Towering over a meager and somewhat dilapidated downtown, the gray and uninspired Nesbit Bank Building had dominated the city's skyline for forty years, changing hands and corporate logos several times. The top floor penthouse stayed secure from the rest of the building by the floor below it, all of which used for storage of Timothy Allen Teague's vast art collection. Against the objection of the building’s owners, Teague had installed a separate elevator between the twenty-ninth and last two floors. The entire task, including sealing the original shaft from the thirtieth floor, completed over a single holiday weekend one December, the majority of the businesses in the tower closed. A short-lived lawsuit dissolved into settlement the following year. Timothy Allen Teague had won his isolation. In the subsequent years, the already consistent rumors multiplied about how he and his teenage myrmidon spent their time above the city.
Any appearance by Timothy Allen Teague became a rare and talked about event. Generally thought to take the service lift to the twenty-ninth floor, his comings and goings were for the most part ghostly although it was quite clear that he was coming and going. During the early part of the current decade, he never made any random appearance in the lower tiers of the building, usually sending a Dog Boy for coffee from the cafe in the basement or have one courier sensitive documents to his numerable attorneys a few floors below. Most potential visitors, counted in the dozens, left in disappointment. Scores of inventors and entrepreneurs gathered at the intercoms and reception desks like black suited ants in stochastic hunt for morsels of attention in doomed hopes of gaining an audience to pitch their unwanted ideas and ventures. In contrast, any curious filthy mouthed teenage boy with multi-colored hair and whatever ensemble of black T-shirt and combat boots was guaranteed permission to the twenty-ninth floor elevator.
Hatchet needed an hour or so to snoop around. He thought of a bomb threat. He thought of posing as a night janitor but soon discovered that the Dog Boys performed the custodial duties in the penthouse. Timothy Allen Teague allowed no member of the building staff to enter the office without his direct permission. A simple break-in proved impossible to plan against whatever mysterious security system. No amount of rationalization could convince him to discuss the problem with Poole or estranged Dog Boys so Hatchet put the idea aside.
While peering at the clouded heights of the Nesbit Building from the passenger window of his truck, his phone rang and the number perplexed him until he recalled his experience with the security guard at Olivia's school. Hello, Allison. Marcus? Dial me by mistake? No, you sound different. It's all this clean living. Uh-huh. How's Olivia? She's fine, Marcus. And how are you? Honestly, I'm a little disturbed to find out you're in town. Disturbed? Marcus, you gave the school a bit of scare. It's unusual for a father to show up at his daughter's school? Don't pull that shit on me; you know damn well why this would have caused a problem. I do? I haven't heard from you in over a year; you haven't returned any of my phone calls or messages. Gotcha; while we're talking about unusual occurrences; why would the school have standing orders that I'm not allowed to see my daughter? Really, Marcus? Tell ya what, let's meet somewhere; have you eaten?
Any appearance by Timothy Allen Teague became a rare and talked about event. Generally thought to take the service lift to the twenty-ninth floor, his comings and goings were for the most part ghostly although it was quite clear that he was coming and going. During the early part of the current decade, he never made any random appearance in the lower tiers of the building, usually sending a Dog Boy for coffee from the cafe in the basement or have one courier sensitive documents to his numerable attorneys a few floors below. Most potential visitors, counted in the dozens, left in disappointment. Scores of inventors and entrepreneurs gathered at the intercoms and reception desks like black suited ants in stochastic hunt for morsels of attention in doomed hopes of gaining an audience to pitch their unwanted ideas and ventures. In contrast, any curious filthy mouthed teenage boy with multi-colored hair and whatever ensemble of black T-shirt and combat boots was guaranteed permission to the twenty-ninth floor elevator.
Hatchet needed an hour or so to snoop around. He thought of a bomb threat. He thought of posing as a night janitor but soon discovered that the Dog Boys performed the custodial duties in the penthouse. Timothy Allen Teague allowed no member of the building staff to enter the office without his direct permission. A simple break-in proved impossible to plan against whatever mysterious security system. No amount of rationalization could convince him to discuss the problem with Poole or estranged Dog Boys so Hatchet put the idea aside.
While peering at the clouded heights of the Nesbit Building from the passenger window of his truck, his phone rang and the number perplexed him until he recalled his experience with the security guard at Olivia's school. Hello, Allison. Marcus? Dial me by mistake? No, you sound different. It's all this clean living. Uh-huh. How's Olivia? She's fine, Marcus. And how are you? Honestly, I'm a little disturbed to find out you're in town. Disturbed? Marcus, you gave the school a bit of scare. It's unusual for a father to show up at his daughter's school? Don't pull that shit on me; you know damn well why this would have caused a problem. I do? I haven't heard from you in over a year; you haven't returned any of my phone calls or messages. Gotcha; while we're talking about unusual occurrences; why would the school have standing orders that I'm not allowed to see my daughter? Really, Marcus? Tell ya what, let's meet somewhere; have you eaten?
Edit 12.21.2018