A Little Mystery Inside A Big One
We left the patio, me and Bernie first, then Freddie Dancer and the bald guy with Suzie in the middle, the gun still pointed at her head. Bernie had said we were headed upstairs to the office where the film can was in the safe. I had a thought: we didn’t have an upstairs. Or if we did, this was the first I’d heard of it. The office was a little room next door to Charlie’s bedroom, at the side of the house facing old man Heydrich’s fence. A basket of kid’s blocks lay in one corner – the room was meant for a little sister or brother that never came along; sometimes I played with the blocks myself. The rest of the office was mostly Bernie’s books – on shelves, in stacks here and there, sometimes scattered on the floor; plus the desk, with phone and computer; the two client chairs; and a nice soft rug with a pattern of circus elephants – kind of like my own personal cubicle, just without walls, very cozy, although even the idea of elephants got me nervous. But none of that was important. The important thing was we didn’t have an upstairs. I glanced at Bernie. His face was hard and stony.
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