The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

CHAPTER 16. Chippy off the Old Block

New York City May 10, 1948

"JACK, WHERE AM I?" "In my apartment."

"Your apartment! How did I get here?"

"I gave you a ride, baby. Don't you remember when we took that trip to Queens, and those lousy two-legged rats shot at us in the alley? Then I stashed you in that dark doorway?"

"Oh, yeah… I do remember."

"You were shaking like a wet kitten, and I took you in my arms-"

"And kissed me. That's right."

"Well, it led to a few more kisses, and one thing led to another, and I drove you back here."

I opened my eyes. I was nestled against Jack's solid form on a big, lumpy sofa. The PI's apartment was small but neat with an easy chair and a coffee table. A bar stood against the wall, holding bottles of liquor. A large radio sat between two tall windows covered in drawn Venetian blinds, and a bookshelf in the corner held paperbacks and a stack of magazines. I saw a small kitchen through one door, a bedroom through another.

Jack's deep-blue double-breasted jacket was thrown over the arm of a chair. His leather shoulder holster was hanging over its back. The PI's shoes were off, too, and his sock-covered feet were crossed on the coffee table in front of us. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. One strong arm was now draped around my shoulders. The other held a tumbler with wheat-colored alcohol. He was sipping the drink with one hand, caressing my shoulder with the other.

I looked down, a little worried about how many pieces of clothing I'd find missing. I was still wearing the skirt of the smart tweed suit that Jack had selected for me, but the jacket was gone and my blouse's top buttons were undone, revealing quite a bit of lace bra. I pulled away from Jack's embrace and did up the buttons.

The PI smirked. He rubbed his square chin now rough with stubble. "Don't look at me like that, baby. You were the one who unbuttoned them. You said you were hot."

I arched an eyebrow, thinking about his kisses. "Oh, I'm sure I was."

"So." He yawned and stretched, set down his drink on the coffee table, then leaned back again and clasped his hands behind his head. "Now that the fun's over… you want to tell me what happened tonight?"

I squinted. "Am I sleeping right now? Is this a dream?"

His slate-gray eyes held my gaze. "What do you think?"

"I think you've got Hokey-Pokey Pink lipstick on your collar-"

He smiled, with a little too much satisfaction. "And?"

"And I remember something about Bud Napp helping me under the Movie Town Theater stage, finding an onyx-and-silver earring, then running back to my bedroom above the bookshop and changing for the block party."

"Yeah, baby, you changed clothes and handbags, too. Only you forgot about yours truly."

"The nickel!"

"You left without my lucky buffalo in your purse, which left me stuck watching reruns of Jack Shield episodes on the Intrigue Channel all by my lonesome."

"I'm sorry, Jack! I remember now. When I got to the block party, I realized you weren't with me. I was going to go back home and get your old nickel, but then I saw Harmony and didn't want to miss my chance to surveil her earlobes."

Jack sighed. "All right, baby, so you flew solo. Tell me what I missed."

"Well, Harmony wasn't wearing any earrings but that actually seemed suspicious to me because-" I paused, feeling Jack's hand reaching over to sweep hair away from the nape of my neck. "Jack?" I tensed. "What are you-"

His fingers began to message my tight muscles.

"Oh, wow…" I rolled my head around. "That actually feels good… "

"Of course it does, baby. Now tell me why it was so suspicious that Harmony wasn't sporting earrings? I don't know much about the jewelry-wearing habits of dames. Enlighten me."

"Okay, well…" I shifted on the couch to get more comfortable. "Harmony's ears are pierced. And most women with pierced ears wear earrings. So it seemed awfully suspicious that she wasn't wearing any. And I thought maybe she realized that she'd lost one earring and simply taken the second one out before going to the party."

"So what did you do?"

"I noticed Barry Yello at the party-"

"Barry's the big guy?"

"Yes. He was the guy with the blond ponytail and the Hawaiian shirt, the one who introduced Dr. Lilly the first night of the Film Festival. Barry's also the Webmaster of FylmGeek.com, and…Oh, wait. I should explain what dot com means-"

"Don't bother," Jack said. "Between you and your aunt working on that computer every day, I've figured out what the Internet is-"

"An information highway."

"Another set of street corners for pervs and shitbirds to prey on the public."

