The Jar of Nephren-Ka

The Meeting

Pensacola, Florida: 10:00 AM, Monday, June 4th, 1984

At 10:00 on the dot, a long black sedan parked in front of the office. It had four round headlamps, and a prominent, square grill, reminiscent of cars from the 30s, capped by some kind of winged figure. A Rolls, or Bentley, or ancient Plymouth perhaps. Whatever it was, it oozed class and wealth.

The driver, a stately older man in an immaculate suit, got out of the right front door. Admiring his attire, I felt a little jealous and silly, sitting in my poor imitation of a fine suit.

The driver shut his door and looked towards the door to my office. But instead of walking to the office, the gentleman walked to the rear door of the car, where he opened it and stood, head lowered, as another man extracted himself from the back seat.

The passenger was a small man, maybe 5'6", trim but not thin. He wore a crisp gray suit, with a black tie, gray vest, and light blue dress shirt. The suit had subtle crosshatch patterns in it that caught the light occasionally, and I would have bet my left nut it was silk.

As the passenger exited the vehicle, he brought out a charcoal bowler hat, placing it at a slight angle on his head. He straightened his suit, buttoned the middle button on his jacket, and walked a few steps towards the door, an understated leather briefcase in his right hand.

His chauffeur closed the car door, then quickly walked to my office door. As the chauffeur hurried, the passenger, presumably Mr. Coventry himself, approached leisurely. The chauffeur opened the door just before Coventry arrived, the whole spectacle looking like a choreographed entrance for a head of state.

I wondered who this was supposed to impress.

As Mr. Coventry entered, I rose from my seat, straightening out my suit. Coventry removed his hat and hung it on the coat rack I had by the door. I walked around the desk, hand extended.

"Mr. Coventry," I stated, hand outstretched.

"Mr. Parata," he replied as he shook my hand, grip firm despite the size mismatch.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Thank you, but I really shouldn't impose," he responded.

I walked back behind the desk and sat, noticing that the chauffeur was still outside, posted up by the front door.

As he took his seat, Coventry remarked, "My goodness, Mr. Parata, what brave soul entered into a physical altercation which such a formidable specimen as yourself?"

"Not brave, just stupid," I replied. "What can I do for you, Mr. Coventry?"

"Ah yes," Coventry said, "Right to the point. I quite admire that in a man."

He took a seat and laid his briefcase on the desk, facing him. A few seconds fiddling with the combination locks and the spring-loaded tumblers snapped open with a very precise sounding pair of clacks.

He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a plain tan folder, which he slid over to me. The label on the folder read 'Kinsey, David'. I opened it to find a smattering of documents, topped by a head shot. I shut it again.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"A former employee, rather shifty character, I'm afraid."

"Steal something?"

"Precisely," Coventry replied. "He stole something irreplaceable from right under our very noses."

"You want I should retrieve it."