Interstitial

THREE-1

THREE

Oliver crept slowly into his house beneath the shadow of the St. Johns Bridge. He placed his keys in a small maroon ornamental bowl that occupied a wooden table next to the door. Just as he crossed the living room, illuminated by only the predawn suggestion of sunlight, Oliver staggered into a coffee table next to the sofa. The crash of a small lamp in the floor announced his arrival.

“Ollie, is that you?” shrieked Cyllvia. She rushed into the living room with a Sig Sauer drawn.

“Put that thing down!” bellowed Oliver. He rubbed his temples.

Cyllvia rested the weapon on a small table next to the bedroom door. “I missed you.” She rushed into the arms of her lover, tightly clutching her arms around his neck, and pulling herself into his warmth. She wrapped her legs around his waist. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.” She began to lavish kisses upon Oliver’s face.

“I was in jail.”

The comment caught Cyllvia’s full attention. She immediately stopped kissing her man, and unwrapped her long legs from his torso. She slowly lowered her feet to the floor. “Jail?”

Oliver sat on the sofa. “After I escaped Dillingham at the gentleman’s club, I went down to the waterfront. I did a hit, and I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, 5-0 is knocking on the door. He found my tweak box lid open, and he took me downtown.”

Cyllvia rubbed her head. “When do you have court?”

Oliver rubbed Cyllvia’s shoulder. “I don’t.” He grinned mischievously.

Cyllvia turned in astonishment. “Was it a bad search?”

“No,” replied Oliver. “I had a visitor who personally dismissed the charges.”

Cyllvia sat wordlessly on the sofa. She tucked her legs into the warmth of the tee-shirt she wore. “Who?”

“William Pennoyer.”

“What did that evil son-of-a-b***h want?” demanded Cyllvia. She was visibly aggravated. Her cheeks turned red as beets as the anger built.

“He did it for old time’s sake. He wanted to give me a Mulligan.”

“No, Ollie,” snapped Cyllvia. “William Pennoyer doesn’t just give out Mulligans. He wants something from you.”

Oliver shook his head. “What he wants doesn’t concern you.”

Cyllvia lurched. “That bastard! He wants something from you! What is it!” shrieked Cyllvia.

Oliver placed an index finger across Cyllvia’s ample lips. He pulled her close, melting into an embrace against her warm and fragrant skin. “I don’t want to talk about William Pennoyer,” he said softly. “My life was in danger. I was in jail, and through all that torment, I only thought of coming home to you.” He began to kiss Cyllvia on the forehead. He slowly worked his way to the corner of her lips. He kissed around his index finger before removing it from the center. Their lips met, and Oliver slowly reclined on the sofa. He pulled Cyllvia on top of him, and began to gently rub her back underneath her tee-shirt. She reciprocated with tender touches that led to a mutual surrender into each other. Afterward, Oliver lay on his back, magnificently spent, while Cyllvia lay next to him on the sofa. Her soft snoring indicated she had retreated into a warm afterglow of passionate love. The early morning sunshine beamed upon their naked bodies on the cramped sofa in the middle of the living room.

Oliver began to feel a disquieting urge that slowly overtook the tender moment he had spent with the young woman. The yearning for another dose to quell his desire came from his brain, and not his body. Oliver felt the warmth of Cyllvia next to him. He resisted the tortuous demand his brain compelled for a while before ultimately surrendering to the call. He slowly pulled his arm from beneath Cyllvia, hoping to not disturb her slumber because he knew Cyllvia would have some methamphetamine hidden somewhere in the bedroom. He tip-toed upon the creaking floorboards into the bedroom to rummage on Cyllvia’s bedside table for a syringe. He quietly upturned small boxes where he surmised that Cyllvia stored her methamphetamine supply. She always seemed to have an ample supply of the elixir, owing to her profession and the proximity of the establishment to the dealers who controlled the downtown drug supply. Finding none in the usual places, Oliver turned frantic as the craving for another dose roared through him. He ripped the sheets off the bed to search under the mattress and inside her pillow case. He ignored the noise he produced as he threw objects at the wall. His mind burned with a combination of rage and craving for the drug.

Without expectation, Cyllvia suddenly jumped onto Oliver’s back. The trajectory of her motion caused Oliver to tumble into the bed with a groan.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Looking for your cache of crank!” he roared. He grabbed her face between his hands. “Where is it?” he demanded.

“Relax, Ollie,” consoled Cyllvia. She stroked his forehead delicately. I’ll fix you a rig, but you gotta relax first.”

Oliver ignored her calm plea. Instead, he raged into a manic tirade. He grabbed Olivia by the shoulders, and began to feverishly shake her. “Where is it?” he screamed.

Cyllvia punched Oliver in the face. The blow sent him reeling off the bed. He hit the floor with a thud that certainly would have awakened the downstairs neighbors had he any. Cyllvia rushed to a bureau to pull out a drawer before Oliver bore down. She felt his raging breath on the back of her neck.

“You b***h!” he yelled as the craving overtook his senses. “Where is it?” He bore menacingly toward her, closing the gap between them to mere centimeters.

Cyllvia turned to face him, holding a small baggie of a crystalline substance within her dainty hand. “I told you I had some,” she said softly. “You gotta relax, Ollie.”

