“N-no,” Tori emitted, shaking her head. “It’s not—”
“You’re not into those overdramatic, gobbledygook time wasters, are you, Tori? Please tell me you have a purpose in mind…such as reading to achieve a level of knowledge. You know…learn something.”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am trying to learn something,” Tori said, her voice hesitant. “And it’s nothing like those genres you mentioned at all.”
“Well, what the heck is it, then?”
“It’s p-post…post-apocalyptic fiction.”
“Come again? Post-a-what?”
“Post-apocalyptic fiction,” Tori repeated timidly. “I found a whole section of books like this one over in the Spanier Library. I was kind of surprised to find them there.”
“And why was that?”
“Well, this place…I mean the plantation, rather, and all the buildings within used to be a military boarding school. Spanier wasn’t…I mean, hadn’t been a public library. Finding books like this here, well, it just wasn’t expected.”
Beatrice fanned through several pages, her tedium well on display. “Looks and stinks like any old book to me. What lies within that has you so riveted? Somethin’ second to none?”
With a tilted head, Tori shrugged and nodded. “Not really. I just find it interesting.”
“Um-hmm…and what’s it about, Tori? And don’t bore me to tears with a synopsis. Just give me a little plot rundown, shy of the CliffsNotes.”
“Um, well, I guess…in so many words, it’s about the end of the world.”
Beatrice dispatched a blistering frown.
“Eh…I mean, the author’s take on it, anyway,” Tori went on tensely. “It’s probably better to say the end of the world as we know it…or knew it. This one portrays a clan fighting for survival after a pandemic wipes out ninety percent of Earth’s population.”
“Really, now? And that scenario puts you under a spell, somehow?”
“Yes, ma’am, it does, I suppose. But I really like the ones depicting solar flares or EMPs…for obvious reasons. They were written as fiction, and now probably shouldn’t be classified like that anymore.”
Beatrice huffed. “Just as I suspected. Hogwash…a complete and total squandering of precious time.” She snapped the book closed and tossed it to the desk. “Tori dear, I’m not usually this bluff, but I feel now that I must be with you. You are here for no other reason than to work, and when you are in this office, you are to be working. The only items you should ever be caught readin’ at work are to be therefore work related. If perusing fictitious stories a collection of nobody authors conjured up in times past tickles your fancy, that’s fine, but peruse them elsewhere and on your own time. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Tori frowned and looked away. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
“Now, if it’s a lack of to-dos that’s plaguing you,” Beatrice went on, “I’m certain we can find ways to change that, such as supplementing or even fully augmenting your workload. There are oodles of things I can think of, both here and down the road at Shawshank…indoors or out where it’s a trifle cooler. Just say the word and I’ll make somethin’ happen for you. Copy?”
Tori nodded again, sending a glance to the floor with zipped lips.
“Good girl.” Beatrice finished her vilification with a pat on Tori’s head.
Seated before his desk, Doug Bronson looked away from his screen as Beatrice entered and hurled the door closed. He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, ogling the way her legs swayed with each step. “Yes, please, come in. And good morning. Make yourself at home; take a load off,” he jested. “And would you care to explain just what in the name of God took you so long?”
“Pardon?”
“Pardon, my ass. You said twenty minutes. That was damn near two hours ago.”
“Sorry, not sorry,” Beatrice cooed. “Duty does call. I had a few stops to make before making my way here. Guess it took a little longer than forecasted.”
Bronson scanned her hands, finding nothing aside from a manila folder of contents that she neatly placed on her lap beneath them. “I guess it’s safe to assume you didn’t stop for coffee and doughnuts.”
“Hardly. So if you’re hankerin’ for them, you’re shit out of luck.” Beatrice raised a brow. “Oh, wait…you know somethin’? I’d wager your clumsy, no-count assistant might get them for you if you asked her. And as luck would have it, she’s once again plum out of things to do. You should query her…you know damn well miss thang would do anything for you if invited.”
Doug sighed. He poured a snifter of brandy, his second of the day so far, refraining from rolling his eyes. “Must you always be so insensitive?”
Taking a long drag from her cigarette, Beatrice allowed a crafty smile to slither across her face. “Why, whatever do you mean, Doug?”
“I’m talking about this infantile cold war between you and Tori. It’s been the same scenario almost every morning for months going; you, relentlessly going out of your way to be callous to her without cause. The poor girl is terrified of you.”
“Poor girl? Doug, please,” Beatrice snapped. “Spare me. If I’m callous, it’s for good reason. And if little miss dainty-pants is terrified of me, I can’t say I blame her. That four-eyed, sputtering bookworm is a waste of space, and if she did her damn job every so often, I wouldn’t have a single gripe with her. As it stands, this misconduct she’s been subscribin’ to lately makes me want to jerk a knot in her tail.”
Doug took a sip from his snifter and licked the sweetness from his lips. “Tori doesn’t sputter. And what misconduct?”
“This debate is an errant misuse of time. Considering recent events, I deem there are far more emergent matters to chew over. Let’s change the subject for now, shall we?”
Bronson exhaled an irritated sigh. “Right, of course. I’ve…skimmed through some of the reports, haven’t had time to go over everything, but what I’ve seen so far doesn’t look or sound promising.”
“Have you bothered takin’ a gander at the body-worn video yet?”
“No, not yet, but I—”
“No point in fussing over it, then.” Beatrice slid a glass ashtray near