I sighed. "That too. Anyway, Barry had a digital camera with him, and he was snapping photos all night, presumably to post on his Web site. I figured he would have been paying special attention to the festival's guests. I asked him about Hedda's and Harmony's movements."

Jack's massaging fingers moved from my neck to one shoulder. His other hand joined in, taking care of the other shoulder. "Move back a little, baby," he whispered, "closer to me."

I slid backward on the lumpy couch, making the old springs creak beneath my weight.

"Go on, doll," Jack growled in my ear. "Tell me what Barry said."

I cleared my throat, trying my best to ignore the realness of Jack's hard thigh against my tweed-covered bottom, the faint male smell of undiluted whiskey on his breath when he spoke. I reminded myself that this was all a dream; warned myself not to get carried away. But the truth was, there hadn't been a man in my life for years. Even when I'd been married to Calvin, he hadn't exactly been an attentive, supportive husband. Not that a ghost could be a replacement for a husband, but I had to admit that Jack's spirit was a good companion, and a good friend. And right at this moment, what he was doing to me felt pretty darn good, too.

I knew what some people would say to that. They'd accuse me of wanting to live in a dream world. But then I considered the store I was running-and what I was selling. What were all those books providing to the people who read them?

"Baby? What's wrong? You goin' buggy on me?"

"I was just thinking that I liked being here… with you."

"It's all we've got, sweetheart. Don't overthink it. Dreams are a gift, you know? You should just enjoy them."

I turned around to meet Jack's eyes. "You enjoy them, too, don't you?"

Jack stopped massaging my neck. His hard face smiled. "What do you think?"

I smiled, too. Then I turned around again. "I think you missed a spot."

Jack's hands returned to my shoulders. "So? Back to Barry and your little block party… "

"Right. According to Barry Yello, Hedda had been holding court at a picnic table all evening. Apparently, she never returned to the Finch Inn after the showing of Tight Spot. Just went straight to the party on the Commons. And her granddaughter, Harmony, had been hanging close with her all evening."

"Uh-huh. And what did that tell you?"

I detected contained amusement in Jack's voice, and sure enough when I turned my head, I found the PI smirking. He was obviously entertained by my gumshoeing tale.

"What it told me, Jack, was that if Harmony dropped that earring under the Movie Town stage, and she never went back to her hotel room to drop off its match, then I was likely to find that earring on Harmony herself."

"And did you?"

"No. I did manage to search her handbag though."

Jack's fingers stilled. "You're kidding?"

"Nope. Seymour Tarnish helped. He distracted her and I grabbed her bag, riffled through it, and returned it without her knowing. No earring. And she didn't have any pockets on her skintight dress, but I did find something very interesting inside that purse."

Jack sat up straighter. "Spill."

"A pack of condoms and three bottles of prescription medications from three different doctors."

"Well, well, well." Jack's eyebrows arched. "Keeping party favors and candy in her handbag tells me that she's the type who wants to be ready for anything-if not any man. Just like her grandmother. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tart."

"I think the girl's got major problems," I said. "And she's clearly having sex with a boyfriend."

"Or boyfriends, plural-one or more of whom might be willing to help her get rid of her granny, so she can inherit a fortune."

"Or part of one."

"Nice work, baby."

I could see that Jack meant it. The smirk was gone. He seemed genuinely impressed. Without taking his long, strong legs off the coffee table, he leaned forward to reach for his tumbler of whiskey.

"And what about Pierce Armstrong?" he asked.

I frowned. "What about him?"

"Didn't you brace him at the party, too?"

"Unfortunately, he didn't go to the party. I cornered Wendell Pepper, though. He told me Pierce was so exhausted that he asked for a ride back to his house. Pepper took him before returning to the block party."

"I see." Jack took a sip of alcohol then held the glass out for me. "Go on, it won't kill you."

I took the glass, sipped a little. I wasn't a drinker of straight hard liquor, but I was curious what Jack's dream-whiskey would taste like. "Ack!" I coughed. The liquid burned all the way down my throat.

Jack laughed. "It's a cinch, baby. You're even a Square Jane in your sleep."

"But you have to admit," I rasped, finishing my coughing fit. "I'm getting to be a good detective awake."

"Jury's still out on that one, doll. So what about that question I had for Dean Pepper-did you remember to ask it?"

