Scissor Link, Georgette Kaplan [best 7 inch ereader .TXT] 📗

“Well, I don’t think she’d be too happy about me writing a Wikipedia article on her, given that she’s my—”

“Hold up,” Wendy said.

Donnie Parsons had just come through the door.

Every time she saw him, he reminded Wendy of one of those yapping little dogs that were bred to fit into the purse, much the way rich people had to be bred not to find them annoying. He was a pretty normal boss—Wendy thought she could’ve met much the same if her job were delivering pizzas or serving up fries—but he wore his goatee in the Frank Zappa style. It was doing a lot to ruin a hairstyle that Wendy had previously found pretty inoffensive.

“Duty calls,” Wendy said. “My lunch break’s almost over.”

“Oh, come on, sit and gossip, this place could use an office romance to spice things up.”

Wendy stood. “I’m in love with keeping my job.”

“It’s an unhealthy relationship. Your job doesn’t pay you.”

“It’s called an internship.”

“It’s called slavery.”

“Get out, it’s not like they whip me.”

“They make you wear heels.”

Wendy shrugged and hurried over to the line at Subway’s, where Donnie was looking at his watch. “Mr. Parsons, hi, one second of your time?”

“Cedar,” he replied, managing to fit ‘you again’ between the letters. “It’s lunch. Eat something.”

“I had a power bar,” she replied. “Listen, you remember telling me to submit the TCB report?”

“I remember it still not being done.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing, I still haven’t gotten the proper numbers back from R&D.” Wendy tried to diffuse her aggression with a slightly confused laugh. “I can’t submit a report about their findings without their findings, you know?”

“You have their findings,” Donnie interrupted, shuffling forward in line. “I uploaded them all onto the cloud myself, and I know you have access—”

Wendy had to dodge a stanchion to keep up with him. “I do, yes, but the findings aren’t…” Wendy struggled for the right word “…exhaustive. I really need more information for the TCB report.”

“Just put the report through, they’ll clear it up somewhere above your pay grade, same as always.”

“Yeah, but here at my pay grade, it’s my job to clear it up now—”

“Cedar. It’s Friday,” Donnie interrupted. “Do you really want to hold everyone up and make a bunch of people, including us, work on the weekend just so we can dot a few I’s?”

Wendy stopped moving to avoid colliding with the line to McDonald’s, formed on her side of the stanchion rope. “It’s not the weekend for three hours yet. I’m sure with your help, we can get what we need from R&D, finish the report—”

“I’m a busy man, Cedar. I have better things to do than hold your hand while you do your job. Send the damn report before you cost us all our weekend. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No, sir.”

Donnie was at the front of his line. “Good. Now get out of here, I don’t know what to order.”

“Sweet onion chicken teriyaki,” she told him, then hurried off to figure out why she’d said that.

CHAPTER 2

Wendy did not work on Sundays, but she’d been called in, and as an intern, she wasn’t expected to have a life. So, since her usual commute was only on weekdays, she hired an Uber, did her best to learn Greek to hold up her end of the conversation, and went into the deserted weekend workspace. Blank, flat monitors; some noisy grinding sort of janitorial work being done; and no one presenting themselves, no matter how many doors Wendy knocked on.

This meant she had the kitchen all to herself, and Wendy thought to put on a pot of coffee for when the others arrived. She also thought to have a sip of fresh coffee, made the way she liked it, instead of the indignities to which her co-workers subjected the coffee beans. Selecting her favorite roast from the cupboard in the break room, she set about cajoling the coffee machine into doing her will. The machine, for its part, kept hectoring her to connect to it with an app on her presumed smartphone. This would tell her when her coffee was done if she forgot how to tell time.

Wendy did not forget how to tell time. It was exactly seventeen minutes after she’d shown up when she heard the dogged footsteps of Donnie Parsons, along with a clearer, more intently pitched noise. Heels on linoleum, striking with a determined repetition. Like Wendy imagined a thief would use as he worked on a safe with a chisel. Click, click, click, click. Rapid succession, but not rushed. Purposeful.

Donnie came in followed by Janet Lace, and if Wendy didn’t fall in love at first sight, or even at second sight, she was definitely ready to fall in love.

“Wanda! Did you send a memo—” Donnie began, and his pinched voice was as shocking to Wendy as having a water cooler explode in her face.

Janet silenced him with a wave of her hand. Her nails were quite short, black, neat little claws on slender fingers.

Wendy stared at them and was very hopeful.

“We apologize for our lateness.” Janet’s voice was clear, restrained, powerful. It seemed perfectly suited to that set of lips. “Traffic,” Janet concluded; not apologetic, but with a slight growl like a mine threatening to cave in. An expression of anger toward the obstacle that had robbed her of her punctuality. “You know who I am,” she stated by way of introduction.

Wendy nodded, trying to keep phrases like “Mrs. Wendy Cedar-Lace” and its variations indoors rather than out.

“It’s fine. The traffic. Not that the traffic is fine, I’m sure it’s very bad if it delayed you, but you being delayed by traffic is…” Wendy got through all that in one breath. Upon the next breath, she reconsidered. “Coffee?”

“Wanda!” Donnie insisted, his voice pinching in harder than ever, one of those submersibles that went too deep and was imploded by the pressure.

Janet strolled past him—she walked like a woman who did everything at a stroll—and wordlessly communicated to Wendy a question of where the