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Dave ST

IC: Casey - "Hear I Am"

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The shop had been open for only an hour or so and Casey had been up to her eyeballs in customers. The line was practically out into the street, which sucked because it was cold and wet outside. A few she recognized. The cute intern picking up the order for the morning at the law firm she used to work at (every morning that kinda stung a bit), the librarian girl who came through every morning like clockwork, and the grizzled, brooding guy who came in and got his black, every morning. He was always a charmer.

“$43.71,” Casey asked the intern. She was blonde and perky. Stacked in all the right places and it was pretty obvious why she was hired. After small talk, it was even more obvious why she was getting the coffee and not studying law. She paid and took her couple of coffee totes with her and headed out. No sooner did the cute blonde sway her way to the door a cup slammed on onto the counter.

“How hard is it to make a chai tea latte?” This bitch again. Every damn day... every damn day. Casey was as nice as a person could be, but if there was on evil thought she entertained it was this woman... this fucking woman right here. Mrs. Guthrie. The surliest, meanest, and most clueless old hag on the planet. She was pretty sure the woman drank the brew to make herself feel better for the twenty thousand Twinkies she was going to shovel into her poorly glossed grinder she a mouth, later. “I asked for honey. Honey. You know what honey is? It's the golden little liquid behind you dear, that says HONEY! I'm not paying for this.”

The radio played softly behind her as she chewed back a witty retort. "Hey folks. Deb here, and you're listening to Dawn of the Deb, the only radio show that's got your back, all day, every day. Looks like Casey is having a rough one out there this morning. This one's for you sweetie. Coffee Time, by Natalie Cole. Chin up, honey."

Her day was just starting... and it looked like it was going to be a long one.

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Finally the morning rush was over and Janny and Petra were watching the front while she did some office work. Barb, Barbara Cullen, had called and asked Casey to take care of things today. Henry, Barbs husband was sick and she wanted to stay home and tend to him. Casey told her to just take care of Henry that she had the shop under control. Which was about as far from the truth as could be and still not be a lie. Oh sure she had the shop under control at the moment but that was just the shiny front that world saw.  In the office the rotten truth was all laid bare before her.

The Full Pot was running on empty.

Barb and Henry had bought the place back in the early nineteen seventies. They had been in their twenties just out of collage and madly in love. They had met at the coffee shop while at university and both of them had worked there, it was as much a part of their romance as anything else and when the owner passed suddenly they had stepped in and taken it over as an act of love in a dirty dark world. The shop had thrived for many years it was the quintessential coffee shop, right down to the lunch counter with the fresh pies in the glass case and a blue plate special to die for. Stepping inot the Full Pot Coffee Shop was like walking into a time-warp right back to the late fifties or early sixties. But as with all things, time caught up.

By the nineties the Starbucks phenomena was in full swing and Barb and Henry were feeling the pinch. Serving breakfast and lunch and pot after pot of Folgers just wasn't cutting it so they renovated and modernized.

And never recovered. They couldn't compete with Starbucks they just didn't have the money or the branding. The changes alienated a great many of their long time customers and new ones just didn't replace them. By the mid 2000s they were struggling just barely keeping things afloat. That's when Casey had started working here part time when she was in school. She fell in love with the Cullens they sort of became the grand parents she never had. And the stories of the shops heyday in the seventies were enchanting.

When she had lost her legal firm job, the Cullen's had taken her back and in return she had made it her priority to make the Full Pot successful again. So here she was sitting in the office looking at the bills. She had deliveries coming today and payroll at the end of the week. And the books showed less than half what was going to be needed even if they did 100% business for the remainder of the week.

"What  the fuck am I going to do..." She muttered out loud. It wasn't her responsibility but she had to do something.

She had to save The Full Pot.

Somehow.

 

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"No!  No!  You're not listening to me!"  A gentleman customer shouted on his phone at some one, somewhere...  "I told you my date of birth.  It's April third, nineteen seventy one.  Four, three, seven, one.  Yes.  No!  That's not at all why I'm calling... Jesus, gimme someone who speaks English please.  I don't believe for a second your name is 'Tom' with a Pakistani accent that damn thick.  C'mon buddy, who are you trying to fool?"

Casey couldn't help but smirk at the conversation she was over hearing outside the office.  It was a brief moment of levity in the ocean of hopelessness she had in front of her when her sorrowful distracted stare was interrupted as Petra whipped around the doorway, catching and holding herself by one hand.  She swayed too and from gripping the frame.  "Hey, uh, Casey... there's a dude here to see you.  Said he wanted to talk to the owners... but, uh, well, y'know.  Looks kinda... bankerish."

Great, she thought.

Petra pointed him out, but it didn't seem necessary.  The guy was like six-two and had shoulders like he played for the NFL.  If this guy was a banker, he was the guy the bank sent to make sure you weren't late on payments.  He was handsome and his long black hair was in a loose ponytail at his shoulders to keep it out of his eyes.  Petra was right though, the guy looked like a business man of some sort.  Casey could spot a five thousand dollar suit when she saw one.