Oliver grabbed the baggie from her hand. He rushed to the kitchen to grab a soup spoon from the dish rack. He found a lighter on the table. Cyllvia joined him at the sofa with two syringes and an elastic band. They prepared the substance, and injected each other to ride the wave of euphoria. They both reclined into the sofa upon which their love had be pure mere moments earlier as they capitulated into an empty abyss of temporary pleasure.

Moments drifted into hours. Oliver jolted out of somnambulant state when he heard an acute metallic noise outside. It quickly vanished, but the daze into which he had succumbed began to lift as the sound outside from a series of honking horns aroused his senses. He focused his vision on the clock on the wall next to the window closest to where the noise emitted.

“s**t!” he screamed when he observed the hands on the clock. He rustled the sofa to reach for the floor to grab trousers.

“What’s going on?” mumbled Cyllvia. She struggled to pull her hair from her face with tremoring hands.

“I have to go!” shouted Oliver.

“Where?”

Oliver stood to gather a better look for his trousers. He stumbled toward the crumpled trousers at the side of a small wooden table at the side of the sofa.

“Late again?” murmured Cyllvia. The post-high produced slurred words that Oliver could scarcely comprehend.

Oliver forced his legs into wrinkled trousers. He searched for his shirt on the pile of clothing on the floor while Cyllvia located her undergarment in another pile of clothing, midway to the coffee table. She pulled the lacy undergarment to her waist in a rapid fashion that caused her prodigious breasts to sway. The movement tantalized Oliver as he buttoned his shirt.

“Missed a hole,” said Cyllvia, picking up on Oliver’s distraction. She pointed to the mismatched button in the wrong hole. “Something catch your eye?” She approached Oliver with a mischievous grin. “Are you sure you have to leave me so soon?” She placed her arms around Oliver’s neck, and pulled him close.

Oliver wriggled from her embrace. “How about we catch up when I’m done downtown?” He grabbed his cellphone on a table next to the door.

Cyllvia bit her lip. The methamphetamine rush still lingered in her small frame. She sat on the sofa, wearing a scowl. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself at home,” she pouted.

Oliver rushed through the door without a retort. He raced with unsteady legs to a dented Ford parked at the side of the street. Just as he pulled the door open, his cellphone pierced the quiet with a jarring ring. Oliver pressed the phone to his ear.

“Good work, Oliver!” announced a familiar voice. “Already handled a complaint from Dillingham’s attorney, and, of course it goes without mention, Oliver, that your efforts have genuinely impressed my client.”

“Thank-you, Richard,” said Oliver.

“You know you could have made a mint by dragging out this service.”

“I don’t work that way,” responded Oliver. He inserted the key into the engine, and turned the ignition. He throttled the accelerator to keep the car idling.

“Well, my client sincerely appreciates your effort, Oliver, and she has generously provided you with a bonus.”

Oliver saw the tweak box lying beside him on the front seat. He reviewed the empty contents of the box. The mention of a bonus sent Oliver’s mind scrambling to fantasy about reconstituting his box. He broke into a smile. “A bonus?”

“You have saved my client millions by cutting off Charles Dillingham’s access to her funds. She is ecstatic.”

Oliver took a pen from a cup holder recessed into the arm of the door, and began scribbling the Proof-of-Service form on a scrap of paper that he obtained from the passenger floorboard. “My computer is on the fritz, Richard. Is it alright if I just handwrite out the proof and bring over an invoice?”

“Like I said, Oliver, my client is ecstatic. She won’t mind an invoice written on a gum wrapper, but I will need a Proof-of-Service that is suitable for the court registry of actions.”

“OK,” said Oliver. He grimaced. “Would you mind if I prepared the proof later?”

“I’ll need it by Wednesday.”

Oliver quickly retorted, “OK. I will bring the bill right now, and I will prepare the proof at Kinko’s tomorrow.” He put the Ford in gear. “I’m heading right over.”

“Oliver,” counseled Richard.

Oliver surmised from the quick tone change that something was different.

“We are changing the meeting place, Oliver. Instead of meeting me at the office, let’s do it at the Embassy Suites over by the airport at three o’clock.”

“Why the airport?” he asked. He was frustrated that Richard had made the appointment several miles in the opposite direction that he traveled.

“I’m leaving on a business trip, and client is leaving on an exotic trip.”

“So?” demanded Oliver. Agitation quickly surmounted professionalism.

“It is more convenient that you meet us over here at the airport,” said Richard. “We both assumed you would rather have your remuneration today rather than await our mutual returns to the city.”

Oliver scratched his head. He looked at the clock in the car. He ran his long fingers through his hair nervously. “Alright, Richard. See you at three o’clock at the Embassy Suites.” He quickly dispatched the call.

Oliver rolled out of the parking lot, and directed the vehicle in the direction of downtown toward a legal stationery store which had an appropriate form for submitting Proofs-of-Service. The store was adjacent to the Multnomah County Courthouse, where he intended to jet inside to the court records office to use the public computer to ascertain which documents he had actually served upon Charles. To his excited dismay, he observed a parking spot directly in front of the store.

A bell sounded at the top of the door, which indicated to the staff that a patron had entered the store. The proprietress, Lucille DeMent, had worked as the executive assistant for Alistair Macon for many years. She studiously saved her money in order to purchase the legal stationery store for her retirement gift to herself. She often spoke to her patrons that she worked much harder in retirement than she had as a young adult.

“Good Morning, Mr. Paige!” she exclaimed. Lucille recognized Oliver from his days at the firm in another life, and now as a frequent patron. “What are you looking for today?”