Night of the Living Debt Part VI

A jolt of fear shot through Duane like an electric shock. He hopped from his seat with an energy that none of them expected.

"My God! Ambrose, old man it's good to see you. Davies, this is my old friend Ambrose. Remember all those stories, I told you?" Miss Davies couldn't even shake her head no before Duane continued. "Well Jesus H. Christ, old man. I hadn't heard from you in so long I was starting to think you must've died. How the hell have you been?" Duane wasn't sure if his mind was racing, or totally blank. If he was thinking, it was too fast for him even to follow. He was acting on instinct. "Well, don't just stand there you two. Miss Davies, get us some tea. And you," he turned back to Ambrose and smiled his most winning bowl-the-old-ladies-over smile and said "have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. We have so much to catch up on."

Blinking in confusion, Miss Davies left the small corner office and shut the door. Making tea was not in her job description but the terror of seeing Mr. Richardson apparently happy had shaken her understanding of the world. She simply wasn't sure what to believe anymore. Making some tea was a comparatively minor issue compared to such questions as the nature of good and evil, the subjectivity of reality, and who the hell does God think he is to pull the rug out from under her this way?

Ambrose's mind was much quieter. He sat without a word in the seat Duane offered him, and stared straight ahead until Duane plopped down opposite him, across the desk. "So how can I help you today, Ambrose?" Duane asked pleasantly. He'd be damned if he was going to let a duded up hobo haunt him.

“So you’d like to help me, Mr. Richardson?” Ambrose removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes that were literally burning with rage. Duane was impressed. Not that he was going to show it. He also hoped that fire eyes wouldn’t set off any smoke detectors. He’d hate for his silk tie to get wet. “Honestly, I’m a little surprised you’d be so congenial. Last time we met, you murdered me.”

Duane waved one hand dismissively in the air. “And yet here you are. All cleaned up and looking better than new. Seems like the deal worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it?” Ambrose was about to respond when Miss Davies returned with the tea. Still in a bit of a daze, she handed each man a mug. “Ah, thank you Miss Davies, most appreciated.” Miss Davies felt like the world was cracking, splintering, raining down around her. Duane’s sudden bout of feeling personable was simply unprecedented. Thanks to this disorientation, she failed to notice Ambrose’s brimstone eyes. Reeling, Miss Davies staggered out again. Ambrose silently watched her go, and as the door closed quietly behind her, he tossed the tea down his throat immediately and slammed the mug down on Duane’s desk.

“Justice must be upheld, Mr. Richardson.” Ambrose said, turning back to his murderer.

“Justice?”

“Yes. Justice.” Ambrose put his dark sunglasses back on, stood and rebuttoned his suit jacket. Standing up, he walked casually to the door and opened it again. He turned back one last time and said “I’ll see you later. Have a great day.” And he grinned from ear to ear, showing off his now perfectly white teeth as if he were baring fangs. Ambrose closed the door and slowly walked out of the office.

Duane spun away from his desk and looked out the window, to the horizon. He looked down again and watched, waited until he saw Ambrose leave the building. Spinning back to his computer, Duane Richardson found he had a rather severe headache, which was making it difficult for him to formulate a plan. Angrily he grabbed his own mug of tea and took a gulp, burning his mouth and throat badly. Stifling a guttural shriek, he put the mug back down and stared at it. The term “flame retardant” came to his mind.