Deadline

     "SHIT!!" Peter slammed his cell phone down onto the restaurant table, instantly cracking the casing. His blood boiled, fury coursing through his beet-red face as he tried to process this irritating turn of events. For the second time Mr. Taggart, a wealthy prospect, had agreed to a business meeting and subsequently flaked. He hadn't bothered to say anything until he was an hour and a half late. His excuse was a "prior engagement". What kind of engagement could be more important than brokering a two million dollar deal with a potential of at least a twenty percent gain? What sort of man would turn something like that down? Twice, no less! The thought only increased Peter's aggravation. He's had so much riding on this deal and it was coming down to the wire. He needed this deal. He needed Taggart.

     The restaurant was light on business today, which was convenient for two reasons: First, only a few people had the opportunity to witness Peter's tantrum; by now, their attention was already back to their own meals and lives. Secondly, if not for the extra light chatter and plate scraping, Peter would not have been able to hear the now feeble attempt his phone made at a generic chime. The vibration was now non-existent. "...hello?" His greeting was hesitant. The screen still mostly worked and he recognized the number. The name read INDIGO. His palms began to sweat. In a matter of moments, his anger was quickly replaced with a feeling he was all too familiar with.
"I know you know why I'm calling, Peter." The voice on the other end was cold and slightly distorted, but as it was before, oddly familiar. A chill shot immediately down Peter's back. "Yeah. Yeah, I know," he began to tremble, sweat beading on his forehead, "Look, I'll get it done on time, I swear."
"Your three days are almost up, Mr. Stevenson. You had so much confidence when we made this deal. I'm beginning to think you might not be able to hold up your end of the bargain. Perhaps I should add a little interest to motivate you, hm?" A bolt of fear shot down his spine. He wanted to say something. Something simple, a reassuring statement; anything!
"I'll...I'll get it done," he leaked through dry, pale lips, "just don't change the deal, it wouldn't be fair and you know it." The line was silent. He wondered if it disconnected, but quickly shook the idea as he'd heard neither a click nor a tone. He glanced at the damaged device to be sure. It still showed as connected.
"Peter, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were telling me how to run my business. Much is at stake for you already, so it would be in poor taste to do so, don't you think?"

     He's playing with me, Peter thought. He knows time's running out, so he's playing with me! He could feel the anger seeping back in, swinging his mood in yet another 180. He grit his teeth. He knew another outburst could be detrimental; fatal. "Yes, you're right. That wasn't my inten--" His groveling was quickly cut off. "I expect you here tomorrow at noon, sharp. 1326 Tyler Avenue."
"I--" Click. This time he was sure. He stuffed the phone into his breast pocket. How dare he toy with someone like this!

     Almost immediately, he was greeted with another barely audible ring. He froze for a moment. Was he calling back? Peter wondered if he wanted to fuck with him just a little more. This all seemed to be a game to him after all. Looking at the spider webbed screen, he recognized the number, but this time it was different. It was Taggart! "Talk to me." His confidence came flooding back. Taggart replied almost immediately. He sounded apprehensive. Almost...scared. "Peter. I apologize for having to cut out on you again, I really do. Things have been rather...difficult in the past week or so." In the time he'd known him, Peter had already come to hate the sound of Jules Taggart's voice. A high, whiney drone that grated at his ears with every syllable. He'd known him from the office for the better part of a year. He was a balding, portly man and a regular client for the firm. He seemed to always have an odd odor about him. Aside from his propensity to smell, why Indigo wanted him dead was beyond Peter, but it didn't matter. He'd made the deal and was committed to it.  "Are you still at the restaurant?" Taggart continued. Peter's free hand had made its way to the front pocket of his blue sport coat. He fingered the surface of a heavy metal object. "Yeah, I was just about to leave, actually. Should I wait up?" He slid his hand back out and checked his watch. It read four thirty-seven. "No, no, it's okay, I still can't make it there, but I'll be on that side of town in the morning. I promise this time you won't miss me."
     Peter bit his tongue. You'd better not skip out again, you fat fuck! he wanted to scream, but the better part of him knew you don't lure flies with vinegar. You kill them with it. "See you then. I'll call you in the morning."
"Agreed." Peter disconnected.

