Chapter 4 - The Old Man’s Pocket
Outside, through the distortion of the rain-streaked glass, Julian watched as the old man stood on the sidewalk for a brief moment, wiping the water from his eyes with his sleeve, before shuffling away into the gray Chicago downpour.
A sick, hollow feeling settled in Julian’s chest. He picked up his folded blazer and his discarded name tag, slipping them into his arms. The warmth of the showroom suddenly felt claustrophobic, coated in the smug, sanitized hypocrisy of people who measured human worth entirely by the price tag on a bumper sticker.
"Good riddance," Arthur muttered, straightening his tie as he walked back toward a wealthy couple looking at a silver convertible. "Now, where were we, Mr. and Mrs. Van Der Bilt? Let’s talk about the custom leather interior options."
Julian turned toward the exit, preparing to walk out into the freezing storm and face a terrifyingly uncertain future. He had no job, no savings, and rent due in less than a week. But as he reached for the brass handle of the front door, a sharp, buzzing sound cut through the ambient chatter of the showroom.
It wasn't a phone alarm. It was the heavy, direct-line rotary phone sitting on the central security and reception console—a phone that rarely rang unless it was corporate headquarters in Detroit or the owner of Apex Motors himself calling down from the private penthouse suite on the seventieth floor.
Arthur Pendelton stopped mid-sentence, frowning. He excused himself from the Van Der Bilts and hurried over to the console, lifting the heavy black receiver with a practiced, servile smile.
"Apex Motors, flagship showroom, Arthur Pendelton speaking," Arthur purred into the mouthpiece.
Julian paused, his hand still on the door handle, watching out of the corner of his eye.
For a second, Arthur’s smile remained firmly in place. Then, color began to drain rapidly from his cheeks. The smug, confident posture vanished instantly, replaced by a rigid, trembling stiffness. Arthur’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror as he listened to whatever voice was barking through the line.
"Y-Yes, sir... I... I understand, Mr. Sterling—" Arthur stammered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak. "I didn't realize—we had no idea—"
A harsh, clipped interruption cut him off. Arthur stood frozen, sweat instantly beading across his forehead, his mouth hanging open like a landed fish.
Slowly, painfully, Arthur lowered the heavy black receiver back onto its cradle, his hand shaking so violently he nearly knocked the telephone off the mahogany desk.
May you like
The entire showroom had gone quiet again, sensing the sudden, seismic shift in the atmosphere. Mr. and Mrs. Van Der Bilt stared at the manager in confusion.
Arthur turned around. His face was the color of wet ash. He looked across the vast expanse of the showroom, his eyes bypassing the wealthy clients, bypassing the gleaming supercars, and landing directly on Julian Vance standing by the door.