I nodded, handing Jack back his tumbler of firewater. "Hedda's silver evening gown from Wrong Turn. I asked him about it, all right. Lucky for us, Pepper's practically an encyclopedia of trivia about every piece of memorabilia he collects. And do you know what he said about Hedda's old costume?"

"Not unless you tell me."

"He said that he bought it at an auction from a relative of the actress Willow Brody, also known as Wilma Brody. Wilma changed her name when she moved from Queens to Hollywood. It didn't help her career much. She could only ever get bit parts in big pictures, and then she died in 1966."

"Why does that year ring a bell? It's not like I was alive to remember it."

"It's the same year Hedda Geist said some journalist started digging around, trying to piece together the real story about Irving Vreen's death."

"And Willow Brody died that same year? That's awfully coincidental, baby, don't you think?"

"I'll tell you what's even more coincidental."

"What's that?"

"According to Dr. Pepper, Wilma Brody died from a fall while horse back riding in the Hollywood hills."

"Horseback riding?" said Jack. "And didn't Hedda Geist tell you that she rides horses, too?"

I nodded. "She owns a horse farm in Newport. Said she still rides two hours a day."

"But she used to live in Los Angles with her husband, the TV executive. Think she was riding horses in California back in '66?"

"I glanced over my shoulder. "To quote Jack Shepard…'I'd bet the ranch, if I had a ranch.' "

Jack sat fully up, sweeping his legs off the coffee table. "One more question, sweetheart. Did ol' Dean Pepper happen to mention what age Wilma Brody was when her ticket got punched?"

"Actually, yes. He said she was young when she died, only thirty-three."

"Thirty-three in sixty-six. You know what that makes her in forty-eight?"

"Fifteen?"

"Jailbait. That's what that makes her."

Jack stood up from the sofa, began to pace the small living room. "That means District Attorney Nathan Burwell could have been blackmailed because he was committing statutory rape with the girl. The pieces are coming together now. At fifteen, Wilma Brody was a young Gotham Features actress. Dollars to donuts, she was just a poor little nobody like Hedda once was. Young Wilma probably worshipped Hedda Geist, the studio's biggest star. She would have done whatever Hedda asked."

"So you believe Hedda persuaded fifteen-year-old Wilma to seduce New York 's district attorney?"

"Yeah, baby." Jack nodded. "Somewhere down the line Hedda must have discovered that Burwell had a weakness for jailbait, so she set out to trap him using Wilma Brody. I doubt very much a girl like Wilma, working at a low-rent studio at the age of fifteen, would have had much in the way of prospects or wardrobe. Hedda probably gave the girl promises of bigger parts in her movies, gave her pretty dresses to wear on her dates with Burwell, more payoff for doing her bidding-"

"Including that slinky silver gown Wilma wore to the Porter-house the night Vreen was murdered!"

"Exactly."

"What about the car?" I asked. "The gull-gray Lincoln Continental cabriolet? How does that fit in?"

"Easy. When I saw that car parked outside the Hotel Chester the first night I tailed Burwell and his chippy, I saw silhouettes of a man and woman inside. It must have been Hedda and Pierce Armstrong, waiting for Wilma, watching to see if she could get the DA up to her room. Using the studio's car was smart. Since it wasn't registered with either of them, someone would really have to dig to connect Hedda or Pierce with the license plate."

"And what about the morning after Vreen's murder?" I asked. You said the Chester 's valet remembered Wilma being picked up by the same type of car."

"It had to be Hedda alone who picked up Wilma that morning after Vreen was stabbed. Once again, she was taking care of her young pawn, making sure the girl was spirited away so Burwell couldn't get to her anymore-and a detective like me couldn't get close to question her, either."

"But Benny showed us Pierce Armstrong's name in the log book for that morning," I reminded him.

Jack nodded. "Since Pierce was already in custody, I'm sure it was Hedda who signed his name, just to make sure she wasn't listed on any written record. Don't you remember what those two signatures looked like? The first one was done in big, bold block letters, but the second one-"

"-was in small fluid script, just like Hedda's signature at my bookstore signing," I finished for him. Then I took a breath, trying to add it all up. "So if Hedda was in league with Wilma, then she would have known when Nathan Burwell was taking her to the Porterhouse."

Jack nodded. "And she could have arranged to have the crime happen right in front of the DA."

