Word-doodle of the day
The black Cadillac CT6 Hybrid pulls up to the curb of Lucretia’s house. A bright flashlight shines on the numerals of the house and pauses for a moment. The light drops and the man gets out of the car and the man reaches in and grabs his custom black leather briefcase. Orienting himself under the streetlamps, he looks around.
Seeing Mrs. Delany in her window, he gives her a little wave and a smile. He brushes his blond hair back on his head and adjusts the collar of his Perry Ellis black suit and the silky blue tie at his throat. The Rolex catches the light as he starts his way up the driveway toward Lucretia’s door. He raps politely, but firmly, three times on the door and presses the buzzer, once.
“Lucretia Pulver,” he says to the door, loudly. “I’m a solicitor for Mr. John Nix. My name is Brian Cox, Junior of the Cox Partnership.”
He leans down to the ground, the screen door balanced against his hip as he slips his card under the door slip.
“I realise that this is quite unusual for a lawyer to be about at midnight. However, my client is an unusual man. I am fifteen minutes late getting here as there was a glitch with the GPS. It kept blinking out when I entered your address. I had to get a map. I was supposed to meet you at midnight on the hour.”
The door cracks open, then, and Lucretia, glass in hand, peaks out.
“And what does Mr. Nix want, now?” she says belligerently.
“I am sorry for bothering you, Ms. Pulver. He has a letter for you. We specialise in handling Mr. Nix’s confidential communication.”
“Of course,” he says and opens the briefcase from the top. He pulls out a neat package with the insignia “NIX” in the top left corner. On the front of the package is Lucretia’s name and address.
“That’s it,” she says.
“That’s it,” he says. “I was told to inform you that the contracts and non-disclosures are in there in addition to a note from John. That one there was handled by my father, God rest his soul. He was John’s original solicitor and the founder of Cox Partners. It is one of the originals.”
“The originals?” Lucretia says, bemused.
“Yes. We call anything from Vault One an original: it was one of the first missives that our firm received from John. Of course, back then, we weren’t really a firm. It was my dad and his Caddie and our dog, Hazel. John would show-up all the time at any hour of the day with these things. Drove my mother nuts.”
He looks around. “We haven’t seen a lot of originals in my time. It is always interesting when we get one out, though. There are specific instructions for each one. Anyway, I won’t keep you. The night grows long and I’ve come all the way from Brighton to give you this.”
He turns and strolls down the lane to the car. Inside a massive black mastiff moves around in the back seat. “It’s alright, Tony,” he says. “We’re going.”
He pulls away and disappears down the street.
Lucretia stands with the package in front of her. IN the right corner, barely legible, is another man’s printing in faded pencil: 21 June 1982, rcvd BCox.
Lucretia turns staring at the package as she swings her door shut on the darkness outside.