More of Andrew’s story…
Drew kicked off his Italian loafers and fell backwards onto the bed. Two empty bottles of Smirnoff from the hotel’s mini bar lay on the pillow beside his head; on the night table, a small pad of letterhead paper and a throw-away pen.
A short, succinct message scribbled on the pad was addressed to someone named, Norma. A grown-up name for a teenager, now a grown up woman who goes by a teenager’s name – Nori.
Drapes were drawn, keeping the 70th floor room dark. The air conditioner hummed in discordant harmony with the television.The background white noise let Drew concentrate, drowning out all the worst-case scenarios running through his head.
During the taxi ride from the train station, Drew was mesmerized by all the changes in the city landscape. He barely recognized the town he once commanded. He hoped he had changed enough during the intervening years that he was as unfamiliar.
Drew was desperate for the liquid courage he found in the bottles to write the note. He had been believed dead for nearly two decades, he didn’t want to scare off the one person who could help him exact revenge on his daughter’s killers. In his slightly inebriated state, he contemplated stuffing the message inside one of the vodka nips and throwing it into the river.
He was about to tear up his note to start over when a knock came at his door.
Slipping off the bed, Drew tiptoed across the room to look out the peephole. Releasing the chain lock and bolt, he greeted a well-dressed man standing in the hallway holding a large cardboard box.
“Mayfield.” Drew ushered in his old friend. “It took you long enough to get here. There better not be any anchovies on that pie.”
