Chapter 1
***
"Yes," Clement said, phone against ear. "I understand."
He placed the phone back on the receiver without a word, statue-still on the plastic dining room chair. The raw chicken breasts defrosting in the sink shot fowl looks at him. Ha. He liked that. He'd use that joke when Maria and Flea came back from visiting Maria's mother. He thought on it more with slight satisfaction.
Tears began welling up in his eyes. What would he and his family do? What happened to the paper factory? Was it found out? What would they do about rent? They couldn't fend for themselves on the streets of this hellish city. Head in hands, Clement gripped tufts of his hair. In the stillness, all he could hear was the creaking of the damaged ceiling fan drifting at a rate unbecoming of the sole means of air conditioning. The creaking continued. And it continued. It wouldn't stop.
In a fit of despair and rage, Clement grabbed a mushy pear from the fruit bowl at the table's center and flung it up to the fan, where it ricocheted off the ceiling and exploded on the floor.
As if on queue, the lightest knock sounded from the front door. So light that Clement knew that he had misheard. Perhaps due to the summer heat accompanied with the broken ceiling fan.
Five years in this apartment, and there had never once been a knock. No one had any reason to come to this neighborhood, and those who were here had no reason to fraternize. That's the type of activity that one engages in when unencumbered by despair.
The exception was when Flea had forgotten her key on the way back from preparatoria [high school] a year ago. She knocked like hell then. Everything turned out for the better, but Clement and Maria had given her a stern talking to about the dangers of her carelessness. Without even being aware of the circumstances until arriving home, it had still been the scariest day of Clement's life.
He grabbed the newspaper from the dining room table and unfolded it. A slew of titillating tales were sprawled in front of him. Some allowed for an escape with reports of sports and humor, while others were a stark reminder of the rea—
Knock knock.
Clement's throat turned so dry it became hard to swallow. His head turned to the door to his right. A wood door that's age someone long ago had attempted to hide with obnoxious orange paint, which now chipped and cracked and made it look so much older that Cle—
Knock knock.
The knocking was real. Dear God. Clement began a frantic search for any blunt object he could find. His eyes landed on a broom in the kitchenette. He picked it up and held it behind his back, inching towards the front door. Upon arrival, he used his free hand to attach the security chain, unlocked the door, then turned it open as far as the chain would let him while ducking to the door's hinges.
"Good evening! Ah— would you mind opening the door? I can't really get into a conversation like this," a woman's voice said. She stood out of view such that Clement could only see a few stands of short straight platinum blond through the crack when he dared to peak.
The voice seemed to carry a jovial rhythm, and Clement was taken aback. "M–May I ask who this is?"
"Me? No one. Well, someone. Someone named Pavord, but why would my name mean anything to you?"
It was true, he had never heard such a foreign name. And it had a last-name feel to it.
"Well, Ms. Pavord, why are you here?"
Pavord let out a hum of disapproval. "As I said, I would really appreciate a face to face discussion. Is there something concerning about my presence?"
"Obviously yes. You either don't know where you are or you're trying to make it seem that way. It's always dangerous here, but especially at night," retorted Clement.
"Wait, am I supposed to be the danger?" She sounded offended.
"Well… yeah?" Clement responded.
"Don't be a mud stick!" She laughed. "If I were some threat to you, I would have just entered through your daughter's window. The one with the weak rejas [grills]." She paused.
What did she say?
"Oh wait, sorry, that wasn't meant to be a threat or anything. It may have come off a litt—"
Clement slammed the door without a thought and backed away some steps. He felt completely dazed and was unsure of exactly what was happening. Did his complacency catch up to him? Should he have found a lower-paying job in the confines of the law? Well, he never directly did anything illegal, nor was he associated with—
Knock knock.
A low muffled voice pierced through. "Mr. Riviera, I think I gave you soup when you ordered salad."
What the fuck does that mean?
"Or, I mean to say, we got off on the wrong foot. I apologize. I am here strictly to inform you about the happenings at your workplace and the conditions of future employment."
Clement burrowed his brow. He dropped the broom behind him and leapt at the door. "My job? Like about the factory's closure I was told about? No wait, you just threatened me. But coming from my employers, that's not too odd... No, but screw you, who are you? What more about my job?"
"Yes. And yes. I did not threaten you. As I said, I'm Pavord. Also as I said, terms of future employment. There, I don't think I missed a question."
Is she messing with me right now?
"Why the hell was the building shut down?" Clement thought for a moment. "And what do you mean by future employment?"
The sound of Pavord clearing her throat faintly passed the wooden door. "Well, some Federals found their way to the money-maker, and that's that. No more factory. By the way, could you open the door?"
"You're gonna kill me and then my family you asshole. Hell no." said Clement.
"Clement, we were past that already. Look, you're temporarily out of a job, and I'm here to break the news. I've shown nothing but kindness, and you know the business half-way. You know this isn't how things are done. I even came while you were alone as a show of good faith. So open the door, and let's talk about our options. If you don't, then I might actually be obligated by your employer to do what you think I'm here to do, because they don't like insubordination all that much."
Her words made sense. This could only invite further trouble while showing no telltale signs of a lost cause at present. He stood for two minutes, silent, and as if in understanding, the woman behind the door didn't interrupt it. Fuck it. I'm done for either way. Clement unlatched the security chain and flung the door open before he could muster another thought.
No gun at his head. Holy shit, thank god... thank everything.
Then he focused on her. Short platinum hair, wide brimmed hat, and— actually her appearance didn't matter. What about his job? He thought while staring at her hazel eyes for too long as she held a professional smile the whole time. Weird. Not a single unmuffled word between the two yet.
"What happens to me?" Clement pierced the silence. "You mentioned continued employment."
"Yup," said Pavord, "I did."
Clement thought his implicit inquiry for additional details was quite clear. "Okay, well, what is it I can do exactly?"
"Well, quick question first," she began, "could you recognize your coworkers if they stood in front of you?"
"By coworkers—"
"Yes, those coworkers."
Clement blinked incessantly. "Yes."
"Great!" Pavord exclaimed. "That's the job. Pointing them out."