Knock Knock

"Mr. Grabes!" Four sharp knocks followed the call. "Are you home, Mr. Grabes?"

Miss Canay’s voice grated Mac's nerves after his all night party with good buddy Jim. 

He groaned and pulled a flattened pillow from behind his head to cover his face.

He remembered little of the night before and the day was shaping to be one to forget with an alarm clock for a neighbor.

"Mr. Grabes!" Miss Canay grew insistent.  

Mac growled and rolled upright. He regretted the move as vertigo overtook him. He pressed his palms to his head and struggled to focus on the shifting amber in the bottle of whiskey. The ball glass on the table rattled in time with Miss Canay’s thumps on the door.  

“Mr. Grabes!” Cracked through the door.  

Mac thought the woman might punch her fist through as well.

A stumbling march marked Mac’s pace to the door.

“Damn it, Mrs. Canay!” Mac hung in the frame, head against the wall, as he flipped chains and latches free.

Mac pressed against the paint chipped wood and turned the handle, his forehead pushing the door ajar. The top chain halted his opening further.  

“Good morning, Miss Canay.” Mac’s smile lay taunt against his teeth.

“That’s better.” The woman feigned offense. “You needn’t be such a brute.”

Mac propped arm against frame and head against arm.

“Now,” Miss Canay continued, “Would you please accompany me downstairs.”

Mac knew a command disguised as a request. He leaned from the door and shut it, before sliding the chain from the latch. He opened the door half hoping it had been a booze conjured nightmare.

“Nope, not dreaming.” He smirked at the flushed Miss Canay.

The woman swayed as she turned and led down the hallway. The form fitted unitard left little to Mac’s imagination, though he wished it had. A slender, bead encrusted scarf did even less.  

Mac continued to rub his temples as he trudged along in their two person parade. Free of the familiarity of aromas in his apartment Mac realized his own wasn’t pretty.

Breath, a sour mix of stale alcohol and the thickness of sleep. Clothes, disheveled and set with sweat and sleep. 

“My girls are waiting patiently.” Canay explained.

Mac remained silent as he timed the elevator. Mac wondered how Canay would manage the temperamental lift if he wasn’t around. She might be forced to take the stairs.  

Mac lunged at the doors causing the emergency brake to engage.  

“Ladies first.” Mac grimaced as he held the elevator open.

The woman cut a smile. “Why thank you, see you are capable of gentlemanly behavior.”

“Chivalrous to a fault.” Mac flashed a smile. 

“And we are grateful. You know how temperamental that silly door can be.” Miss Canay tittered.

Mac tittered in return. “As silly as when I’m forced to close that vault at night.”

Silence carried them to the lobby. 

“All right.” Mac called through the window. “When I say, push with all you’ve got.”

From the otherside of the front door three pretty faces nodded in unison to the request. Mac dared to smile back at the sweetness.  

Mac gripped the door handle, depressing the tongue of the latch with both thumbs. “Push!”  

He pulled with more force than required, but the effect was worth the effort.  

Several women tumbled into the lobby, legs and arms a tangle. 

“Every time.” Mac mumbled.

Dancers not on the floor gathered to assist or snicker at the chaos.

“Dancers.” Mac offered a curt nod to Canay and another to the girls, before turning his back.

While nothing amused him more than to watch some of the prettiest young ladies in the city flit about in those classes, living with a dame turned into mornings like Miss Canay.

Mac’s feline companion had left, likely long before the sun had come up, to slink in via the kitchen window. She only made a fuss about being fed. Mac couldn’t argue the dynamics of that relationship. 

Mac’s return was awaited only by his coat and hat sprawled across the deteriorating couch. 

Mac lived on the couch, never denting the king-sized bed. The sheets might have turned to dust.  

His bladder begged him to the bathroom. His ragged reflection in the filmy glass of the medicine cabinet hovered over the yellowed sink. He washed with the last chip of grey soap. The foamy sliver shattered in his hands, and slipped into the drain.

“That wasn’t going to clean the stink off anyway.” He splashed his face.  

“Too much time in this damned dirty city. Too many sad cases with sad endings.” 

Mac peeled wrinkled clothes from wrinkled body. He kicked the pile of clothes under the pipes of the sink and against the overflowing laundry hamper.   

The hiss of the metal rings reminded Mac of the throbbing in his head as he drew the shower curtain open.   

“A shower, yeah. That’ll help.” He stared at the black smears marking the porcelain.  

