---
3
---
Mort had finally come back to his resident city of New York and was staying at a hotel. A fancy one, of course. But this morning Mort was not in his hotel room, he was out to meet one of his clients, Boris Balkan. Balkan was a very good client. A very... rich client.
Mort rode in a taxi-- As well as not owning a house, neither did he own a car. He had left it with Amy amongst his other things. His primary transport now had become taxis-- As they drove through the city, Mort saw the building that he was to go to. A sign above the entrance read "Balkan Press".
The driver stopped the taxi, Mort paid him and got out of the car.
Mort walked into the lobby of the building. He passed the security guard and gave him a friendly nod. Mort continued down the lobby until he stopped at a door. There was a sign mounted on an easel outside of the door. It read 'Demons and Medieval Literature, by Boris Balkan, Ph.D.'
He opened the door a crack and saw that Balkan was in the middle of a speech. Mort made a face, slowly shut the door and walked around to the back entrance. He snuck into the seminar and took his seat in one of the desks. All the while, Balkan droned his speech.
He scanned the room, noticing that Balkan's audience consisted mostly of middle-aged females. Out of the corner of his eye, one particular girl seemed to stand out. He looked at her. There was just something about her that was... different.
Mort tried to concentrate on Balkan's speech, but this was all a bit too boring for his liking, and he quickly dozed off in his chair.
When Balkan had finished his speech and the room began to clear out, he approached the sleeping Mort Corso, looked down at him tastelessly.
"I see you were stimulated my little talk, Mr. Corso," He said, cynically.
Mort stirred and then his eyes opened. He looked around the room that before had been filled and saw a few remaining members of the audience packing up to leave. He looked up at Balkan who was standing over him.
"Did I snore?" Mort asked.
"Nice of you to ask, but no. Not that I noticed. Shall we go?" Balkan asked, gesturing to the doorway.
Balkan and Mort made their way down the lobby.
"Don't you sleep nights?" Balkan asked.
"Like a baby," Mort replied.
"Hmm. I would've guessed that you're up half the night with your eyes peeled. You're one of those lean, hungry, restless types. A man who would stab their friends in the back...," Balkan explained.
They reached the end of the hall and came to an elevator. Balkan pushed the button on the wall and they waited for the elevator to come down. He turned back to Mort. Mort yawned at him.
"Not, I suspect, that you have many friends, do you, Mr. Corso? Your kind seldom does," Balkan continued.
"That makes two of us," Mort replied.
Balkan ignored Mort's comment.
Suddenly there was a ding and the elevator's doors opened. The two men stepped inside. Balkan approached the keypad and pressed one of the buttons. The elevator began to ascend.
Balkan continued, "You're right, of course. Your friendships don't concern me in the least. Our relations have always been strictly commercial, and that's the way I like it. The professional and the personal should be mutually exclusive."
Mort became annoyed as to where the conversation was headed. He needed to get off it. "Listen, I came here to do some business, not shoot the breeze. If you want to expound your personal philosophies, write another book."
"You don't like me, do you?" Balkan asked.
Mort shrugged. "I don't have to like you. You're a client, and you pay well."