I have only one character for whom a New York minute is a fact of life, so we'll go pay him a visit today. Thankfully he needs practically no introduction :)
A New York minute Rain fell heavily and the wind blew hard enough that at street level the rain was horizontal. The first chill of autumn had seeped through the last hours of summer that morning so people were unprepared and now scurried miserably home looking like drowned cats, thin clothes turning transparent as they clung wetly to skin. A few umbrellas, retrieved from the backs of office cupboards or down the sides of desks, were put up and then ripped free from their owners hands and sent sailing into the evening gloom like birds migrating south for the winter. Cold raindrops stung exposed skin and tasted faintly like metal, and the buses -- all already overfull from people boarding at the termini -- hurtled onwards throwing waves of water over those unlucky enough to be queuing at bus-stops. I coughed and made a mental note, for the third time that evening, to look up the symptoms of TB when I got back online. I'd sat in the doctor's waiting room two days ago until the receptionist had had the janitor chase me out with a mop and a spray-can of disinfectant. The doctor had opened his office door a crack and shouted through it that in his professional opinion I was a plague-pit and should be cleansed by fire. The janitor, bless his surprisingly flammable socks, had pulled out a lighter and attempted to ignite the stream from the spray-can. For a couple of tense seconds it looked like he was going to improvise a flame-thrower, then the can exploded and engulfed him in Dettol-scented cloud of orange light and amber sparks. As I left I heard the receptionist mutter that at least he'd have sterile third-degree burns. I was sat up in a belfry, that belonging to the Church of the Derived Mind to be precise. It had been the Church of St Thomas the Disapprover until a protest group had uncovered evidence that St Thomas had been a third-century child-abuser, but the details of who owned it weren't foremost in my mind. I was waiting for a sign. Miss Sapphire had been to see me again. "McArthur," she'd said, her eyes boring into my soul like woodworm into the rotten heart of a three-hundred year old birch tree, "Mad Frankie has an errand for you." "I don't work for Mad Frankie," I'd said, setting my cigarettes on the table between us. We were in the Excess Cafe, waiting for the waitress to decide if she was going to serve us, or hang herself. "Everyone works for Mad Frankie," she'd replied. She'd ordered coffee and been served in a New York minute when she arrived; the coffee cup landing on the table followed by a stream of black liquid that steamed like the janitor after they put the flames out. "It's just that the line management isn't always completely clear." "Are you saying you're my handler?" She'd poured the coffee out onto the floor, her gaze not leaving my eyes. "I'd sooner charm snakes," she'd said. "There's a sniper loose in the city, Mac, and no-one seems to know what his target is." "You want me to find out?" "We want you to make yourself his target."
3 comments:
I have only one character for whom a New York minute is a fact of life, so we'll go pay him a visit today. Thankfully he needs practically no introduction :)
A New York minute
Rain fell heavily and the wind blew hard enough that at street level the rain was horizontal. The first chill of autumn had seeped through the last hours of summer that morning so people were unprepared and now scurried miserably home looking like drowned cats, thin clothes turning transparent as they clung wetly to skin. A few umbrellas, retrieved from the backs of office cupboards or down the sides of desks, were put up and then ripped free from their owners hands and sent sailing into the evening gloom like birds migrating south for the winter. Cold raindrops stung exposed skin and tasted faintly like metal, and the buses -- all already overfull from people boarding at the termini -- hurtled onwards throwing waves of water over those unlucky enough to be queuing at bus-stops.
I coughed and made a mental note, for the third time that evening, to look up the symptoms of TB when I got back online. I'd sat in the doctor's waiting room two days ago until the receptionist had had the janitor chase me out with a mop and a spray-can of disinfectant. The doctor had opened his office door a crack and shouted through it that in his professional opinion I was a plague-pit and should be cleansed by fire. The janitor, bless his surprisingly flammable socks, had pulled out a lighter and attempted to ignite the stream from the spray-can. For a couple of tense seconds it looked like he was going to improvise a flame-thrower, then the can exploded and engulfed him in Dettol-scented cloud of orange light and amber sparks. As I left I heard the receptionist mutter that at least he'd have sterile third-degree burns.
I was sat up in a belfry, that belonging to the Church of the Derived Mind to be precise. It had been the Church of St Thomas the Disapprover until a protest group had uncovered evidence that St Thomas had been a third-century child-abuser, but the details of who owned it weren't foremost in my mind. I was waiting for a sign.
Miss Sapphire had been to see me again.
"McArthur," she'd said, her eyes boring into my soul like woodworm into the rotten heart of a three-hundred year old birch tree, "Mad Frankie has an errand for you."
"I don't work for Mad Frankie," I'd said, setting my cigarettes on the table between us. We were in the Excess Cafe, waiting for the waitress to decide if she was going to serve us, or hang herself.
"Everyone works for Mad Frankie," she'd replied. She'd ordered coffee and been served in a New York minute when she arrived; the coffee cup landing on the table followed by a stream of black liquid that steamed like the janitor after they put the flames out. "It's just that the line management isn't always completely clear."
"Are you saying you're my handler?"
She'd poured the coffee out onto the floor, her gaze not leaving my eyes. "I'd sooner charm snakes," she'd said. "There's a sniper loose in the city, Mac, and no-one seems to know what his target is."
"You want me to find out?"
"We want you to make yourself his target."
Hurry up
And don't dawdle
Surely you can go faster
There's quite a rush
Everywhere!
Greg - no introduction needed at all :)
Love the grit of Mac's tales. You manage to get it under the reader's nails and in their hair and wanting a shower after every installment.
All compliments, for the record :)
Morganna - yeah, this definitely sums up my brief experience of New York. Another fine acrostic :)
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