Assessment of the soap situation was as plentiful as the sink’s. The mushy shard of grey with a hair curling from it like a singular antennaed albino cockroach. Beside the soap beetle a diminutive bottle marked “shampoo” offered a liquid of the same grayish hue. Mac debated if he might be cleaner without a shower then thought of his secretary’s hygiene ideals. He sighed as his foot landed with a hollow thud inside the tub.  

With a shudder, Mac adjusted to the frigid water. The freezing rain sprayed erratic bursts from the corroded shower head.  

Mac rinsed the last of the suds, squeezed excess water from his head, and rubbed sleep from his eyes before reaching for the matted bath towel that clung to a wall mounted brass ring. Bits of drywall crumbled free as Mac tugged the cloth. 

Face still damp from the shower Mac ran a hand over the stubble sprouting from his cheeks and chin. His razor wouldn’t  offer a perfect shave but it was good enough.  

The twisted mass of the toothpaste tube barely choked out enough gel for the effort, but Mac’s secretary, Janelle, would have a lot to say if a boss whose breath reeked of booze.     

He drew a plain white undershirt over his head, straightening the fabric over his slightly protruding belly even while he took a moment to test his biceps.  

“At your age, you should work out more.” He grumbled.  

Running after perps and the occasional witness too scared to testify, kept Mac’s heart rate up at least.    

 Mac pulled a freshly pressed shirt from the closet and peeled the plastic from it in practiced motion. He flipped the plastic out the open window, willing it to land in the dumpster below. The hanger he returned to a tangle of metal on the closet floor. Mac considered hefting the knotted mass into the trash, but assumed he’d need a hanger the moment he did.  

His shoes in desperate need of polishing and repair, stood up to the wear of his perpetual running late.  

The glass on the coffee table and the bottle would keep until he came home. The bed was already made, and laundry wouldn’t be any less clean in the pile on the floor.  

Completing his rounds, Mac donned coat and hat and headed for the door. 

He returned his daily supplies to his pockets and offered a fleeting glance at the unopened letter on the entryway table.  

That too would keep.

It was the same walk, same fight with the elevator, same struggle. Every day the same route and routine.  

Miss Canay and her dancing girls made the walk more entertaining as Mac paused a breath to watch the step, turn, step performance behind the large glass window and moved on as Canay halted her budding divas to correct some improper execution. 

Mac never noticed a problem. 

The lobby door stood open, cold air to whispered gusts from the street. He wished the damned thing would fall off its hinges so the landlord would be forced to replace it. Mac tugged his collar as another blast of chill cut through the trench coat.

Mac followed his nose to the fresh grounds down the block. Coffee was always on Mac’s mind, but the chill made it all the more desirable.  

He stepped around slumping poets and musicians hanging about the place through the night and into the morning hours; blathering poetry, playing music, and snapping fingers in steady yet sluggish tempo. The beatnik crowd might be lingering, but the coffee at this house topped Mac’s standards. 

The proprietors behind the counter seemed as bored as the patrons scattered at the wiry tables. 

“Coffee. Black.” Mac dropped change on the counter. “Don’t bother with anything fancy.”  

Mac didn’t bother with small talk, especially with the café employees.  

The dame behind the counter looked at Mac as if to give him a chance to reconsider a more exciting beverage choice. She swept a dark curl from her forehead and popped the wad of gum, before pivoting with a swish of her apron to retrieve Mac’s order.  

She set a paper cup on the counter beside the scatter of change Mac had clattered out of his pocket and poured the sludgy liquid.  

Even surrounded by caffeine she looked half asleep. “Slow going this morning?” The woman tried to drum conversation as she slid the cup toward Mac’s waiting hand.  

“Mmhmm.” Mac lifted the cup, steam enveloped his nostrils with a bitter sweet, nutty aroma.  

The dame popped her gum again. “In here all the time but not like the others. Not much of a talker.”

“Yes. No.” Mac winked.  

Mac turned.  

“Hey.” The woman behind the counter momentarily perked.

Mac glanced back. 

The woman held her palm to reveal the coins Mac laid out. “You’re short. Prices went up last week. Cost of milk and stuff.”  

“I didn’t order milk and stuff.”

The woman shrugged and lifted her coin grubbing hand to the blackboard above the counter.  

Mac fished his pockets but managed only a wad of lint.  

“I’ll owe you for it. You know I’ll be back tomorrow.”  

Man continued to the door. The barista didn’t move to stop him. As the bell clanged on the door behind him Mac eyed the steam rising from the dark liquid. 

“I guess magic this powerful has a price though.” Mac sighed as he sipped.

