: Prompting Needed_

Old Flames

Jerry sighed as the pen took another dive from the stack of papers and clattered to the ground before he could catch it. The top popped off and flew away into the dark, dusty corner of the office behind him. The fine tip of the pen arced as it spewed a fine line of black. Ink splattered on his hand, sleeve, and face. With a muttered curse word, he dropped his hand in resignation of the little defeat. The sharp chemical smell of the cheap calligrapher's ink slipped into his nostrils. "Great," he murmured. There was a slickness on his lips now, too. He stooped again and retrieved the pen while craning his neck to peer upside down under his chair. The cap had been eaten by the shadows and cobwebs. "Just great." A small polite knock on his door across the room made him jump and the slippery pen fell from his hand again and onto the moleskin mat. In answer to the three raps on the glass, three dark droplets flew from the pen and irrevocably stained the leather. Jerry scowled.

"Come in," he yelled as he began the search for a handkerchief or tissue.

The hinges squeaked as the door opened, followed by the sound of heeled shoes on tile that telegraphed the approach of a small person, most likely a dame. The stale air of his office was suddenly awash with the odor of a flowery perfume that seemed more alcohol than oil. He coughed out the tickle in his throat and glanced up from the blotting of his desk. 

Olivia King displaced the air in his office, furs rustling in the cross breeze and cheeks rosy from the air conditioning in the hall. Her dress was just as smooth as it had no doubt been on the rack. The skin of red sequins caught the orange light from overhead and ingulfed her in a shimmering, fiery glare. Jerry arched an eyebrow. The door sighed towards closing until it latched with a tiny click that left the office in a smooth silence. Jerry broke the calm with a gruff, "Well, ain't this rich," as he dabbed at his face. He glanced down. There were only thin black lines coming off now. The ink was almost dry. "Double damn," he muttered. Olivia took the few steps to his small wooden client's chair and tucked in the coat around her legs as she sat. Jerry began to lean on the desk, remembered the carnage left behind by the pen, and folded his arms across his knees as he leaned forward. "Can I help you, Miss King?"

She took a long moment making sure the fur was tucked in the right way before glancing up to meet his eyes. Unrest and doubt swam over her face so clearly that Jerry felt a quiver of mirrored anxiety run through his own gut. Something was eating her up from her core, he realized. She had never looked this nervous, not even before the end of their last date. He shook himself, his mind replaying a conversation he wasn't too keen on revisiting. He stood and walked over to his booze cart. The glass decanters clinked together as he shook the floorboards. "Can I get you a drink?"

"No." The answer floated out as soft as the fur on her shoulders. 

Jerry shifted his shoulder in a slight shrug and poured himself a finger of scotch. He turned as he sipped, resting his hip on the corner of the cart. "You look like a client, Liv." Olivia's head tilted a fraction as she kept her gaze on his desk. He couldn't see her eyes, but she seemed to be examining the ink splatter. "Why do you look like a client?"

"I've got a reporter asking questions, now, Jerry." Her tone was thin, scared. He had never heard her sound like that, not even when she had called their whole thing off. Jerry firmed his lips and shook his head. Then he downed the drink, grimacing as it traced a small chemical burn down his gullet.

"No drink?" He coughed and pointed to the cart. "You sure?" This time there was no answer. Olivia's shoulders rose then fell dramatically as she sighed, a raspy sound that fell from her mouth and pulled tears along with them. He watched them fall on her clasped hands.

Double damn. Jerry stepped to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers sinking into the fox fur he found to be too light and smooth to be real. "Is this about Eric and those strike breakers?" Olivia shook her head slightly and only then did he take note of her hair. It was shellacked to her skull with a thin veneer of pomade. And it looked like it had been a rush job.

"No," she whispered. She cleared her throat and turned her head towards him, her eyes still closed. "I mean, not directly. Events after, you know. What happened to... him." 

"Eric."

She nodded slowly. Jerry stepped back around to sit in his chair. The springs of the old chair groaned in protest as he sat back, his hands laced on his torso. "I've been meaning to ask you... did you do it?"

Olivia's head snapped up, her wet eyes shining in the lamp light from the desk. "Fuck you, Jerry."

He stared back placidly, his expression unaffected by the heat of her ire. "But you know who did." Her face didn't soften even then. He mentally applauded her for that. Her body language that answered his accusation was not as subtle, though. She sat back in silent acquiescence against her coat that rustled as she settled in. He nodded and brought out a regular pen and pad of paper from a drawer and slid the stacked parchment aside. The ink spots were already too far set-in to worry about, so he sat the pad on the mat. "Where's this reporter from? World News? The Capitol?"

Olivia shrugged again, sinking further into the faux fur. "He just shoved a recording thingy in my face and started spouting questions as soon as I stepped outside."

Jerry looked up from the desk. "Where'd you leave from?"

Annoyance flickered over her face that others would have seen as anger. He knew better. "Home. I was going out, to the club. But after that... I-I ran in here before I could get further acquainted." She glanced around at the darkened corners of his office. "I had to take... refuge, I guess."

"I was always good for that," Jerry murmured as he scribbled. Louder, he asked, "What did this guy look like?"

She looked back at him. "The reporter?"

Now it was his turn to look annoyed, but he managed to put a smile on top to soften his face. "Who else? I know what Eric looked like. Unless you wanna tell me what the killer looked like?"

A mask of composure settled on the face of his old flame. It was the same one he had seen a couple of weeks before Eric's arrest and eventual murder. It should have seemed at odds with the streaks of drying tears on any other face, but on Olivia... it looked like art. She regarded him a moment before screwing up her mouth in her 'thinking' expression. "Have you ever seen gum on the bottom of a shoe before you scrape it off?" Jerry waited. She nodded and waved a hand towards his blank pad of paper. "Go on, start writing."

"Do you want me to go off of 'chewed gum face'?"

"I only got a glimpse." Jerry continued to wait. His pen rested, poised in his hand. "And he moved like he was on something. Jittery, you know."

"Chewed and jittery," Jerry mused. He wrote that down, underlined it three times and placed an exaggerated exclamation mark next to it. He tapped the page with the cap of the pen then dropped it on the pad. He sat back again. "What... I mean..." He glanced up and past Olivia at the frosted pane of his door. The reversed letters of his name stared back. He pointed with an upturned hand. "Is the guy still out there?"

"Probably."

Jerry got up and strode to the door, leaving Olivia spinning in her seat to watch him leave. "Stay here," he said. He walked out into the hall and squinted against the rush of the hallway's chilled breeze. "I'll make sure this guy gets a story he'll never forget."