were abruptly pulled shut, bringing that scan to a stop. 

Skitter grinned and said, “Don’t cut to the interior yet, Saeger.  More fun this way.”

“I gotta take some notes, Skitter,” answered the agitated Saeger.

“Hold your water.  Your notes can wait,” said Urian as he whipped out a five-dollar bill and slapped it down on the consol. “Plate!”

“You’re on,” said Skitter, and he threw his own five-dollar bill.  “Vase.”

The crash of ceramics was heard coming from behind the pulled drapes.

“Okay,” said Urian, as he turned to Saeger.  “Flip it over.”

The monitor for apartment 55 switched from exterior to a wide-angle interior of a living room, decorated in eclectic fashion with multicultural trappings, including what once was a large antique plate, but was now a scattered array of broken china.

Liz, a struggling fashion designer, with every inch of her stout body trained to stand her ground, laced into her husband, Robert, as she looked for something else to throw.  “Me crazy?” yelled Liz.  “You agreed with me last night.  Jesus!  There’s enough to worry about with terrorism and the freakin’ global warming.” 

“Want the whole damn city to hear you?”

Liz stepped forward, going nose to nose.  “Hear me?  Listen to yourself.”

“Me?  You’re the one with the crazy dreams.”

“You said you had them too.”

“I lied,” said Robert.

“Lied?  You put me through that last night and…”  She grabbed the telephone book and threw it at him, missing, and slamming into the door behind him.

“I’m your husband, for Christ’s sake,” said Robert as he ducked into the kitchen.

Liz continued her stalking.  “Husband, shmudsman!  You don’t lie about a thing like that… you… you jerk!  You dumb…”

Robert shot out of the kitchen, down another hall and into the bathroom.  He locked the door, quickly lifting the lid of the toilet, flushing, turning the shower on, and turned the sink faucets on, all as she mouthed her litany of insults, obviously having heard the routine many times before.

“…dumb, dumb…” said Liz, now exasperated for words.

In a bedroom next to the bathroom sat Arnold, a fourteen-year-old and one of several nieces and nephews spending the week with their aunt and uncle, mouthing Liz’s words as well.

Behind the door of a second bedroom across the hall, stood thirteen-year-old Vaughn, leaning against the door and counting with his fingers the number of words Liz was using in this, her latest diatribe against Robert. “Far too many repeats for true anger.”

Not to be left out, precocious nieces Stella and Nalani played Rock, Paper, Scissors with what they were hearing. “I’m not telling them to shut up,” said Nalani.

“You are if I win,” said Stella.

They continued to play the game, as—

Liz tried in vain to pull the doorknob off as she shouted, “…selfish, irresponsible, uncaring, self-centered, shmudsman, husband, jerk.”  She slammed her fist into the door, turned her back to the wall and slid to the floor, out of breath.  “Turn the damn water off.  We’re supposed to be conservationists, remember?”

The sound of the faucets turning off prompted Stella and Nalani to break tie—Nalani loosing.  “Crap,” she shouted at Stella.  “Never fun doing this.”  She turned toward her bedroom door.  “Hey, you two.  How are your guests supposed to sleep with all that racket going on?”

“Bla, bla, bla,” Liz shouted back.  “Go to sleep.  Lord!  This is mild compared to your mother’s neurosis.”  She stood up, took a deep breath and knocked on the bathroom door.  “Can I come in?”

Hearing the door unlock, she pushed it open to find Robert sitting on the toilet.  “Is this… For God’s sake how can you evacuate… Fuck!  For real? she asked.

Robert looked up, his face more than distressed over the argument.  “It’s for real.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”  Liz backed out and gently closed the door.  “I’m sorry.” She leaned her cheek against the frame.   “Did I upset your bowels?”

“No,” said Robert.  “Let’s just blame it on the Mexican lunch.”

Liz took a deep breath.  “Hey… I apologize, but thanks for admitting you lied.”

“Sure.”

“You do believe me, really, don’t you?”

“Sure.  If that kook of a retired pastor had the dream too like he told you… sure.”

