A Year of Stories (Collection Two)

A Dragon and Her Horde

I hate bothering people at work, but when they stop answering their phones, what is a guy supposed to do?

The man I'm here to see today works in one of those high-rise buildings downtown, made entirely of glass and other people's pain. He's in "investment banking," like many of our other clients. What exactly that means I've never been sure, but it seems to keep them in marble floors and late-Renaissance era office furnishings, so who am I to judge?

Security lets me in without much trouble, I'm dressed like I work here, and they're too underpaid to give a wit unless I was carrying around a handgun or a court order.

I start towards the front desk, but before I make it ten yards, I'm intercepted by a woman wielding a power suit and platinum blonde hair. Her makeup is perfect, as are her shoes, her nails and the cruelty in her eyes. She looks like how snakes look right before they swallow a mouse whole.

"You better have a good reason for being here Alan..."

"My reasons are my own, but you can be sure they have nothing to do with you Bethany."

"Is that right? Then who?"

"I could tell you, but it would cost."

"How much?"

"Enough that I'd probably be paying you a visit before I left the building."

"You really need to learn something about client service Alan. I could help, you know, we have this six-part webinar series that's pretty good...might just teach you how not to come off as such a prig."

"As much as I appreciate your offer, I'll pass. Unlike you, it's not my job to pretend to care."

"How did I know you would say something like that? Whatever, if we're done here, I have a lunch meeting to get drunk at. Do you know where you're going?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

2.

The man I'm here to meet has managed to secure half a floor to himself. Whatever investments he's banking, they seem to be doing pretty well for him.

The area looks more like a museum than office space – the hardwood floors glisten with wax, and there is enough priceless art dripping from the walls to make a foreign Prince blush.

And people say my boss is a hoarder...

A secretary as tasteful and nondescript as the desk lamp next to her, stops me as I walk towards his office.

"Name?"

"Alan."