Play@YSDC

A brand new day.

Delores had slept badly, despite the slug of bourbon she'd taken to help her sleep. Her dreams were haunted by the scene in the picture. She dreamt of herself in the picture, the hot sun burning her skin - making her ill - but not enough so that the faintly glimpsed flying things soaring over the distant buildings couldn't be heard on skittering wings...

She'd been awake before the sky was light, the bed hot and damp with her night sweats and she'd stolen into the bathroom at six to take a quick bath. She exited, avoiding the glare of Mrs Woznizcka (who hated anyone using hot water when it wasn't their 'turn') and ate her breakfast quietly with her head down.

Delores headed to work early, constantly glancing over her shoulder as she headed down the street. When she arrived at the newspaper offices, Delores headed for her desk, pausing on the way only to say 'Hi' to the editor and and check if there were any messages.

Delores Brown wrote:When she arrived at the newspaper offices, Delores headed for her desk, pausing on the way only to say 'Hi' to the editor and and check if there were any messages.

"Brown! You didn't forget your interview with old Mrs. DeVanter in Brooklyn, did you? She's a hundred years old, for Pete's sake! What if she keels over before you get there? Here's a buck for a cab. Get over there pronto!"

In the cab you realize that Mrs. DeVanter's address on Berkeley Street is just a few blocks from the 352 2nd Street office of Guy Grenville, Alphonse Hirt's agent.

As the cab driver corners on what seems like two wheels, Delores ticks herself off for forgetting the time of the interview. The cab pulls up sharply and Delores exits, passing the dollar bill to the driver with instructions to keep the change.

Pulling her skirt straight and fixing her friendliest smile, she walks up the garden path, to be greeted by Mrs DeVanter herself, tidying the flowers that grow in the borders next to her porch. Over a lemonade, and with relatives fussing in the background, Ms DeVanter tells Delores about her long life. She'd grown up in Massachusetts, the daughter of poor farmers and even the laws brought in to restrict child labour hadn't stopped her 'working all the hours God sent'. She'd been married twice, losing her first husband in the Civil War, and had met her second husband when he visited her county fair. He brought her Brooklyn, where she'd been settled for the past 40 years. She'd had three children, who'd brought grandchildren, then great grand-children and even a few great-great grandchildren and it was them, and the gardening, that kept her going.

An hour later, Delores leaves, waving goodbye to DeVanter who sits drinking her lemonade on the porch. After the horrors of the past few days, thinks Delores, that's done me the power of good. She walks down Berkeley to 2nd Street, glancing left and right to get her bearings. Satisfied she's heading in the right direction, she strolls down the street until 10 minutes later, she's standing in front of the offices of Guy Grenville.

She pushes open the door and steps into the office. Behind a tidy desk a young blonde woman sits. "Hello," says Delores, "Would it be possible to speak to Mr Grenville? I'm afraid I don't have an appointment but it concerns Alphonse Hirt."

The offices of Guy Grenville Literary Agency amount to a brass plaque on a grubby brownstone at 352 2nd Street in Brooklyn and a small office behind a half-glassed door up several flights of narrow stairs. The door is locked, but a knock elicits a response.

“Who's it? What’cha want?”

[ooc - Don't forget that Genville's name was suggested by Luther Dewlap (World Telegraph literary critic) as someone who handles weird stories for the pulps.]

Delores decides that discretion may be the better part of valour. "My name is Delores," she replies, "A friend of mine told me you might be able to get my work published."

"We're closhed. Not acceptin' new bish- biznesh." Yes, the man is definitely inebriated.

Delores knocked again. "Mr Grenville? Luther Dewlap gave me your name - said you'd be able to help."

You hear shuffling, unsteady steps and the voice is nearer the door when it says, "Luther? I know Luther. Help what? Whazzit 'bout?"

Delores glanced down the street and leant closer to the door. "Look, can't you open up?" she said, with a plainitive note to her voice, "I don't really want to talk about it in the street where everyone can hear."

"Not takin' new clients, I tellya. Now Go'way!"

[ooc - You're not in the street. You're in a corridor on the third floor.]

OOC: Oops!

Delores sighs; her approach isn't working. She takes a deep breath and knocks again. "Listen, Mr Grenville," she says through the door, "Luther did give me your details, but it's not about that. I'm here about Alphonse Hirt..."

The door opens a crack and a bloodshot eye peers out. It opens a bit wider and an unshaven face appears, then a tousled head. The man looks up and down the corridor. Satisfied Delores is alone, he opens the door to admit her and staggers back to his desk: "Lock that, willya?"

Guy Grenville is a chubby man about middle height in a good suit that badly needs cleaning and pressing. Strewn about his office are paper bags and paper cups suggesting several meals have been consumed on the premises recently, as well as several empty liquor bottles and one a third full. Grenville slumps in the chair behind his desk, clasping and unclasping his hands as his eyes dart from place to place. He emits a long rumbling belch.

“Oh, excuush me, pleash. I have the worsh indi-indigeshun, ever shince I washa kid.” He belches again in a more suppressed way.

“I gotta tell ya... righ' up fron'," he says pointing a quivering finger in your general direction, "I dunno th' guy you’re ashin' about – Hurd, d'ja shay? Never hearda 'im. My bish- bizznesh is finin' young writersh for th' pulps who c'n churn out shtuff atta penny a word. Thash what I do. I have contacsh with shef... shev... many publishershesh."