Liz lifted her head.  “Inferring I’m a…”

“No.  You’re not a kook.”  He flushed and washed up.  “If you say you hear water in your dreams and Richard says he’s having the same dream—climbing through the barbed wire or razor wire, all that, well…”  He opened the door and stepped out.  “That’s… something to question, I’d say.  By the way, how’d you know?”

“Know?”

“That he’d had the same dream.”

“Oh, just came out over coffee with him down stairs couple of days ago.  Spooked us both, you know?”

She took his hand.  “You feel better now?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You really think I should question them?” she continued.

“Yeah, them.  They’re probably pointing that pesky satellite right at your beautiful blue eyes right now.”

She continued to lead him into the kitchen.  “Robert, really… at times, well, sometimes it’s…”

“Too much?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“So, what are you going to say at the meeting tomorrow?”

Liz lifted up the phonebook and neatly placed it back on the shelf.  She shrugged, a frightened look enveloping her now exhausted face.  She picked up some of the broken plate and held the pieces in her open hands.  “I’m sorry.  Your mother gave that to us.”

“Yeah.  I’ve been hoping you’d get to it one of these nights.”

She half smiled.  “You’re terrible.”

“I know.”  He knelt down and joined her in cleaning up.

Urian swept up the cash on the table.  “Told ya.  She always goes for china.”

 “You’re wrong.  It was a Grecian vase last night.”  Skitter pointed to Roxanne’s apartment.  “Check out our new tenant.”

Amidst unopened packing boxes and randomly placed furniture, Roxanne stood sipping her glass of wine and looking out over Manhattan.  After a moment, she glanced toward the sky, turned, and sat at her computer, quickly pulling on screen a chart of accounts.  She scrolled down to a name, noted the telephone number and dialed.  As she spoke, she brought on several windows, showing her portfolio and bank accounts.  “Leonard?  This is Roxanne.  I just finished with the move… yeah.  About six hours ago.  You said to call you at eight, and it’s eight fifteen.  So, you’ve got good news for me?”  Getting no response, she went on.  “Leonard, you owe me fifty thousand on this delivery and you still owe me for the other two and…”  Becoming further agitated, she took another swallow of wine.  “Look, the limo perk notwithstanding, and I understand business ups and downs…”  On hearing his voice, she smiled.  “Oh, it speaks.  What do you mean do I understand transportation?  You’re not the first city manager that’s had union problems…  Stocks?  They’re only pieces of paper until their sold… I hear you, and windfalls come and go, but the cash winds either blow my way very quick, or no sailing, got it?  You wanted the bimbette gone… quick.  I delivered the goods as contracted, so… fifty… tomorrow.  And, Leonard, I want the other two paid down soon as well… So?  Not my problem.  I gave you the scripted strategies.  All you had to do was follow them.  Those stuffed shirts would have resigned by now, but, no, you had to tweak them. Does Donald Trump mean anything to you?  I told you this might happen if you fucked around with my words…  Hey!  Enough!  Tomorrow on the bimbette, and the resignations gone awry?  That’s your problem now.  I want those paid up pronto, Capish?” 

She hung up, took another sip of wine and flipped the computer screen to an entertainment channel where an old Charlie Chan serial was playing.  “Go get him Charlie,” she said with a grin.  Reducing the picture and sliding it to the corner of the screen, she pulled up another program. 

The picture of a gluttonous, balding Norwegian type, labeled Leonard Turner, popped on as an index page.  The caption read: Leonard Turner, City Transportation Manager.  Next to the picture:  Status – payables, three contracts – overdue.  She typed in, “5 P.M. tomorrow.”

Urian leaned toward Saeger.  “What’s her MO, anyway?”

Saeger punched a few keys and on the master-screen faded in Roxanne Daniels, Virtual Reality screenplay writer.

“What in hell is a Virtual Reality screenplay writer?” asked Urian. 

Saeger shook his head.  “According to her bio, her clients pay her lots of money to write ways to get rid of their wives, co-workers, you name it.  She gathers data, writes them a script to follow to the tee, and then collects her thousands.”

“Thousands?”

“I couldn’t believe it either when I read through it all yesterday, but this chick writes out these plots, game plans, whatever, that seem to work.  Apparently, she’d done well.  Sure as hell don’t ever want her to get me in her crosshairs, eh?”

