Chapter 3: Part Three: Shirt Hits The Fan

I awoke with woodpeckers in my head and a limp pecker in my hand. The familiar fragrance of whisky and jizz permeated the room.

My eyes were glued shut (with sleep, I hoped), but I managed to pry them open. The room took a minute to focus, but there it was, the tipped whisky glass, and the manilla folder from the night before.

Despite my best efforts, I'd not made any headway. To tell the truth, I'd fallen asleep not long after she'd left. A rush of clarity can do that to a guy.

I stretched my aching bones and peeled my hand from my level head. I wiped the results of my preliminary work on the front of my shirt and stood up.

On shaky legs, I moved across the room, took off my shirt and threw it on the pile. I stank, so I went to the sink in the corner and gave myself a once over. I was passable, which in this city of lowlifes, drunks and word-junkies was enough.

I got a fresh(ish) shirt from the wardrobe and left the office. The woodpecker noise in my head intensified and I realised it was actually Maureen, working at the typewriter.

What the hell she was constantly click-clacking at, I'll never know. We didn't have that many reports to write up. Part of me was afraid she was one of _them_, writing unpublishable filth, but I couldn't believe it. She was sixty if she was a day. At worst she was writing some gentle romance novel where the most obscene act was a roll in the hay.

I'd learned a long time ago to avoid the young ones. Enough vibrancy and optimism that it made you sick, and even if you did manage to stick it to them you knew the day would come when disaster struck:

"I have something to tell you... I've written a novel, and I'd like you to be the first to read it."

Then you've got to find another one. No, I'd learned my lesson.

"Nice to see you're finally up", her eyes firmly fixed on whatever it was she was doing.

"Late night", I said, as I made my way over to the coffee pot she had so helpfully made up. "Working."

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"I can tell", she said, followed by a prominent sniff. I threw her a sideways glance.

"Allergies", she said with the utmost sincerity.

I poured a coffee, large and black. It was foul and bitter, but they say start the day as you mean to go on.

"You're supposed to be at a meeting with a Mr Pathić", she said.

"Cool your britches," I snapped, "that's not until..." I checked my watch and spilt coffee all over my shirt. "Shit."

"There's a fresh one over there", her head almost imperceptibly indicating to the coat rack.

I took off my shirt, dropped it on the floor, and put on the fresh one, really fresh. This one had been cleaned and everything.

"Leave it", she said, as I made a half-hearted effort to pick up the discarded shirt. This was a dance we played almost every morning. "I'll take care of that, and you take care of this." The clacking had stopped, and she held out the Pathić folder.

I straightened up and my bones clacked louder than the typewriter keys. I took the folder from her and moved to the door.

"You're a star", I said, throwing a cheeky smile her way.

"Don't I know it", she said, snapping on her trademark yellow rubber gloves, as the mop bucket filled in the sink.

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