A Gray Llove

A Maze

It was a normal day. Lloyd was on a call in the dining room. At this point, he couldn't see it as anything other than a command center – the fine carved dining table was stifled by rows of computer stations, the handpainted fresco which ran the length of the wall had been eviscerated to install a grid of monitors, and the rare wooden floors, void of the protection of carpets, had been rubbed down to driftwood texture under the friction of so many feet coming in and going out. Mostly coming in – the wood had also caught the blood in the places where it had flowed too deeply into crevices, ruining the floor still more. One part of Lloyd was troubled by the way he knew he would never have to tell Sasha how he was using – abusing – this treasure of a house. He tried to keep it all on the first floor, anyhow. The other part of Lloyd was numb, knowing that Sasha would never remember even if he told her. So why did it matter?

The usual peons were clattering away on keyboards in front of him, serfs in clunky glasses and cheap clothing. Lloyd sat in a Louis XIV chaise near the windows at the back, enthroned and omniscient, rocking the ice of an ancient whisky around his glass as the bud in his ear wooed him with a new gig. "We need answers, Mister Hansen," a deep voice with a restrained manner pleaded. "No one else has been able to get through to him. Someone...an anonymous tip from your former agency...told us there is no one better at...this sort of thing in the business."

Lloyd snorted and knocked back his whisky, coming up with a scornful grin. "'This sort of thing?'" Sending his glass skidding onto the table at his right hand, Lloyd stretched in his chair and chided his client, "Bannon, tell me how I'm supposed to take you seriously with all this if you don't have the balls to call it what it is." Holding the bud closer to his ear, Lloyd waited a beat, picturing Bannon sweating, then grinned. "It's torture, princess. Torture for your goods. And you're right, I'm the best there is."

"So will you do it, Mister Hansen?"

Lloyd's crocodile smile widened. He knew he would take it. He wanted it already. Monaco? Yes, please. A chance to stretch his chops, mix it up a bit? He was there. The money honestly didn't even matter. When had it before? To his client, Lloyd made a theatrically indecisive tsking noise. "You know, I might have plans this weekend. Let me check my calendar, hm?" As the man on the other end of the phone sputtered, Lloyd crunched the last of ice in his mouth and stepped out of his chair, mumbling, "Please hold" before tossing his earbud to the nearest staring peon. The computer jockey fumbled with the piece as Lloyd smoothly grabbed his glass and strutted out of the room, still grinning. Getting a rise out of people for free was certainly a perk that came with being the best at what he did.

Before he could hit the wet bar in the salon, another gilded room that had gone to the dogs called smoke, drink, and bloodstains, someone called his name in a nasally Midwestern accent: "Mister Hansen! Mister Hansen!"

An older female peon skittered up to him from the direction of the doors to the gardens, her eyes wide and a hand-sized piece of plastic banging against her chest on a lanyard. Lloyd stopped and gave her a demanding eyebrow as she huffed to a stop before him. "Well?" he asked, not waiting for her to catch her breath. If there was a reason for her to run, there was a reason for him to know why as soon as possible. And at second glance, Lloyd thought he recognized this peon from the second-floor contingent: that was Sasha's floor. What this peon was doing down here, if not fetching snacks for Sasha or the on-call physical therapist, was an unsettling mystery to him. When the woman didn't respond on cue, he snapped, "Spit it out, Hegedy Peg."

The woman's eyes flashed at the comparison to a hag. She gathered her breath – resentfully, Lloyd thought – then gasped, "Sasha wants you in the garden as soon as possible."

In a beat, Lloyd's malicious thoughts about his new client were shocked out of his head, rolling back like a body bag put back in storage. He hissed, "Who took her down to the garden?"