Free Assumptions by C.E. Pietrowiak

bing-bonged as he
left for home.
    Stillman walked carefully down the mossy
steps in front of his garden apartment. He dropped his duffel bag
on the ripped couch inside the front door. He took the rest to the
kitchenette. He tossed the mail onto a second-hand bistro table.
His stained mug still sat upside down in the plastic dish drainer
on the counter. He unpacked his mini-mart bag, put a pot of coffee
on to brew, and sifted through the envelopes, most marked
"confidential" or "past due" or both.
    The yellow box of sugar had solidified in his
absence. He chiseled out a couple of good-sized lumps with a butter
knife and doctored his coffee the way he liked it. He took a slow
sip then went to his bedroom.
    His laundry hamper bulged. He pulled the
sheets off his bed and stuffed them into the flimsy basket. He
dragged it to the front door, pulled the clothes out of his duffel
bag, and piled them on top. He hauled it all across the courtyard,
down to the coin-op laundry room in the apartment opposite his. He
spent the next two hours washing, drying, folding, thinking.
    When he returned to his apartment, the sun
hung low in the sky. He made the bed and left the rest of the clean
laundry folded in the hamper. He went to pour himself another cup
of coffee. His mobile phone rang, number unknown. Stillman answered
the call.
    "Where are you?" the voice on the other end
demanded.
    "What?"
    "Are you in the city?"
    "Yes," answered Stillman.
    "You were supposed to deliver it by now. You
have the money. There's another ten for you when I get it. You need
the money and I need the package. I need it! Don't you
understand?"
    Stillman did not speak.
    The voice softened. "Look, a man like you
could clean up a few messes with twenty grand. That’s what you
want, isn’t it?"
    Stillman frowned. "I'll call you when I get
settled."
    "Fine. But, don't take too long." The line
went dead.
    Stillman looked at his phone. "Why does every
conversation with you end this way?" He tossed the phone hard onto
the counter. The battery cover popped off and skittered across the
kitchen floor.
    Stillman dug a suitcase out of the coat
closet, packed away his clean clothes, and zipped it shut, leaving
it next to his duffel bag at the door. He went back to the
kitchenette to finish his coffee. He sat at the wobbly table,
picking at his unopened mail then went for carry-out at the Thai
place around the corner.
    After dinner, he shaved and showered. He made
his bed and slipped between the fresh sheets. He reached for the
lamp, hesitating before turning the switch. He pushed his covers
away and jogged to the front room. He rummaged through his duffel
bag and pulled out the small brown-paper package and Dotty's bible,
running his fingers along the deckled edges of the bible's pages as
he walked back to his room. He sat on the side of his bed and read
the passage marked with the blue ribbon. He laid the bible and the
package on his nightstand, crawled back under the covers, and
turned off the lamp, sleeping soundly for the first time in
months.
    Morning came too soon. Stillman stumbled to
the kitchenette and reheated a cup of stale coffee in the
microwave. He popped a couple slices of bread into the toaster and
picked up the pieces of his phone. He shut off the ringer and put
it in a drawer. The toaster began to smoke. He rescued the too dark
bread, scraping it over the sink until it seemed edible. He
finished his meal, cleared the envelopes from the table, and
stashed them in the drawer with his phone.
     

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE STUDY
     
    Jordyn ran home after school. She changed out
of her scratchy uniform into Levi’s and a white t-shirt, plain
except for the word ‘maybe’ in clean letters written across her
chest. She threw on her favorite leather jacket and her new
sunglasses and headed for the el. She arrived on Will's doorstep at
five sharp and rang number two.
    "Jordyn?" answered Will.
    "Expecting someone else?"
    "I'll buzz you in. We're on the