As she approached he noticed her and smiled, extending his hand.  "Hello, I'm Horatio Mourne, with the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  You must be, Casey.  Casey Mason, yes?"

She raised an eyebrow.  "I'd like to believe that was a lucky guess."

He chuckled, letting go of her hand.  "No, no.  One of your customers, a grizzled guy, black coffee, he provided me with a," he paused, searching for the proper phrase as she noticed him pass a casual glance across her chest.  "Rather simplified description, but spot on, nonetheless.  Is there someplace we can talk?"

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"Well Mr... Mourne, was it? Do you mind showing me some ID?"  He might be handsome, thought Casey, but this is very unusual. She glanced over at Petra who was watching them while the tall man pulled a slim leather wallet from his coat pocket and extracted what looked like an authentic Metropolitan Museum of Art Id card, complete with picture and employee numbers.

Casey held the card and studied it, not that she would be able to tell if it were real or not, but if it was fake ... well that was just too much trouble to go through to fool her. Horatio Mourne, now that was not a name you saw every day, she glanced at him standing there patiently, what kind of parents name their kid Horatio in this day and age. She handed the card back to him and watched as he slipped back into the wallet and the wallet disappear back into the jacket. And how does someone named Horatio end up looking like him.

"Alright Mr. Mourne, we can talk in the office. Right this way." Casey said motioning him past her toward the office. As she followed him she gave a nod at Petra sending the girl back to work.

Hopefully.

 

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Casey was dreading the discussion in the office.  She felt like she was in trouble back in high school or something, and this was her office!  Speaking of high school, she wondered how her cousin was doing.  Gods only knew what kind of trouble she was getting into down in the Salem public school system.  She stepped into the office and paused, completely at a loss for words.  When she had left just a moment ago she had left behind a room filled with the very essence of chaos.  Papers were strewn all over, bills were haphazardly set about all over, payroll was scattered in between loose notes and reminders on Post-Its.  It was a shambles.

Not any more.

The desk was bare of any mess.  It was a simple metal affair, old (probably as old as the shop) stained and chipped in a few places, yet now here it was... the surface cleaned and polished, all the typical assortments of items (pencils, pens, name plate, calendar) all perfectly placed and in their proper holders or placements.  Files were all sorted and closed tightly within the few filing cabinets they had, bills were organized and sorted by date and the pay roll book, which was out on the desk (she'd been arguing with them to get a computer for the longest time, but they wouldn't budge) open and balanced showing they had forty three dollars and seventy one cents more than they thought they did!  And... was that Lycol and air freshener she smelled?

"Wow," Mr. Mourne snapped her from her confusion.  "Impressive.  You should see my office, it's a mess.  I've things everywhere, some days I can barely keep up."  He entered and didn't seem to notice that Casey looked like she had just walked into a waking dream.  He took a seat and crossed his legs, setting his briefcase on his knee to balance.  Apparently he felt like he'd need it here very soon.  "So, brass tacks of it Miss Mason, as Ive said, I'm with the MMA, and I've come on behalf of them to field you an offer.  In a few weeks I've a large exhibit that were hosting.  Forty one of New York's finest and most talented undiscovered artists, the catch is I'll have seventy one of the cities richest and most affluent citizens there as well, and I'd like to make an impression.  We're expecting a turn out of about three hundred people. I figured since I was headlining New York artists, why not headline New York businesses as well.  Have the catering done by local businesses, like yours."

He reached into his briefcase and after a few moments produced an outline of what he was proposing.  "That's the written meat and potatoes of it, it is a paying gig and since we're funded by the city and donations, it's usually a pretty above average rate," he smirked a bit devilishly.  "I think it would be an amazing way for your shop to and business to get out there to more people, and with it being a news worthy event, some great publicity for the coffee shop business.  I am on a bit of a time table, since all of this just got thrown on my desk about a day ago, so I do apologize if things are short notice.  I've had a ton of rejections this morning, so I understand if it'll prove difficult to arrange something in less than a week and coordinate with the MMA in only a couple more after that, but I do hope you'll give it some consideration.  Now, have you any questions for me?"

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Casey looked up from the desktop, she had a blank look on her face, her mind was in turmoil at odds with the orderly appearance of the room which should have been dressed in chaos. She didn't remember sitting down but obviously she had. She looked at Mr Mourne, then back at the desk and the office in general. She had only been outside for a minute not enough time for one of the other girls to straighten the mess that had been the office. Assuming any of them would have tried. The ledger was still open in front of her the  entry for forty three dollars and seventy one cents laughing at her.

That was a strange thought, how could a number laugh at her?

Mr Mourne gave a soft cough which snapped Casey's attention back to the really good looking guy sitting across the desk, at his broad shoulders and the long hair.

"Um...yeah." She grabbed the proposal with one hand and flipped the ledger closed. "Um...yeah," she repeated glancing at the paper but not really seeing it, "Let me look this over, um. I'm sorry I'm just a little distracted. Gimme a couple of hours to look this over and see what we can do to help you out. I agree it would be a boon for us, but at the same time I don't want to over extend.

