Box Nine

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Talk to God. Clean up your slate. The Rapture is coming and your time is running out. Mary is doing all she can to hold back the hand of her son. All but the elect will be chastised.

Lenore lowers the orange foam headphones to her neck and shuts off the radio. Ray, the born-again Nazi from WQSG, has kicked into another screaming rant, another variation on his normal tirade against communism, Satan, and Mayor Welby’s latest budget proposals.

She shouldn’t have brought the radio in the first place. It’s too distracting, a piece of equipment without a purpose. But the thought of spending another night listening to Zarelli debate divorce was too much. It exceeded her tolerance level. She had a hunch things could get ugly if she didn’t take some kind of preventive action.

But listening to Ray rasp and suck air till he’s overcome and close to vomiting is no solution.

So she sends her partner, Zarelli, across the street early, tells him to look for any surprises, and attempts to concentrate on her food. She’s eating some kind of rice and raw tuna dish out of a carton. It’s cold and she has no idea whether it’s supposed to be served this way or if Zarelli was just suckered again, handed a cold carton of last night’s house special out of a kitchen doorway. She can picture a trio of teenage Chinese dishwashers, soaked aprons sticking to their legs, pocketing Zarelli’s money and laughing for the balance of their shift.

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