I met Jack's stare. "So Pierce Armstrong was in on it all, too? Even Vreen's murder?"

"He must have been, doll. The whole scene that night played out like a B-movie script, with Pierce loudly announcing he had no beef with Irving. The guy was obviously trying to set up the accidental defense. Pierce was playing a part for Hedda. And the DA was his audience."

"If all that's true, Jack, then Hedda's actions that night at the Porterhouse were premeditated. She killed Irving Vreen in cold blood."

"Yeah, baby."

"But why?" I threw up my hands. "What could Hedda and Pierce, and Wilma, for that matter, have possibly gained? What was the conspiracy all about? When they killed Vreen, all they ended up doing was destroying the studio that employed them!"

"I can't answer that question for you, doll. Not without more pieces to this puzzle. I think, for the moment, we've reached a dead end."

I fell back against the lumpy sofa and sighed.

Jack sat down next to me again, draped a muscular arm across the sofa back. "Tired?"

"No," I said. "What I am is frustrated."

"Oh?" the PI arched an eyebrow. Then he gave me a little smile. "That I can take care of." He leaned closer.

"Jaaack… I'm not frustrated that way!"

My pathetic push against his rock-solid chest was enough to make him pause. "Then what did you mean, baby?" he asked with a sigh.

"I don't know… I guess I mean I just need more info, too. Whatever happened to your own case back here? I mean after you caught that private eye tailing you. Was he working for

Hedda Geist?" "No."

"Who then? Did you ever find out?"

Jack sighed again, leaned back a little. "You really want to know?" "Sure."

"Then close your eyes." "Jaaack… "

"No funny business. I promise. So close 'em…"

I did.

JACK KEPT HIS promise. There was no funny business next. Just business. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself standing in front of a polished oak apartment door in the hall of a grand Park Avenue building.

Jack was looking spiffy in his brand-new blue suit, his face freshly shaved. He rang the apartment's bell and waited.

"Where are we?" I whispered.

"Nathan Burwell's penthouse."

"What? You're bracing the district attorney?!"

Jack smirked. "I can be wild, baby. But I'm not crazy. Nathan's not home at the moment."

The door opened. A young maid greeted us and showed us inside. "I'll get Mrs. Burwell," she said and disappeared.

The entryway where we were standing was brightly lit and stacked with trunks and suitcases. I could see a luxurious living room beyond a short hallway. Half of the room appeared to be packed up in boxes.

"Mr. Shepard, thank you for coming."

Jack gave a curt nod to the tall, slender woman. She was middle-aged, dressed in a beautifully tailored wool suit with stylishly padded shoulders, but her bobbed black hairdo looked more like it belonged in the 1920s than the late 1940s.

"I got your message," Jack said.

"Yes, well, let's not prolong this. Here you are." Mrs. Burwell held out a thick envelope. "This should end our contract."

Jack hesitated before taking the pay. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Burwell, I'd like to know why?"

"Why?"

"Why you suddenly changed your mind about having your husband investigated," Jack said stiffly. "Why you expressed no interest in seeing my report or my photographs or anything in my files."

"Well, I, just… don't need to…"

Jack glanced at the trunks and suitcases. "So you're leaving?"

Mrs. Burwell nodded. "Nathan's letting me go. There's no problem anymore. He won't fight my request for a divorce, won't fight for custody of our daughters, won't even fight me on taking my money with me. So, you see, it's all worked out." "And what changed his mind? Did you tell him you hired me?"

"No. I didn't."

"Well, Mrs. Burwell, I've got news for you: A scumbag shamus tried to get the drop on me last night. Only I got the drop on him. The man's name was Egbert P. King. I called around and found out he works for Dibell Investigations. You know who they are?"

Mrs. Burwell blanched. "Yes," she admitted. "I do."

"So do I. They do the dirty digging for Marigold and Webster, the law firm where your husband worked before he became a public prosecutor."

The woman's eyes were wide, her expression clearly distressed. "I never once mentioned you to Nathan, Mr. Shepard. You have to believe me. The reason I'm letting you go has nothing to do with Nathan. I mean… it does, actually, just not in the way you think. Can't that be enough for you? Won't you go now and let things be?"

