Clint said.
“Hear him out.” In a voice at once subdued yet heavy with emotion,
Pollard said,
“You’ve got to help me find out where I go at night. What in God’s name
am I doing when I should be sleeping?”
“Hey, this sounds interesting,” Bobby said, sitting down on one corner
of Julie’s desk.
Bobby’s boyish enthusiasm made Julie nervous. He might commit them to
Pollard before they knew enough to be sure that it was wise to take the
case. She also didn’t like him sitting on her desk. It just didn’t
seem businesslike. She felt that it gave the prospective client an
impression of amateurism.
From the sofa, Clint said,
“Should I start the tape?”
“Definitely,”
Bobby said.
Clint was holding a compact, battery-powered tape recorder. He flicked
the switch and set the recorder on the coffee table in front of the
sofa, with the built-in microphone aimed at Pollard, Julie, and Bobby.
The slightly chubby, round-faced man looked up at them. The rings of
bluish skin around his eyes, the watery redness of the eyes themselves,
and the paleness of his lips belied any image of robust health to which
his ruddy cheeks might have lent credence. A hesitant smile flickered
across his mouth. He met Julie’s eyes for no more than a second, looked
down at his hands again. He seemed frightened, beaten, altogether
pitiable. In spite of herself she felt a pang of sympathy for him.
As Pollard began to speak, Julie sighed and slumped back in her chair.
Two minutes later, she was leaning forward again, listening intently to
Pollard’s soft voice. She did not want to be fascinated, but she was.
Even phlegmatic Clint Karaghiosis, hearing the story for the second
time, was obviously captivated by it.
If Pollard was not a liar or a raving lunatic-and most likely he was
both-then he was caught up in events of an almost supernatural nature.
Julie did not believe in the SUPERNATURAL.
She tried to remain skeptical, but Pollard’s demeanor and dent
conviction persuaded her against her will.
Bobby began making holy-jeez-gosh-wow sounds and slurping the desk in
astonishment at the revelation of each twist in the tale. When the
client- No. Pollard. Not
“the client.” He wasn’t their client yet. Pollard. When Pollard told
them about waking in a motel room Thursday afternoon, blood on his
hands, Bobby blurted,
“We’ll take the case!”
“Bobby, wait,” Julie said.
“We haven’t heard everything Mr. Pollard came here to tell us. We
shouldn’t-”
“Yeah, Frank,” Bobby said,
“what the hell happened the Julie said, “What I mean is, we have to hear
his whole story before we can possibly know whether or not we can help
him
“Oh, we can help him, all right,” Bobby said.
“We-”
“Bobby,” she said firmly,
“could I see you alone for a moment?” She got up, crossed the office,
opened the door to adjoining bathroom, and turned on the light in there.
Bobby said,
“Be right back, Frank.” He followed Julie i the bathroom, closing the
door behind them.
She switched on the ceiling exhaust fan to help muffle the voices, and
spoke in a whisper.
“What’s wrong with you?
“Well, I have flat feet, no arches at all, and I’ve got that mole in the
middle of my back.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Flat feet and a mole are too many faults for you to hand You’re a hard
woman.” The room was small. They were standing between the sink and
the toilet, almost nose to nose. He kissed her forehead
“Bobby, for God’s sake, you just told Pollard we’ll take case. Maybe we
won’t.”
“Why wouldn’t we? It’s fascinating.”
“For one thing, he sounds like a nut.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He says some strange power caused that car to disintegrate blew out
streetlights. Strange flute music, mysterious blue lights… This
guy’s been reading the National Enquirer too long.”
“But that’s just it. A true nut would already be able to plain what
happened to him. He’d claim he’d met God or Magicians. This guy is
baffled, looking for answers. That strikes as a sane response.”
“Besides, we’re in business, Bobby. Business. Not for fun.
For money. We’re not a couple of damned hobbyists.”