He ceases his speech and peers at Delores, blinking, "Who're you now?”

Delores steps carefully over the detritus littering the floor and carefully pushes the door ajar behind her. The man didn't seem dangerous but there is no point in taking any undue risks.

"I'm Delores," she says, looking around carefully for somewhere to sit. She glances at the chair opposite Grenville, but decides not to try to to shift the pile of food wrappers that are piled up there. She puts a hand on the back of the chair and instantly regrets it. "Look, I was told you'd helped Alphonse Hirst. That's why I'm here. She pauses, then steps closer. "I think he's in trouble and I want to help him."

"Wha's tha t'do wi' me? I tell ya i dunno th' guy!"

Delores places the card found in Hirt's apartment on Grenville's desk and arches her eyebrows.

“Okay. Okay, you got me," Grenville suddenly seems much less drunk, "Al Hirt is a client and a big disappointment. I get a letter from him about three months ago asking if I can help get his book published. Can Guy Grenville place a book? So the guy brings in some chapters and Hoo-whee this stuff is weird! Primitive cults in modern-day America among the immigrant families in Red Hook. The guy can write good and I figure to channel him to the pulps and a big payday – for both of us, sure.

“But, I tell him, this one’s been done— a few years ago sure, but these fans have long memories, you know? So I start pitching ideas for a change-up. Maybe it’s Indians out West, or even in India? Roadblock!

“The screwy kid believes what he says, all that nonsense about cults and space gods or something. He wants me to find a publisher for a work of ‘serious social anthropology.’ He was offended to be compared to Lester Dent. Imagine!”

Delores raises an eyebrow at the change in Grenville's demeanour but says nothing. "So what happened to him after he left - did you seen him again? And have you got a copy of his manuscript? I think what he was writing about could be linked to him going missing."

At the mention of the 'moon-bridge', Delores feels shivers down her spine. Dark images crowd her mind and she glances to the corners of the room, as if she hears something from a distance.

She shudders, rubbing her arms to quell the goosebumps. Suddenly she doesn't want to be stuck in here anymore. But she doesn't want to leave empty handed either. "You said he brought in some chapters - have you still got them?" she asks.

‘Look, I’ve got no idea what Hirt got mixed up in. I thought he was just nuts. Then I started getting threats. Like these.”

[The notes are crudely lettered in pencil on cheap lined paper.]

HIRT IS DEAD MAN AND SO TO
HIS FRIENDS BURN ANY NOTES
+ LETTERS FROM HIM FORGET
EVERYTHING HE TOLD YOU
FORGET HE EVER EXIST MAYBE
YOU ARE SPARED HIS FATE

DO NOT THINK WE ARE JOKE
DO NOT THINK WE ARE NOT
REAL OUR HANDS IS AT YOUR
THROAT BURN HIRTS NOTES
+ DENY YOU EVER KNEW HIM
IF YOU PUBLISH ANYTHING
WE WILL KILL WE ARE WATCH

“And I keep seeing foreigners – you know, guys with whattya-call-em, turbans! - on the streets, and they stare at me! And…the dogs, I hear them every night, growling and scraping at my door. One night, I swear they were inside my apartment!”

He covers his face with his hands and shivers for a moment.

“So I burned everything he’d given me. It was just the first few pages of an introduction, talking about Mormo, some Greek goddess or something, but she’s just a mask for ‘Nilototem’ or some such. I don’t know where he got it. Maybe those books he was always showing me about Yezadee and Mesopotamia and all. He got them from some bookstore here in Brooklyn, a Turkish place, over on Washington Avenue, I think.

“That’s it. That’s all I can tell you. I swear.”

Delores has no reason to doubt Grenville's word - the guy looks like he was about to have a heart attack. Delores wasn't sure she felt any better herself - death threats? Foreigners in turbans? If she hadn't seen what she'd seen in Hirt's department, she would have dismissed it out of hand.

"Look," she says, holding up the notes, "Do you mind if I take these with me? I mean, I don't know if we can find out who sent them, but... ..." She pauses, not sure what else to say.

"Yeah, yeah, you can take 'em. I'll be glad to see the end of this. I don't even care who those people are, I just want out. I been thinkin' I might go away for awhile until all this blows over, y'know? Philly, maybe. Or San Francisco. Don't tell anybody, okay?"

Assess Honesty confirms that Grenville seems to be telling the truth.

Assess Honesty one-point spend,[color=#FF8000]Grenville is grateful to be having this conversation, to get all his fears off his corpulent chest.[/color]

"Your secret's safe with me," she assures him, tucking the notes into her bag. She fishes out her notebook and jots down her name and desk number. "I shouldn't think you'll hear from Hirt, but if you do..." she tears off the sheet and puts its on his desk where he can see it.

She puts her notebook away and raises her hand in an almost apologetic goodbye. She makes her way out of the office and down the stairs, heading for the front door. She runs over Grenville has told her in her mind, knowing she needs to get this down on paper before she forgets all the details.

Lester Pierce is less than thrilled with your story on the centenarian, but he accepts it.

You've just sat down with your notes from Grenville when the phone rings. It's Dex. He and Langdon are on their way to the gallery. They'll swing by and pick you up out front.

OOC: