My two Wednesday classes passed in a blur. I managed to pay attention most of the time, but my attention kept wandering. I kept thinking about the coming mystery meeting. As my Applied Computer Architecture class drew to a close, I nearly flew from my seat and ran back to the dorms. I cleaned up and put on my suit, one I normally only wore to weddings and funerals, then headed out the door with plenty of time to catch the 4:10 bus toward downtown. I was down four flights of stairs and heading for the main exit when I remembered her instructions to bring my blue binder. Did I have time to go back and get it? Would it be better to show up on time but without the binder, or was the binder more important than punctuality? I froze for a moment at the base of the stairs before making my decision. Not wanting to wait on the dorm's ancient and painfully slow elevator, I bolted back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Grabbing the folder from my desk, I frantically relocked my dorm and ran for the stairs again, nearly knocking over another student as I rounded the corner to the stairwell. I shouted an apology but didn't look back as I took the stairs so quickly that I nearly fell.
I ran to the bus stop, slowing down only as I approached and saw several other people sitting there. The bus had not arrived yet. I checked the time on my phone. 4:05. I still had at least five more minutes to wait. Those minutes seemed to stretch on forever, as did the twelve minute ride on the bus after it arrived two minutes late.
I walked up to the massive concrete steps of City Hall to the granite and glass facade of the building's entrance. I took a moment to check my reflection in the glass door, ran my fingers through my hair and straighten my tie a bit, then I walked in. It was 4:28PM when I found the Clerk of Courts office. A scattering of lawyers were milling about, talking, occasionally approaching the clerk's window to engage in some bureaucratic paper shuffling.
She wasn't there.
I felt like an idiot. What was I thinking? One cryptic phone call and I'm pulling out all the stops to meet up with some girl I don't even know. She was probably right now off with her friends having a big laugh about the whole thing.
“Barry, thank goodness you made it.” I looked up to see a smartly dressed woman gesturing at me to join her. Even then I did not immediately recognize her.
Gone was the jeans, tennis shoes, and motorcycle jacket. Instead she now wore a conservative business outfit... skirt with matching jacket, uncomfortable shoes, even a tie. The blue streaks and feathers were missing from her hair, and she now wore thick rimmed but stylish glasses. Under her arm was tucked the type of leather satchel popular with the lawyers that scurried about the court house. The biggest difference, however, was how she carried herself. She exuded a supreme confidence... an almost haughty superiority. She seemed ten years older. She looked like a lawyer. Like a high priced corporate attorney or a rock-star federal prosecutor from some late night crime drama.
I realized I was standing there with my mouth open. I closed it and walked over. She pointed at my blue binder as I approached.
“Ah good, you brought the environmental inspection report,” she exclaimed, “I was afraid it wouldn't be ready in time.” She snatched the binder from my hands and began flipping through my Theory of Computing lecture notes. “Hmm... not good. Not good at all.” Her brow furrowed as she turned the pages. “It's a good thing you got this to me when you did,” she continued, “The property is a literal cesspool of toxic chemicals, and we never would have caught it without this phase two survey. It would be stupid to buy that building at any price. Whoever ends up with that old textile plant is going to be stuck with a hellacious environmental remediation bill. Good work, Barry. Thanks to you we dodged a bullet on this one.”
Before she had even finished speaking, one of the lawyerish looking guys sitting at a nearby bench seemed to react. He jumped to his feet, jammed some papers back into his leather satchel, and began stabbing at his cell phone even as he started running down the hall. My companion watched with a growing grin as he grew more distant.
She turned back to me, winked, and said, “Yatzee!”
“What the hell just happened,” I replied.
“You were great, Barry,” she answered, “but the mission isn't over yet.” She turned and walked to the Clerk's window.
“Is this where I drop off a sealed bid for a tax delinquent Brownfield property?” she asked the woman behind the counter.
“Yes,” was all the woman replied. My companion pulled a large envelope from her leather satchel and handed it over. The clerk took out an immense date stamp, stabbed it down on the envelop, then flung the envelop into a plastic bin behind her. “Anything else?” the clerk asked.
“Nope. That's it. Thanks.” Then my superhero/lawyer friend spun around, grabbed my arm, and started us walking toward the exit. “OK, Barry, go ahead and ask your questions.”
A thousand different questions immediately charged from the cognitive areas of my brain toward the speech center, temporarily log-jamming and leaving me mute. Then the one thing I really needed to ask finally broke through and found voice.
“So... um... what is your name?”
Devious Origins Page 3