Mac pressed his forehead to the frosted glass embossed with his name and profession. He didn’t see any movement inside as he tested the knob with a quick rattle. Locked. He checked his watch, he was only about twenty minutes late. Maybe he was in the clear. Perhaps Janelle had gone out for coffee too. He might be able to get by telling her they passed one another. He flipped the ring of keys to one dipped in red paint, though most of the color had rubbed off showing brassy metal splotches.  

He slid the key in the lock and turned.

“You’re late, Mac.” The familiar voice echoed from an open closet in the hallway.

Mac jumped. “No.”  

He jammed the key into his coat pocket and peered into the closet. “I was coming to look for you.”

Mac was met with a handful of rags in a small bucket, thrust at his chest. He claimed the wire handle.

“Mac.” Janelle’s pretty face stuck out from the closet. “I left the office five minutes ago. Since eight this morning, I’ve been sorting the mess you left last night. I needed a change of scenery.”

“I stayed late working on a case.” Mac explained.

“A case of liquor, no doubt.” Janelle closed the closet with a bump of her hip.  

“Hey, now.” Mac followed Janelle to the office door. “Should you make accusations like that about the man who signs your paychecks?”

Janelle turned, stopping Mac in his tracks. Half a head shorter even in her pumps, but the gal could stare down a charging rhino if need arose.  

“You had a stamp made with your signature so you wouldn’t have to sign my checks. Remember?” Janelle cocked her head and raised one thin eyebrow.  

“Right.” Mac smirked. “I remember that.”

Janelle sighed, rolled eyes and opened the office door. 

“Your hair looks nice.” Mac complimented, setting the bucket on the closest surface.

Janelle ignored the comment as she swept past Mac. 

Mac tossed his hat beside the bucket, and shrugged off his coat. He tossed the coat beside the hat and bucket and tugged at his tie. “Hot in here isn’t it?”  

“Heat in the whole building is high.” Janelle continued to her desk at the rear of the narrow office.  

Mac rolled his sleeves up. “As long as I don’t get charged any extra for it.” 

He wheeled his metal and leather chair up to the cacophony of papers, folders, maps, compass, magnifier, pencils, and paperclips sprawled across his desk.

He lifted the papers at several corners and levels. “You seen my pen?”

“I don’t touch your desk, Mac.” 

“I didn’t say you touched it. I asked if you had seen it.” Mac pushed from the desk to peer under it and the chair. “Damn.  That was my favorite pen.”  

He opened the drawer and pulled a fresh pen from a cluster at the back. He studied the pen, popped the cap and analyzed the tip of the device. 

“You sure you haven’t seen it?” A look of distaste at the thought if using an inferior writing utensil.

“Mac.” Janelle appeared by the pile Mac dumped when he first walked in. “Mac you haven’t been here a minute and already there’s a trail of disaster.”  

“Do you think this pen writes in good ink?” He held the pen to the shaded desk lamp.  

“Mac.” Janelle set her hands on her cocked hip.  

Mac looked Janelle over. “I like the blouse. It’s,” he waved a hand in search of the appropriate word, “flouncy.”

“I didn’t ask about my shirt, Mac.” Janelle shook her blonde curls. “Mac, do you even listen when other people talk?”

Mac leaned back in his chair. “I listen to my clients. How else do you think I solve these cases?”

“So how much do I have to pay you to hear me when I tell you to hang your things.” Janelle shook the hat and coat at Mac.

“I sorta thought I paid you to do that.” He picked the pen again. “More importantly.” 

Janelle threw her hands, and subsequently, the hat and coat, in exasperation. She marched to the rack by the door and hung both articles.  

She circuited her march to Mac’s desk, planted a hand in the center of the papers and snatched the pen from Mac with the other.  

“Hey.” Mac protested.

Janelle shushed him with a look.

“Fresh black ink.” She slapped the pen into Mac’s hand, tilted her head with a smile and pushed from the desk.

“You have a client at noon.” Janelle returned to her duties.    

Mac already turned to the maps and papers. 

“One would think you were plotting global take over the way you look at those maps.” Janelle bumped a stack of papers square on the filing cabinet.  

“Or maybe going out of town.” Mac surveyed the map. 

The disappearances had a familiar pattern, but something wasn’t adding up.  

“Did you say you were planning a vacation?” Janelle’s tone hosted equal parts confusion and frustration.

Janelle put both hands on the edge of the desk.  

Mac looked at his secretary in confusion. “A vacation? In the middle of a case?”

Janelle shook her head and returned to the files. 

Both Mac and Janelle were too deep in their work to notice the shadow fall upon the office until a heavy knock drew Janelle to the dark shape shifting behind the glass.