Dark Passages by Kathryn Leigh Scott

Author:Kathryn Leigh Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pomegranate Press
Published: 2011-07-04T00:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

My front door buzzed, then buzzed again. I was awake and reading. I glanced at my alarm clock. Who could be dropping by at almost two o’clock on a Monday morning? The door buzzed again, with someone repeatedly stabbing the buzzer. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my robe. Eric? Maybe it was Eric!

I raced to the entryway and heard something thump against the door. “Who’s there?” I called out.

There was no answer. I looked through the peephole and caught a fish-eye glimpse of the burly building superintendent waving his arms, his work shirt flapping over his massive belly. I released the chain, unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“We got bum here!” the superintendent said, kicking at an inert body curled tightly on the threshold. “Wake up! Wake up!”

“Stop! Not his face!” I shrieked. It was Michael. I could tell by the khaki bush jacket, the same one he was wearing at Friday afternoon’s rehearsal. “I know him. Please, don’t kick him!”

The superintendent looked at me dumbfounded. “A drunk? You know this drunk?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said. “Let me get him inside.”

“He stink! You don’t want him. Shut door. I call police.”

“No! No! You can’t do that. Were you buzzing my door, or was he?”

“I no buzz. He buzz. I see him, then he fall down.”

“I don’t know how he knew I lived here. I’m sorry, Mr. Spichal. He’s a friend. I have to get him inside. Can you give me a hand?” If the superintendent hadn’t been standing there, I could have carried Michael in by myself, but Mr. Spichal was already looking at me suspiciously.

“You crazy. You don’t know what he could do.” Mr. Spichal backed away, waving his hands. “You pretty girl. Gotta be careful.”

“I know. But he’s not going to do anything. I know him.”

“No responsible,” Mr. Spichal said, looking resolute.

I knelt down and gripped Michael’s upper arm, gagging at the fumes exuding from his stained jacket. I pulled the collar of my robe across my nose and yanked his shoulder over the threshold. He was dead weight. I couldn’t be seen to just pick him up in my arms. I looked at Mr. Spichal, who had backed several feet down the hallway.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Spichal. I can manage. You just go back to bed.”

“He no stay in hallway,” the superintendent said. “I call police now?”

“No, please don’t. He’ll lose his job.”

Mr. Spichal shook his head. “He no work like this.”

“He has to. Don’t worry. I’ll get him out of the hallway.”

I stared down at Michael, sprawled on his back, a grim scenario unfolding in my brain. He’d thrown up, probably more than once. His cheek was scraped, and there was a bruise on his forehead. His script was rolled up and stuffed in his jacket pocket. He’d most likely been on a bender since taking Camilla to Flinty’s Friday afternoon after rehearsal. It was now well after 2 A.M. Monday morning. He was due at the studio within six hours. If he didn’t turn up, the show couldn’t be done.

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