Nearly Departed by Max Schlienger (read novels website .TXT) 📗

“He’d congratulate you on finally getting some?” Bobo guessed.

“I’m married.”

Bobo shrugged. “Like I said.”

“Anyway,” Dennis said, ignoring the shot, “I don’t see how Spinner could have been referring to Sam.”

“Bloody great coincidence for him to show up, then, isn’t it?”

“Sort of,” Dennis conceded. He thought it over again. As far as he could tell, his only connection to Spinner was through Harding, but that didn’t explain how the investigator had known about Elspeth. Maybe he hadn’t, come to think of it. After all, he had never actually mentioned any names. What if he had been referring to a different person entirely, like the niece that Harding had allegedly wronged? Dennis voiced his thoughts to Bobo, who nodded in agreement.

“Sounds to me like you’re on the wrong side of a detective story,” he said.

“Well, one way or another,” muttered Dennis, “I think I need some answers.” He glanced at his watch, and then pointed at the car’s glove compartment. “Get my phone out of there,” he said.

“Making plans?” Bobo asked.

Dennis shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m making an appointment.”

Once again, the labyrinthine path to Harding’s office proved to be more difficult to navigate than Dennis had expected. When he was on his own it was bad enough, especially when he passed by the same open doors and curious expressions during his roundabout exploration. With Bobo in tow, the experience was amplified from mildly embarrassing to downright aggravating, largely because of the commentary that the bigger man was offering.

“Here, I’m sure we passed that water fountain already,” Bobo said, pointing towards an alcove.

“It’s a different one,” muttered Dennis in reply. He was trying to count office doors, and the randomly-numbered signs were making it difficult.

“It had the same sticker on it,” Bobo pointed out.

“They all have that sticker on them.”

“With the same tear in them?”

Dennis made a dismissive sound and waved a hand irritably. Up ahead, the hallway turned sharply to the right, and Dennis could picture the luxurious corner offices behind the uniform walls. The thought made him feel a bit queasy. He didn’t have any particular issue with heights, but something about tall buildings made him uncomfortable. Perhaps it stemmed from a general distrust in humanity, or a lack of faith in their ability to do anything right. He pushed the images of crumbling skyscrapers from his mind, and concentrated on locating his intended destination. Finally, after a few more turns and one unexpected dead end, a gold-colored plaque caught his eye.

“Okay,” said Dennis, stopping in front of the marked door. “When we go inside, just hang out in the waiting room. I don’t want Sam to start asking too many questions about you.”

“Why’s that, then?” Bobo asked, wrinkling his nose.

“I just get the idea that the fewer people who are involved, the better,” replied Dennis. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door and strutted inside. The receptionist, either out of apathy or obliviousness, did not look up. At least she was behind the desk this time, Dennis thought. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and felt his eyes being dragged over to the new painting that hung nearby.

“Well,” observed Bobo, “it doesn’t look like everyone agrees with you.”

“What are you talking about?” Dennis asked. Bobo pointed at the canvas on the wall.

“The fewer people involved, the better? I count seven blokes in that picture.” Dennis shook his head, trying to hide the amusement that had broken through his stoic visage. Bobo was right, though. The painting left very little to the imagination, despite the dozen or so limbs making futile efforts at modesty.

“This is a shrink’s office, is it?” Bobo asked, grinning. “I wonder what I’m meant to get out of that.”

“Isn’t art about personal interpretation?” said Dennis whimsically.

“That piece might as well have subtitles.”

The sounds of their conversation finally appeared to break through the receptionist’s carefully maintained shield of indifference, and she looked up with a grudging sigh.

“Can I help you with something?” The image created by the pop of her gum and the nail file with which she gestured was far too stereotypical for Dennis to take seriously. He felt his barely-suppressed smirk insistently pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m here to see Sam.” He looked up at the clock again, and then examined own watch. One of them, he decided, was off by fifteen minutes, and he doubted that it was his own timepiece. “I called a few minutes ago.”

“Uh huh,” muttered the girl. Dennis wondered if the obvious doubt in her voice was intentional, or just the byproduct of dealing with too many of Harding’s patients. “He’s in a session right now,” she stated, “but you’re welcome to wait for him.”

“I’ll do that, thanks,” replied Dennis. He was treated to an expression of apparent surprise from the other side of the desk, made all the more severe when he responded with a bright smile. He gave the girl a polite nod, then walked with measured strides to where Bobo was seated beneath the graphic painting.

“This is the guy what pays you to play dress-up, yeah?” Bobo asked. Dennis looked up at the desk, but the receptionist gave no sign of having heard.

“Yeah, you could put it like that.”

“Don’t you think he might be a bit miffed that you went behind his back with all this?”

“I doubt it,” answered Dennis. “All of my jobs start out on my own. I just usually tell him about them sooner than this.”

“Before the spooky buggers show up, you mean.” Bobo craned his neck to examine the painting again. “I don’t really see the point,” he confessed.

“It’s an orgy,” Dennis explained. “I think the point is pretty obvious.”

Bobo blinked with a look of surprise, which melted into one of amusement. “Not the painting, git, the act. The bells and whistles, you know?”

A casual shrug prefaced Dennis’ response. “I just try to give them what they expect. Nobody wants supernatural advice from a young author when they could have