Urian smiled.  “Cute.  She sounds like an original, all right.”

“Speaking of original.  Richard’s finally out of the tub,” said Skitter.

Urian and Saeger switched their attention to Richard’s monitor, as he hurriedly walked along Lexington Avenue, and abruptly turned into a drugstore.  Stepping up to the pharmacy counter, he mumbled.  “I need something strong.”

The pharmacist looked questioningly over the top of his glasses.  “Do I get a hint?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I’ve… I’ve got some heavy work to do for the next few weeks and I need to stay awake, you know?”

“Got a prescription,” asked the pharmacist.

“Prescription?  What kind of prescription do I need?”

The pharmacist looked over the top of his glasses, once again.  “The kind a doctor might give you?”

Richard dropped his head, took a deep breath, and looked up again.  “I’m sorry.  I must be sounding stupid.  I’ve been up for a long time.”

Feeling Richards comments were worthy of a little sarcasm, the pharmacist said, “Sounds like whatever you’ve been taking is working.”

Feeling the jitters associated with his lack of sleep, Richard calmed himself long enough to say, “Not really.  I’ll get with my doctor, but for now, what do you recommend?”

“Without a prescription, try the Maximum Strength NoDoz.”

“Thanks,” said Richard as he turned toward the aisles.  “Which one?”

“Aisle four.”

He hurried to the aisle, grabbed four bottles and proceeded to check out.

Urian watched Richard’s screen.  “Skitter, you said you stumbled onto the classified link for Quill’s new “Dream Experiment.”  What do you know about it I might not know?”

“It’s classified,” answered Skitter.

Urian shot him a look.  “Encryption’s your middle name.”

“No, really.  Couldn’t figure any of it out.  Just like you, I read what I was supposed to read, the rest… scramble time.”

“I’m curious to find out what Quill’s doing with this guy’s data.  He’s our only subject with this kind of experience and knowledge.”

“You mean his preacher years?”

“His female time.  Obsessive behavior with females.  That’s what the summary so far says.  Females that make him feel like he’s a sex addict.  He likes that.  Go figure.”

“Maybe he is,” said Saeger.

Urian lit a cigarette.  “Don’t think so.  The rest of his behavior doesn’t fit a deviant.  What if Gloria’s dream screw-up with him wasn’t really a screw-up?”

Skitter looked over from his notes.  “What?”

“Could have been planned that way,” said Urian, exhaling a heavy cloud of smoke.  “You said yourself you couldn’t figure out what caused the glitch.  What if it wasn’t a glitch?  Quill can over-ride anything in here if he chooses.  You know that.”

Saeger put his batch of screens on auto-archive and walked toward the exit.  “You guys can screw around with that one.  I’m gonna relieve myself.”

“Why would Quill want to further scare shit out of the guy by messing him up with Gloria’s fantasies?” asked Skitter.  “Seems to me the original dream sharing experiment with Liz is enough, you know?”

“Unless he wants him compelled to stay awake?”

“Come again?” said Skitter.

Urian nodded toward Richard’s screen as Richard downed a handful of NoDoz before he left the drugstore.  “He’s not planning to close his eyes anytime soon.”

“So?”

“Sleep deprivation, Skitter.  Been known to trigger a lot of buried behavior.  Pushed too far, what might happen is anybody’s guess.  Who knows what Quill might be trying to do?  Who the hell knows?”

Skitter caught Urian eyeing him.  “Don’t look at me.  I’m just doing my job… here… at this desk.”

“We’re about monitoring, archiving, and noting irregularities… not provoking them.  What if Quill engineered that glitch?  What if he’s playing with Richard’s head…? I mean, dangerously?”

Skitter took a swallow of coffee and sighed.  “Quill’s been with the program from the beginning.  He obviously knows what he’s doing.  Why all of sudden are you so concerned?”

“A lot of ‘what-ifs’ are floating around my head since my two-month stint at Station Three.  What if Quill’s ready to pop another Gloria seduction dream or maybe some more Liz nightmares on him?  If you were Richard, what would you do?”

Skitter shrugged.  “Sure as hell find me something better than NoDoz.”

“No, short of buying some illegal drugs, you’d have little chance of getting a prescription that would keep you awake like you’d want.”

