Bleeders

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I laid a red queen on a black king, glanced up at Jay Cohalan through the door to his private cubicle. He was pacing again, side wall to side window across the front of his desk, his hands in constant restless motion at his sides. The cubicle was carpeted; his footfalls made no sound. There was no discernible sound anywhere except for the faint snap and slap when I turned over a card and put it down. An office building at night is one of the quietest places there is. Eerily so, if you spend enough time listening to the silence.

Trey. Nine of diamonds. Deuce. Jack of spades. I was marrying the jack to a red queen when Cohalan quit pacing and came over to stand in the doorway. He watched me for a time, his hands still doing scoop-shovel maneuvers. Big man in his late thirties, handsome except for a weak chin, his dusty brown hair and tan suit disheveled. A sheen of sweat coated his cheeks and upper lip, even though it was not warm in there.

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