If you will give me a number where I can reach you?" She took a pen ready to jot the number down.

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“Most certainly,” Mr. Mourne said with a smile as he opened his car holder and produced a business card for her. “My office number is on there, you'll most likely reach my assistant. Actually, here,” he popped off the cap of his pen and held it tightly in his lips as he scrawled on the back of the card.

“That's my cell, call or text, doesn't matter. It'll be faster than waiting for my assistant to get me the message.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Mason.” After the obligatory hand shake and departing smiles Mr. Mourne was gone from the shop and Casey as left to leaf through the proposal.

By her estimation, after all was said and done, her shop stood to profit by nearly twelve grand for a single evening and that was certainly something the business could use. Undoubtedly there was some excitement but also that pang of apprehension that went along with the possibility of something going wrong.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Casey sat down to review the information... not able to get the issue with the office out of her head. Who cleaned it? How did it get cleaned? Was it ever actually messy...?

“Aaaand, I'm back, listeners. Deb here again, and for all those out there, wheeling and dealing today, here's one for you. Taking you back to 93' with a little Wu-Tang, C.R.E.A.M..” What the hell kind of radio station in New York played this wide variety of music? One second it was rock, then hip-hop, then pop... Casey waved it out of her mind as she went back to work.

Spoiler

Move your day forward from here. Either doing more at the Full Pot or finishing up the day and heading (or arriving) at home.

 

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Casey plopped down onto her small sofa and after kicking off her shoes rested her feet on the over burdened coffee table.  The apartment was small and cheap, the furniture cheaper. The aforementioned coffee table was covered with old magazines and papers, mostly bills, but a few were legal papers from her law firm, former law firm (and yes she knew she could get in trouble if they knew she had kept them), that she just couldn't bring herself to toss out.

She closed her eyes for about two seconds. Then they opened and she sprang to her feet and started pacing. Today had been weird. First the radio playing songs that were weirdly autobiographical. Casey had changed the station twice but within a half hour the radio was back on the same weird station each time, with the DJ that never seemed to go home. Or shut up for that matter. Between the songs she was always talking and god if it hadn't seemed at times like she had been talking right to Casey. But none of the other crew would admit that they had changed the station and none of them admitted to cleaning out the office. And she knew that the hadn't. For one thing she had only been out of the office for a few minuts which was not enough time for anyone to have done that amount of work. And the other thing was, well none of them would have done anything like that unless they had been told to.Her kids had no initiative.

She stopped in mid pace. "Shit!" she had forgotten to call Mourne. She went to the little table by the door where she set her purse down and retrieved the card he had given her.

Horatio Mourne.

She thought about that name and the man she had met wearing that name. The physique that was displayed by the way his expensive suit had been cut, that long hair and...."Jesus Christ, I'm not a fucking teenager." She looked at the numbers on the back then turned the card and looked at the name embossed on the front. Horation Mourne. It was an English name and unusual in this day and age outside of CSI Miami and that movie with Gregory Peck from the last century. The last name Mourne, was Celtic. She had looked them up on google. It was habit.

The job was just too good to pass up but for some reason she hadn't called while she had been at the coffee shop. She had made up her mind by the time lunch had been over and had had every opportunity to call but she hadn't instead she had looked up the guys name on google, checked him out on LinkedIn and basically pry'd into his life like some crazy lawyer looking to build a case.

And she kept imagining that long black hair let loose from that pony tail, flowing over those shoulders...

She sat back down and was thumbing the phone number before that thought had even left her mind.

 

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She almost dropped her phone as the thunder of someone pounding on it startled her back into the 'now'.  The fist banging on her door didn't let up, "Casey!  Casey!  Open the door!"

It was Horatio, she recognized his voice.  He sounded scared, panicked even.  "Casey!  Please, God be in there... Casey answer the door, please!"

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Casey stared at the door and then the phone, seconds lost, then she stood and ran to the door. Old habits die hard and she looked through the peephole at the distorted face of Horatio Mourn.

She threw back the dead bolt and yanked the door open just as he was knocking again, throwing him off balance.

"Horatio, Mr Mourn, what is it? Are you alright?" She stared at him with concern.

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Mr. Mourne was a wreck.  He was sweating, his once tightly bound hair was now in a ragged pony tail with rogue hairs falling in sweaty strands.  His breathing was ragged he looked like he'd run a marathon in a two thousand dollar suit.

"Casey," he breathed heavily.  "Oh, thank God.  W-we need to go, now.  I don't have time to explain... please, you have to trust me."

He reached in suddenly and grabbed her writs, attempting to pull her from the apartment.

[Alertness] - The hallway seems... darker than usual.  Like all the lights have been dimmed.

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Casey pulls back hard trying to get out of Mr Mourn's grasp. "Hey Let go of me!"

She twists her arms and then kicks at his legs. "What the fuck do you think your doing! Are you on something?"

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