“Hey, were gettin’ in kinda deep here.  Better we chalk it up to a glitch, and get on with the other sixty-four tenants,” said Skitter.

Urian put out his cigarette.  “Maybe.  Then, of course, if you’re wrong, Quill might put somethin’ in Richard’s head next time that could do some real damage.”  He stood up and stretched just as Saeger returned. 

“Hey, its two o’clock.  Time for lunch,” said Saeger.

Skitter, ignoring Saeger, turned back to the screens.  “Great!  Hey Urian…”  He gestured toward Richard’s screen.

In one of the rare telephone booths left on 9^th Avenue, Richard stood with the phone in one hand and door handle in the other, working the accordion movement back and forth, back and forth.  “…yeah, well, you don’t have to live through this shit.  I need a session now… ‘cause my head’s splitting… you’re my shrink, for Christ’s sake… so, cancel one of the appointments… Sorry.  You’re right.  I know…  I don’t eat right.  I drink too much… ‘headaches are a normal defense’ I know.  You’ve told me before… Okay.  Okay.  No… no.  I can get through it.  Part of my therapy… getting through it… I know, vegetables and fruit.  I hear you.  Tomorrow then.  Normal time.  Sure.  You have a nice one, too.”  Richard waited for the click at the other end, and then slammed the phone into its cradle—several times. 

As he stepped out of the booth, a dark-skinned young lady in a red, body-clinging dress, waiting to use the phone, smiled.  “Can’t kill that phone, sugar.  They made it special just for my corner.”

Richard looked around at the store fronts—mostly catering to the adult books and film crowd.  “Yeah.”  He stepped off the curb toward an adult movie house on the opposite side of the street.

“You oughta let some of that tension out, sugar.  Let it all out.”

“You might be right, miss,” Richard answered.  As he reached the theatre, he turned his collar up and glanced at the erotica images on the billboards.  After a few moments, he continued walking, passing an adult bookstore.  A few feet beyond, he stopped and gave an exasperated glance to the sky.  “Fuck.  You know more about me than I do, anyway.”  Flipping the bird to the clouds, he said, “Keyhole this,” and turned back, entering the adult store.

Saeger, with his eyes still on Richard’s screen, passed the Chinese menu to Urian, who waved it off.  “Just get me some steamed veggies and tofu.”

Skitter took the menu, smiling.  “Right on, boss.  How should I ask them to prepare that for you, sir?”

Urian remained focused on the screen.  “With steam, smart ass.”

As the Autumn sun dropped behind Central Park’s tree line, Hector stood at the curbside of The Godard helping a tenant and her small girl exit a cab.  They exchanged smiles just as a limo pulled up and stopped.  Hector moved to open the door, allowing Roxanne to step up on the curb.  “Move in day work out for you, Miss Daniels?”

“Yes, thank you,” answered Roxanne, “but, please, call me Roxanne, okay?  Formality is so aging, you know.”

Hector tipped his hat and smiled as the limo pulled away.  “ I kinda get you live a very informal life in spite of the formal surroundings, and being the doorman, I...”

“Oh, the limo? Just a perk from a client.”

Hector graciously opened The Godard front gate.

Roxanne stepped through.  “You do have a way.”  Pulling up short, she turned.  “Oh, if a less-than-charming visitor… brash, rude, arrogant and wild-looking asks for me…”

“Let him in,” said Hector with tongue in cheek.

Continuing the repartee.  “Only if his name is Albert, Hector.  Only if his name is Albert.”

“Of course, only Albert.”

Roxanne continued walking toward the elevators.

The screen showed a quad split, as Richard hurriedly moved from one room to the next, leaving his coat in one, turning on some bosanova music in another, finally ending up in the kitchen, where he dropped a brown paper bag on the table.  He poured a large glass of milk, sat down, adjusted the chair, took a swallow of milk, and stared at the brown bag.  Little by little, a hesitant grin appeared on his mouth as the fingers of his left hand started tapping to the romantic beat. His right hand lifting a chocolate chip cookie from the bag.

“Got your notebook out, Skitter?” asked Urian.  “Cookies and milk for a weirdo trying to stay awake?  Figure that one.”