Karl Gómez dreamed of a window, of having a window. The fan on the ceiling groaned but kept it's slow widdershins. He had been told to keep an account, the three notebooks now yellowed, full of nearly illegible chicken scratch in blue bic typical. Numbers, dates, accounts. Shopping lists, book catalogues, stray thoughts. He could never tell what was important. But he hadn't been hired to think. Just the notes.
"The facts, ma'am, and a slice of that cherry pie I saw coming in."
Poor humor had always been his defense mechanism of choice.
Karl Gómez changed into his spare shirt. If he was to meet the big man, he couldn't go in a drenched wifebeater and stained khakis. The suit was tight around his gut so he left it unbuttoned. They would be sitting most of the meeting, surely. Near a window. Mr. Jones certainly had a window. Probably windows. With views.
Karl Gómez put the notebooks in his backpack. It didn't match the suit, but it couldn't be helped. The advance had run dry weeks ago and he still didn't know if he had anything to show for it. Who could say what he had been looking for in that overheated basement "office"? Numbers, number stations, quotes from popular newspapers and magazines, street signs, bits of doggerel. He had even found one poem written above a urinal in a turnpike truckstop. He didn't know how it was relevant but he had feeling, a queer sort of sixth sense certainty.
Karl Gómez turned off the radio in the middle of a Thirteen Faces song (it was all the place these days, does that make it was good) and headed for the subway.