I go up to my apartment on the fourth floor: one bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and a door that opens to a tiny balcony overlooking Chasey Street behind my place. After my encounter with Jamie, I decide to have a strong drink. Why not since it’s after noon? I pour myself some cranberry juice in a glass filled with ice, add some vodka, and twist some lemon flavor into the concoction. Stir. Sip. Relax. The narrow balcony and two chairs call for me.
It starts to rain. Not a downpour. Just sprinkles. A wind picks up, but it’s not a tornado. I relax. Stir. Sip. Not two minutes into my gig, the buzzer in my living room area sounds because someone’s downstairs, visiting. I set my cocktail aside, walk inside the apartment, and respond on the apartment’s intercom system.
“Hello.”
It’s David Wilkes,
