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I look back in the drawer, and sure enough, there’s a small, green handheld pencil sharpener in there. Sighing, I take it out, setting it next to the box with pencils, then pull the trash can from under my desk.I best get to work.
The first five are quite therapeutic. After that, it goes downhill. At pencil number thirty, I imagine it’s me who stabs Dante with one of those pencils. At pencil one hundred, I gauge his eyes using pencils like chopsticks. After that, I try to imagine a new inventive way to kill my new boss with each new pencil. It’s hard to kill a man with a pencil if your name is not John Wick, so after a while, I settle for pencil torture techniques. Imagining where I’d stick those pencils to show him just how much I’m enjoying the task he has set for me.
It seems to work because by the time I run out of ideas, I’m almost done, and the trash is filled with pencil shreds. As I place the last pencil back in the box, I’m pretty proud of myself. My fingers might be cramping, but the asshole can’t say I didn’t do what he asked for, even if I imagined stuffing a pencil up his nostril and walking out of his office at least twenty times while I tried not to curse at the small sharpener slipping out of my grip. But perseverance is my middle name. So, with the box full of my hard labour, I walk into Dante’s office, then drop the pencils on his desk.
He ignores me as I stand above him, my arms crossed in front of my chest. I clear my throat.
“Yes?”
“I did what you asked.”
“Lovely.” He continues to type.
“Aren’t you going to check them?”
He sighs heavily, like he’s dealing with a petulant child, then looks over to the box, lifting a pencil and pressing a sharp tip against the pad of his index finger. “Hmmm,” he says, dropping it back into the box before grabbing the whole thing and chucking it into his trash can.
My jaw drops open. Seriously? What the hell is wrong with him? I’m so exasperated I want to scream, but the douchebox just ignores me, opening his top drawer andpulling out a small stack of papers, then handing them to me. It’s only because of an automatic reaction that I take them instead of smacking him over the head like I wanted to. God, I hate the asshole. Even if he smells delicious.
“The font is all wrong on these,” he says, looking at his screen. “Retype them.Please.”
I narrow my eyes at him, sticking my tongue out, then turn around and walk back to my desk. Once I’m sitting behind my laptop, I flip him a double bird concealed by my screen, but there nonetheless, then open a new sheet in a word processor.
I don’t even count the pages I’ll have to go through. I just sit there typing away, not really paying attention to what I’m typing or what’s in the papers.If there are typos, he can stuff it.I’m about five pages in when a dark figure blocks the light from the window.
“Could you go get us some food, please?”
I look up, smiling. “Sure.”
“There’s a sandwich place next door. I’ll have the mortadella one. Get something for yourself, too.”
I smile even wider.
“You still have my money, right? Or have you spent it already?”
Was that even an option? If I knew, I’d have gone shopping last night. I pat my jacket, the one I ‘borrowed’ yesterday, where the inside pocket is.
“Of course.” His lips form a thin line, drawing my eyes. “Mymoney is inmyjacket. Anything else of mine you’d like to commandeer?”
I look him up and down. “I’m good, thanks. And I dolovemy new jacket. Thank you, by the way.”
He looks up to the sky. “Of course. It’s only a two thousand dollar Ferragamo, anyway.”
My mouth dries, because honestly, who spends thismuch on clothes? Hasn’t he heard of Nordstrom or Macy’s? What’s wrong with a two hundred dollar suit? But I’m not about to ask. As I walk down to the sandwich shop, mulling over the last couple of days, I realise there’s a pattern. Prada, La Perla, Ferragamo, La Famiglia, the sandwich shop and even his Maserati are all Italian. I wonder if everything he owns is Italian, or Italian made. It’s highly likely considering how much money he has. And is it just him feeling so patriotic or is this something every Italian mafioso does?
And most importantly, does that mean that his money clip is from an Italian owned jeweller? It would hopefully narrow down my search quite a bit. Because when I looked up all the jewellers in Blackwood last night, I was surprised to find over twenty in a small town like this, and another fifty in the neighbouring towns. I guess the mafia is big on jewellery.
And as I squirt a big dollop of ketchup between the slices of his bread, I decide I might as well ask him where he got his clip from. The worst thing he can do is tell me to go do my work and ignore me. With my resolve renewed, I walk back to the Black Royale, swinging the sandwich bag back and forth. The hair at the back of my neck stands as I turn the corner, making my overactive imagination run wild.Someone probably just glanced my way, I tell myself as I rush through the main door, not wanting to walk to the staff entrance alone. My paranoia is in full swing though, and as I wave to Mel, passing her by, I try to reason with myself that the only person who gave me the creeps, the guard from the bus station, is most likely sleeping with the fishes by now—as Mario Puzo has aptly called it.
By the time I’m back in the office and placing the bag with Dante’s sandwich on his desk, I’m almost certain I made the whole thing up. He mutters a thank you without looking up from the spreadsheet he’s studying. I look at itfor a couple of seconds, trying to gather the courage to interrupt him.
He makes it easier by reaching for his sandwich bag. I pull the money clip and put it on the desk right in front of him, pulling his attention from the bag.
“I like your clip,” I say.
“You can’t have it.” His eyes lift to mine.
I laugh nervously. “I was just going to ask where you bought it. I really like the engraving. It’s very unusual.”
