The Book of Fate

98

Haven’t these people ever heard of a parking lot?” Rogo asked as he drove past the landscaping by the frosted-glass entrance and veered around to the back of the white office building.

“There,” Dreidel pointed out as they turned the corner. Around back, a wide lot was dotted with eight or ten cars.

“That’s a good sign, right? People still working?”

“Unless it’s just janitorial staff,” Dreidel said, eyeing the building through the passenger window.

“How many janitors you know drive brand-new Mustangs?” Rogo asked, parking next to a shiny black convertible Ford Mustang. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why they have all that space in the front of the building and instead put the parking lot around back?”

“Maybe it’s a zoning issue.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Rogo said.

“What, you still think it’s some kinda mob doctor?”

“All I know is, they’re about a block away from the Bada-Bing and the porn shop, there’s a funeral home next door, and that Mustang has a personalized license plate that says Fredo.”

Dreidel glanced down at the license plate, which read MY STANG. “Will you please stop? It’s a doctor’s office, Rogo. You can tell it from here.”

“Well, color me a stickler, but I’d still prefer to see it for myself,” Rogo added, flicking the car door open, hopping out into the drizzling rain, and running for the back door of the building. Halfway there, he looked straight up as a soft high-pitched whistle exploded into a deafening, rumbling earthquake. Another 747 coming in for a landing. Behind him, he noticed that Dreidel was at least ten steps behind.

Rogo finally reached two sliding frosted-glass doors that were almost identical to the entrance in front. Stepping onto the pressure mat, he waited for the doors to slide open. They didn’t move.

“Anybody home?” Rogo announced, knocking on the frosted glass, then pressing his face against it, trying to peer inside. Diagonally up on his right, a pinprick of red light revealed a shiny black security camera that was as thin as a calculator with a tiny round lens no bigger than a dime. Rogo turned away, too smart to stare. No way was a doctor’s office spending money on high-end tech like that.

“Don’t look up,” Rogo whispered as Dreidel stepped next to him.

“You sure no one’s—?”

Rogo raised a knuckle to knock again, but before he could tap the glass, the doors slid open, revealing an annoyed security guard with stringy brown hair and a close-cropped mustache.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking at Dreidel, then Rogo, then back at Dreidel.

“Yeah, we’re looking for Dr. Eng,” Rogo said, trying to step inside. The guard stepped in front of him, cutting him off, but Rogo kept going, his short meatball build ducking quickly under the guard’s arm and into the salmon-colored marble lobby.

“Sorry… it’s just… it’s raining,” Rogo said, pointing outside and flicking excess water from his hands.

The guard didn’t say a word, still staring at Dreidel. Rogo noticed that the guard was armed with a 9mm pistol in his belt.

“Anyway,” Dreidel interrupted, “we’re here to see Dr. Eng.”

“Sorry, he left already,” the guard shot back.

“That’s fine — if we could just see his office assistant.”

“Dr. Eng is gone. His office is closed for the day.”

Up the hallway, Rogo spotted a tenant directory on the wall next to the elevators. “Listen, if we came at a bad time, I apologize, but can I just ask one favor?” Rogo pleaded. “I’ve been driving for over an hour in tear-your-hair-out traffic. We’ll get out of your way — we’ll call Dr. Eng tomorrow — but first, can I please just use your bathroom? We’re talking real emergency here.”

The guard stared at him, unmoving.

“Please,” Rogo pleaded, doing an anxious shuffle with his feet. “If I wait any longer—”

“Men’s room is past the elevators on the left-hand side,” the guard said, pointing up the hall.

“My bladder thanks you,” Rogo said, taking off.

Dreidel took a step to follow behind him. The guard shot him a look, and Dreidel stopped.

“We’ll… I’ll just wait here,” Dreidel decided.

“Great idea,” the guard said.

Without looking back, Rogo cruised up the hallway, which, like the outside of the building, was worn and weary: cracked marble along the floor, cheap art deco light fixtures overhead, and eighties-era aqua and sea-foam modern art paintings on the wall. Brushing past it all, Rogo focused on the office directory next to the elevators.

“Did I pass it yet?” he called back to the guard as he stopped in front of the directory’s gold metal frame. Skimming the alphabetical list, he saw:

Eng, Dr. Brian — Suite 127

But to Rogo’s surprise, it didn’t list the type of practice or even a business name. Same with every other doctor in the directory. Six in total, but not a single one included their practice.

“Next door down,” the security guard called back. “On the left.”

Waving his thanks, Rogo ducked into the small restroom, which greeted him with the sharp reek of bleach. Knowing he had to take some time before rushing out, he walked to the sink, hit the lever on the dispenser for a few paper towels, and wiped the rest of the rain from his face. He looked in the mirror to make sure he got it all. That’s when he noticed the oak door behind him, just over his shoulder.

Turning back, he studied it carefully. To anyone else, it was nothing more than a storage closet. And to him, on any other day, it would be too. But tonight… with everything going on… Rogo glanced to his left. There was already a narrow door with the word Storage stenciled on it.

Stepping toward the oak door, Rogo gave the doorknob a twist. Locked.

Quick as he could, he glanced around the restroom — the stalls, the urinals, the garbage can in the corner — searching for—there.

Next to the sink, Rogo rushed for the paper towel dispenser, slamming the lever as hard as he could. A single paper towel stuck its tongue out. Perfect, Rogo decided, pulling the plastic case off the dispenser and leaving just the lever and the exposed paper towels. He hit the gray plastic lever again, but this time, didn’t let go of it, gripping as tight as he could with his fingertips, leaning in with his chest, and putting his full weight against it.

Within seconds, he could hear the damage. There was a loud plastic pop as the dispenser started to crack. Rogo held on, standing on his tiptoes and lifting one foot off the ground to increase the weight. Another pop pierced the air. Almost there. Rogo didn’t let up, gritting his teeth and breathing hard through his nose. Don’t let go… not until… With a final short hop, he picked his other foot off the ground. That was it. Plastic shattered with a crack as the boomerang-shaped metal lever snapped free through the bottom of the dispenser. Rogo crashed to the tile floor, and a grin took his face.

As he climbed to his feet, he examined the metal lever, turning the boomerang sideways. Definitely thin enough. Lunging for the oak door, but trying to keep quiet, he slid the boomerang-shaped sliver of metal into the narrow gap between the angled latch and the door’s threshold. His forehead and nose were pressed against the door seam as he peered downward and pulled the boomerang toward his belly. Like a child fishing for coins through a sewer grate, he wiggled his hand, trying to jigger the lever against the door’s latch. Slowly, the latch started to giv—

Click.

With a frantic tug, he pulled the oak door open. Rogo craned his neck to look inside. “Hello?” he whispered.

Inside, it was dark, but as the light from the bathroom flooded forward, it was clear this wasn’t a little storage closet. The room was deep, almost as big as his and Wes’s living room. And as Rogo stepped forward — as he saw what was inside — his eyes widened. It didn’t make sense. Why would they—?

“What the hell you think you’re doing?” a deep voice asked from the bathroom door.

Rogo spun around just in time to see the security guard coming at him.