     This time he sat his phone gently on the table and spun it with his index finger. Why had Taggart sounded so scared. Did he know and was trying to avoid meeting with him? Or had he just lost his nerve? No, there was no way. Nobody knew about this but himself and Indigo. And Allison! She was the only other person who even knew about Indigo. But why would she say anything to Taggart? Did she even know him? It's possible as he came around every couple of weeks. The thought puzzled him enough to not notice the woman walking up to his table.
"Hey, you!" He jumped a little and looked up. A grinning brunette stared back at him as she pulled up a seat. Allison was the receptionist at the office. She was a rotund, albeit gorgeous woman. Her wavy brown hair brushed just above her shoulders -- it had recently been styled. Occasionally she would wear too much makeup to hide the bags under her eyes from her "parties". Her skirts were normally short and tops displaying cleavage to help hide this. It worked as most of the office was male. Today her skirt was exceptionally short. She had a thin white crust just on the edge of her nostril again. Peter made a subtle gesture to inform her as he nervously greeted her. He wondered what she was doing there. She rubbed her nose. "Fancy meeting you here. You waiting for someone or something?" Maybe she does have something to do with this. The question caught him off guard. "Why do you ask?" He came off a bit more defensive than he wanted to.
"I was just curious. This is a nice restaurant so I just figured you wouldn't be eating alone. Is there something wrong?" Peter didn't want to give too much away if she didn't know, but he still wanted to be sure.
"No, I'm fine. I'm fine. It's just been a long day." Allison signaled a waiter.
"Okay then, so what are we eating today?" Her brown, glassy-eyed stare hung on Peter as did her grin. He had always found her beautiful despite her self-destructive habits.

     Peter was tense throughout the meal. He had little to no interest in chit-chatting, but he knew he needed to find out what she knew; time was too short. As the evening wound down, Allison took her last bite of ravioli, Peter placed his fork and knife. He had hardly eaten his salmon. He didn't want it anyway. He didn't need food, he needed information. He needed to get this job done. "Let's get out of here, huh?" She looked at him, an eyebrow cocked, "What did you have in mind? I mean, my place isn't far from here, if that's okay." Peter glanced at his watch again. It was now six-thirty. Time had flown. "That's fine. I have plans tomorrow morning so I can't be too late anyway." He signaled the waiter for the check. Allison began going through her purse for her pocket book, "Let me know how much my part was."
"Don't worry, I got it," he slapped a few bills onto the table.
"What about the tip?" Peter waved her inquiry away. The waiter was taking too long and he knew the money he left was enough to cover it all. "Don't worry about it. Let's get going." Allison shrugged and put her money away.

     The ride to Allison's apartment was tense -- quiet. Allison fidgeted in her seat for the majority of the ride. Peter didn't think much of it. He only thought of what Taggart was thinking and what Allison may know about it. He was becoming more paranoid as the minutes passed. He worried what would happen if he couldn't make his end of the bargain. Indigo had never fully explained that part. Peter could kick himself for not thinking further into this. He was blinded by need. No, greed. His greed had gotten the best of him. He had spent little time asking questions and only worried about digging himself out of the hole that a handful of deals and bad decisions had left him in.

     They came to a large blue building, too nice for the side of town it was located on. The hedges outside had been recently trimmed. Perhaps two weeks or so. The lighting posts leap frogged up the sidewalk, alternating between a box style and a box style topped with an eagle made of bronze. It was gorgeous to behold. But Peter knew better. This was just the outside. "We're here." He put the car in park and began to unbuckle. "Seriously, what's going on?" Allison sounded concerned. She knew something was up, but to Peter, it felt more like she was the one grilling him for information. "Like I told you before, nothing. You still have that bottle of scotch, right?" She nodded. "Then let's go." They began up the sidewalk, keeping sure to stay near each other. A few distant pops could be heard. Gunshots, most likely. Allison's pace increased from a stroll to a brisk walk. Peter kept up with her for appearances. He wasn't the least bit worried. He didn't have time to be worried.

     When they reached the front doors, Allison put in her code. She had to try more than once as her hand was shaking from a combination of drugs and fear. BEEP! - CLICK! They entered the beautiful building. As the doors opened, Peter was hit with a familiar dank odor. The inside of the building was nothing like the outside. The halls were dusty and barren, apart from various doors and hallways. The carpet was a drab, worn red. It didn't seem to have been vacuumed any time recently. A light scent of mold wafted up. Allison led the way down one of the halls towards an elevator. She hated taking the stairs and avoided it when possible. As they waited for the elevator to arrive, Henry glanced at his watch again. Seven fifteen. Allison noticed and cocked her head to the side. "Why do you keep checking your watch, huh? Something important coming up?"

"Well, I did say I'm not planning on staying out too late. I have an appointment I have to make. A big deal for the office." Allison looked disinterested. She didn't care for that place at all, but she put up with it. The pay allowed her to do what she wanted while keeping a roof over her head. At the least, it sure beat the alternatives. The elevator dinged, moments later the doors slid open. They rode two floors up. Peter stared at the lighted numbers the whole time, lost in thought. He was distracted moments before they arrived at Allison's floor when he glanced out the corner of his eye, catching what seemed like her lightly rubbing her nipple over her blouse. He knew what she was expecting.