When we left Nicolette and Neal, their budding relationship had just wilted like a rosebud in a Texas summer. Today we learn more about Neal, about why he was in town, and about the dark forces at work behind the scenes of Nicolette’s tragedy.

See if you can find the rugby reference. If you do, drop me a line.

Enjoy!

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4

A gentleman in a business suit strolled along Park, making the last few blocks to 50th and Lexington. He got out of the cab at 47th and Park because it wouldn’t do to have the elites at the company see him without his driver; it would raise too many questions, and he simply wasn’t giving any answers.

His head was down, and he was not watching where he was going, really. He knew these streets very well, having beat them often during the last few years, and his feet carried him along without his conscious brain really navigating at all.

He bumped a street vendor — probably dogs or gyros or some other ridiculous disgutitude — who was bent over his cart.

“Hey buddy, what gives?” said the hot dog vendor. When the walking man didn’t retort, he continued, giving a wave of his hand as he did so: “Eh, go fuck yourself.”

The man turns on 50th, and proceeds past a clothing boutique called Cheryl’s Barrel of Threads, a five-and-dime, and a few other shops, and arrived at the Law Offices of Palmer & Sanford, took the elevator to the sixth floor, went straight past the secretary without so much as a wave, and walked into the office where David Palmer was supposed to be working.

David wasn’t there.

The man who had walked in slammed his fist against the desk, and with a broad swipe knocked off a lamp, an inkwell and Parker fountain pen, a card index, and a stack of file folders. He turned to exit and saw David Palmer standing in the doorway.

“I take it you’ll send someone to clean that up straightaway, Mr. Sanford?” asked David.

“Fuck you, get your own maid to clean.” Neal, the walking man, pouted like a child and crossed his arms.

David sighed. “What has you all riled up this morning? Did you forget to stop for coffee?”

“You didn’t tell me she was a hooker, David.”

“A hooker? Who, Nicolette?” David sneered, walked to the freshly cleared place on the left corner of the desk and sat down. “Do tell.” He picked up a large, black, glass paperweight that his father had given him and tottered it in his hands. (more…)