Mrs. Burwell stared at Jack. He stared back. His large form seemed to fill the hallway, and it was clear that he had no intention of moving it until the woman told him what he wanted to know. She seemed to figure that out, too, because she finally cleared her throat and admitted-

"Nathan's being blackmailed."

"By who?"

"Someone. He won't tell me; not even whether it's a man or woman. He said his hand is being forced in an official capacity. If he doesn't comply with the demands of this person, then Nathan's… well, his indiscretions will be exposed. It would ruin him. Ruin me, too. The scandal would destroy our standing completely."

"Why don't you let me uncover this blackmailing rat? You've already paid me an awful lot of dough, Mrs. Burwell. Let me find out who's blackmailing your husband."

"My husband knows very well who's blackmailing him,

Mr. Shepard. And apparently Nathan has already decided to give in to this person."

"So what's the payoff?" Jack asked.

"No payoff. There's no demand for money."

"Then what does the blackmailer want?"

"A reprieve, Mr. Shepard."

"From what?"

"Apparently from being accused of murder. This blackmailer planned a murder with an accomplice. The blackmailer demand-ed Nathan let them both off, clearing them of any crime, but Nathan's made the blackmailer see that the public needs a fall guy. So in a few months, he'll put the accomplice on trial-for manslaughter. The blackmailer will betray the accomplice and provide testimony to help with the conviction. Nathan gets a conviction, and the blackmailer goes free."

Jack's jaw worked for a moment. "If you don't want my help, then why are you telling me this?"

"So you'll take the money and go. Nathan doesn't know about you, Mr. Shepard, and I want to keep it that way. When he found out he was being blackmailed, he told me everything. I told him I wanted a divorce, and that if he gave it to me I'd go away quietly instead of making things worse for him. He has enough trouble, so he's letting me go. But if he found out I hired a private eye, that you were collecting hard evidence against him to be used in court, well… I don't know what he'd say or do then. So please just take the money and leave."

Jack rubbed his chin, took the envelope. "All right… if that's what you want."

"It is. I'm flying to Miami tomorrow with my girls. I hear life's good down there. Sunny. I like the sunlight. Clears out the cobwebs… I've lived enough years in Nathan's shadow."

WE LEFT THE penthouse and headed outside. It was late afternoon; the sun was going down and the streets were getting dark. Commuters filled the sidewalks, flooding out of office buildings, flowing down to subways, rushing into train stations. Jack flagged a cab and we rode downtown toward his office.

"It had to be Hedda," I said in the back of the cab. "You know that now, right? The blackmailer was Hedda and her accomplice was Pierce Armstrong."

"Yeah, baby. It only took me sixty years-and a little snooping redhead-to break the case."

"Little snooping redhead?" My eyes widened. "You mean me?"

"Who do you think I mean, baby? Little Red Riding Hood? I was never able to ID Wilma Brody as the chippy at the Hotel Chester and I never came up with any leads connecting her to the starlet Hedda Geist. Now that you've done both, the pieces have fallen into place."

I stared at Jack, a little stunned. He wasn't the sort to dish out compliments when it came to gumshoeing-yet here he was telling me I'd actually helped him crack one of his own cold cases. I couldn't help grinning.

"Thanks," I said.

"Yeah, well… you did good, kid." Jack chucked my chin. "But don't let it go to your head or anything. You're still green as a broken traffic light."

"I may be green, but I'm far from done." I folded my arms. "And you're not off the hook, either. There's a pretty heavy situation still going on in my time."

"I know, baby. I haven't forgotten."

"Good," I said, then admitted something that was still bothering me. "There's still one thing about your case I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"Why didn't Mrs. Burwell take you up on your offer to help nail the blackmailer?"

"The lady just wanted out. And that's what she got."

"But her husband admitted to her that he was going to let a murderer walk free! How can she live with that?"

"You don't understand these cliff dwellers, baby. The threat of scandal might sound like a punch line to some floozy in the Bowery, but women with Mrs. Burwell's address would never survive the shame of a tabloid blitz. Society's circle would close her out. She'd be shunned by friends, family… ruined. It's a long way down from a Manhattan DA's wife to an object of pity. Alcohol and pills is the typical end for dames in that situation. I've seen it before. They're lucky if they don't get a trip to Bellevue and a nice long stay at a cackle factory."

"But Jack… she's buying her freedom with a man's life."

