I sat up. Yeats wasn’t next to me. I was alone. The clock read 11:37 a.m. The phone’s ringing became a high-pitched jackhammer ripping up pavement in my frontal lobe. I groped the floor, found my pants, found the phone and flipped it open. Gavin Fisk’s voice. “You forget you me and Cliff had an appointment?” “Personal situation,” I said, sitting up. My head throbbed and my stomach felt as if one of H.R. Giger’s abominations had crawled inside to devour its young. “Start without me, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” “Believe me I’d like to start without you. I’d like to be done by now. Only Szabo says he wants to talk to you before he’ll talk to me. That better not be the sound of you getting out of bed, Mike.” “Ten minutes,” I said. It took me twenty-two minutes to wash and call for a cab and make the trip to the station.
What do You think about Last Of The Independents (2014)?
