The Painting

#22 Cursed Part 1 - Cuid Cursed 1

The woosh of the car doors startled me as I crossed to the next car. Usually I practiced a superstition where I refused to set foot on the uneven metal flooring that covered the open space between cars. I felt exhilarated to pretend that I was on an adventure - however trivial it may be - and that the wobbling floor was like lava.

Tonight I was over exhilaration, I'd experienced real danger and pretending didn't do it for me anymore.

Lyle and I'd split up after my growling stomach refused to discuss anymore plans until it was adequately fed. Lyle crossed ahead of me in search of a dining car while I set out on a mission to find someone with a working phone. Lyle's turned out to be dead, and mine was either dead battery wise or in need of a proper telephone funeral.

After consulting a framed map and the flashing sign above the sliding doors we figured that we hitchhiked onto the Westbound train. A dull silver lining to the night, this route would stop at the town where Unit #16 lived before turning back on its way into the city. By early morning we would arrive, retrieve the painting and catch the next train into the city ready for the exchange the morning after.

In just a day I would meet the man who wanted my mother's painting.

Before my stomach interrupted I'd pressed Lyle for any information on Rick Monroe.

Surprisingly Lyle shared what little she knew with little contest from me, I suppose I'd finally worn her down.

From what she gathered, Monroe is head of a company that I didn't recognize. X-Enterprises, which sounded completely fabricated like they make spaceships or something out of a dystopian book, but Lyle assured me it was something far less intriguing. Basically, they managed money, traded it, bonded it, invested it, bought time shares and yachts - whatever bored rich people do.

1101 N. Hampshire St., the address typed on the professional business card was the address for the company. I made a mental note to memorize it - just in case.

I'd been to that part of the city only a few times before. Hampshire was one of many that intersected Main Street in the bustling metropolitan downtown.

Why would he want to meet in such a public place? He would want to meet at his office wouldn't he? That was why he gave the men this address. Why not at his home? Was there something he was trying to hide that he didn't want his family or neighbors to see? What would be so incriminating about an acrylic painting.

I didn't voice my concern to Lyle, instead listened as she intently laid out our plan to extract as much money as possible from Monroe, or as she so fondly called him "Rich Rick" - occasionally exchanging some consonants.

I was thankful I'd cleaned up before emerging from our private car. I checked myself again in the reflection of the window closest to me. I'd re tied my hair into a tight bun after struggling to comb through it with my fingers. A splash of cold water on my face attempted to hide the redness and clean the cuts that decorated my cheeks and forehead, most of which had already start to scab over.

As for my hands I was going to have to do my best to hide them. Lyle's blood stained my fingernails and the creases of my palm. I shoved my them into the pockets of my jeans whose color varied over my thighs as dirt stains replaced a layer of flour dust.

The neighboring car was dimly lit. Each seating pair had independent lights that could be turned on as needed but only one was lit. Under it sat two elderly women who knit furiously beneath the fluorescent light.

"Excuse me," I approached the women who sat opposite each other as they knitted away. "I was wondering if I could borrow a phone, it seems mine died."