"Mrs. Burwell didn't stab Irving Vreen, sweetheart. Hedda Geist did."

"With the help of Pierce Armstrong," I pointed out. "And Wilma Brody."

"Well, Wilma's dead," Jack reminded me. "You told me that yourself. She died in 1966 in a horseback riding accident-the same year some journalist tried to open a can of worms on the Vreen murder."

"But Pierce is still alive," I noted. "And so is Hedda."

"And that's why you've got to be careful," Jack warned. "You're in the middle of a kettle that's been boiling for decades. And it just might explode in your face. Keeping watching your back, honey."

"I will. As long as you keep watching it, too."

"I always do."

"Not my backside, Jack. My back." He laughed.

A few minutes later, our cab pulled over and Jack paid the fare. As we climbed onto the sidewalk, Jack touched my arm.

"Be a doll, okay?" He took a bill from his pocket and handed it to me. "Take that sweet backside of yours into the drugstore on the corner. Buy me a deck of Luckies and meet me upstairs in my office."

"What am I? Your secretary?"

"For the moment? Yeah, you are. My old one quit last week to get hitched. Just be grateful I haven't put you to work yet typing and filing."

"Ha! From the complete lack of organization in those dusty files of yours that Kenneth Franken sent over, I'd say you needed to hire a new secretary badly."

"I'll take it under advisement."

We parted ways on the sidewalk. As Jack took his building's elevator up, I ducked into the corner drugstore. I bought the cigarettes for him, a candy bar for me, and took the same elevator north to his office. The clanging lift may have been new in Jack Shepard's day but to me it felt like an ancient relic. It had a hard-to-close cage and it squealed and squeaked and seemed to take forever to climb the few flights up. Finally, I arrived.

I pulled back the cage and stepped onto green linoleum. When I found Jack's office, the door was wide open.

"Jack?"

No lights were on. I glanced around the dim room. "My god!"

The place was in chaos! Files were strewn everywhere! Chairs were overturned! I flipped on the light.

"Jack!"

I found him slumped on the floor in the corner. His head was bleeding. "Jack, can you hear me? Jack!"

He groaned, his eyelids fluttered and he slowly sat up. "Oh, my head. Those SOBs… they didn't give me a chance…"

"What happened?"

"I got jumped. A couple of goons were in here riffling through my files. I'm pretty sure one of them was our old friend Egbert. They must have heard me coming because they were hiding when I opened the door. Then wham!" He gingerly touched the lump swelling on his forehead.

"What did they want, Jack?"

The PI slowly rose from the floor. I helped him get to his feet. Once he was steady, he walked over to his secretary's desk.

"It's gone," he said with a disgusted exhale. "I figured it would be. Everything was right here and they took it. The reports, the photos…"

"Nathan Burwell's file?"

"Yeah, baby. Even if I'd wanted to turn him into the feds or the state bar, I'd have no evidence to back my story. They took it all."

"So that's why you told me what you did the other day-not to bother looking for the file."

"Yeah." He patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "Mrs. Burwell's envelope's gone, too. The DA's hired goons took it all."

"All that money? Oh, Jack… "

"Looks like its back to the salt mines for me. But it's not a total wipe. I still got you as a secretary-"

"Excuse me? Don't you mean partner?"

"Partner, huh?" Jack shook his head. "I don't know…"

"After all we've been through, don't you think I've earned it?"

The PI's lips lifted ever so slightly. "I'll have to think about it."

"Fine. You just call me when you're done thinking about it-"

Jack caught my wrist before I could walk away. "Dames. Why are they so much trouble?" "I'm no trouble!"

"Oh, yeah? Let's test that theory. C'mere…"

Jack jerked me close, into his arms. He kissed me and I kissed him right back. Then his lips were on my cheek, my jaw, my neck.

"Oh, Jack… " I sighed. "That feels like heaven… " I closed my eyes, wanting the feeling to go on forever- Ring-ring! Ring-ring! Ring-ring! Ring-ring!

I OPENED MY eyes. Sunlight was blasting through my window pane, morning had come without notice, and I was alone in bed. Jack's body was gone. His arms were no longer around me. His kisses had faded on the last wisp of dream.

Ring- ring! Ring- ring!

Ring- ring! Ring- ring!

Ring- ring!-

I sat up and slapped off my plastic alarm clock with enough force to crack the case.