Re: Chapter 1.3 - Investigations II
Compared to the man who’d wandered in to the sitting room this morning a couple of minutes late for the meeting, Abraham now appeared presentable if one were willing to overlook a few minor details. A regular suit, plain dark grey affair with light beige pinstripes and a muted tie and not the overpriced, personally tailored affair worn to yesterday’s party, worn beneath a polo coat, matching pressed pants, with a scarf and fedora added for style and the simple concern that outside it was still January in New York. Not much changed in the course of the last 24 hours where the roadways were concerned and if they had, surely by the grace of Saint Snowplow, then these roadways were in located in other parts of the state and not between Dr. Elias’s residence and the flat in West Queens he’d rented for the duration of his stay in America.
His faults concerned his face, the day-and-then-some’s growth stubble peppering his upper lip, chin, and cheeks with dark fur, though shut in between December 11th and 18th during an outpouring of inspiration, having groceries delivered by a Greek woman who spoke very poor English, he’d completely disregarded his appearance for the sake of art only to discover when he finally came round that there were a few hairs near his chin that did not match their neighbor’s naturally dark hue. Besides his unkempt facial hair, he’d thought of beards as something worn by men with more years, and with current fashion among men his age being a complete absence of facial hair or at most a respectable mustache, he’d attempt to refrain from growing one by accident again, his eyes were stained with the alcoholic’s red reminder. Washed from his system, the intoxicants were completely gone, but Abe picked the nasty habit up some time ago and wasn’t likely to put the bottle away for more than a few days, and his body would bear those marks.
At least he wasn’t alone in his faults. They’d stopped so he could quickly change and he could gather his insurance policy against a repeat of yesterday’s horror. While changing, Abraham caught sight of himself in the mirror, and startled by what he’d seen, he’d walked up to give himself a brief examination. Though certainly a fiend, he’d not sunk so low yet, had he? No, he’d not been alone, especially on the other side of the Atlantic. What he’d give to go back to Paris right now and put all of this behind him. He could pretend that none of this had ever happened. All he need do was avoid his mailbox.
But then where would he be? What sort of person would he be if he just ignored the blatant crimes of these… men? Could he call Jackson’s murderers such? He owed his cousin for his career. Without Jackson’s advice, Abraham would never have made it as far as he had.
His other reason, insurance, presented it’s own problems. There were better weapons available on the market if you wanted something for personal defense. Keeping up with some of his comrades from the War, he’d briefly talked shop. Aubrey mentioned the Luger he’d kept—looted—off the body a dead German officer, while Conway kept his service pistol. But his, the Mauser, came to him years after the War ended and he’d not part with it willingly. A M1920, the gun came from Barcelona by way of a German conman who’d left the Fatherland to make his fortune, but his pistol had been reworked and turned into a hybrid chambered for Parabellum Luger rounds. He didn’t like the idea of carrying around a weapon, even with the threat. It wouldn’t be the first time post-war he’d walked out carrying, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the idea of totting around death nor did it give him a sense of immortality. That only came when you had a weapon in your hand, the tension of the trigger beneath your finger. Until then, it felt like your life was suddenly put on the table and the deck was stacked. People were insane. No questions.
Along with a notebook, several pens, and a few map of New York in case they got lost, Abe put the weapon, some ammo, and it’s holster, which if needed could be fitted beneath his shoulder, in a briefcase, and returned to the matter at hand.
Arriving at the offices of Prospero Press, Abe followed Rosalie inside as the man who introduced himself as Jonah Kensington ushered them in. Rosalie made the introductions. Abe shook the man’s offered hand, ”A pleasure, Mr. Kensignton.” Modesty came much easier without alcohol muddying up one’s sense of proprieties. Even though he still got a thrill out of it when someone complimented his work, he had the sense now to not break out into a silly grin. After all, that wouldn’t be in character. ”I’m glad you did. Jackson’s help has been invaluable to me through the last couple of years. Really, without his encouragement and criticism I doubt my book would’ve ever made it into publication.” He eyed his novel, heart filled with a blend of pride and self-criticism. After the final edit, he’d put the manuscript away and promised himself not to break it out again. If he did, he knew he’d see things he should’ve changed or fixed that would keep him up at night when he was trying to fall asleep.
”It’s tragic what happened with Jackson. Naturally, the police are looking into the matter, but we have some personal concerns.” Abe glanced at Rosalie. ”You’re well aware of the material Jackson covered in his books. Cults. Particularly those obsessed with the darkness. Death. We’ve got some suspicious about Jackson, but we’ve got a few holes in our information and we think you might be able to help us out. Could you share with what you knew about Jackson’s forthcoming book? Did he communicate what he was working on?”