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21
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Mort decided to take a walk out in some woods located nearby his hotel. So many strange things were happening lately and he really needed to clear his head.
Mort walked down the muddy path in the woods holding a walking stick. He slapped a pesky mosquito attacking his neck, then continued to walk, the bottoms of his pants becoming soaked with mud.
He came to a clearing and stopped suddenly, seeing something odd. There, in the middle of the clearing in the woods, a car was parked. Mort looked at the car confusedly, wondering who's it was and why it was there. Then, his questions were answered.
"You read it?" 'John Shooter' asked, leaning on the car that probably was his.
"I did," Mort replied.
"I imagine you got my little encryption, didn't you?" Shooter asked.
"Oh, I certainly did," Mort replied. He approached Shooter and his car. "Why did you write it?" He asked.
"I thought you'd ask that," Shooter said, sitting down on the hood of his car.
"Well, sure. That's the whole point isn't it? I don't know how you do, but you seem to know a hell of a lot more than I do about the little job I'm on," Mort said.
"I suppose I do. I suppose that's why I came all the way up here from Mississippi."
Mort opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by a passing car on the nearby road that was honking at them. Mort recognized the man in the car as Tom Greenleaf, an old neighbor of his and Amy's when they lived together up in Riverdale. Mort waved at the passing Tom Greenleaf and turned back to Shooter to continue their conversation. But, when Mort looked to Shooter, he was surprised to see the man give Tom a salute as well. Which was completely and utterly strange. Mort's life was slowly making less and less sense with each minute that passed.
"I wrote it because I knew it would put you on the right track to your researchin' of them books," Shooter said. "But how'd you get it? It's what I really want to know. How in the hell did a big money-grabbin' asshole like you get down to a little shitsplat town in Mississippi and steal my goddamn copy of 'The Nine Gates'?"
Holy Hell. The man was at it again. Enough already with the 'You stole my story' shit. I didn't lay a hand on this guy's god damn fucking book!
"Drop it," Mort said, simply. Although inside, he was burning with anger. Though, Mort's words seemed to rile up 'John Shooter' just as much as Mort was riled up himself.
"Drop it? Drop it? What in the hell do you mean, Drop it?" Shooter demanded.
"The copy of 'The Nine Gates' that you're accusing me of stealing from you isn't even mine. It belongs to a client of mine. A Mr. Boris Balkan. So, nice try, Mr. Shooter, but if anybody's stolen anything from you, it's him," Mort explained, feeling that Shooter would now understand everything and just leave him alone for once.
But once again, 'John Shooter' surprised Mort Corso by completely acting the opposite of Mort's expectations. "You lie!" He yelled, pinning Mort against the car with great force. So great a force that Mort could feel his arms bruising on impact.
Mort quickly threw the crazy man off of himself. "No I don't!" He yelled back.
"Prove it!" Shooter yelled.
"I don't have to prove a thing to you. Go find out for yourself. Contact my client. He can probably account for the whereabouts of your 'missing book'."
"And how am I supposed to do that?" Shooter asked.
"That's not my problem."
"How about I drive down to your house in Riverdale New York and ask your wife Amy about it?" Shooter asked.
Mort fell into a state of complete shock, and it was visible on his face. This guy was totally creeping him out now. "H-How did you know that?" Mort stammered.
"Never mind that. It doesn't matter. Now listen, I'll give you three days to make up your mind. You go fetch my book for me and I'll be back," He said and pulled a pack of cigarettes and a light out from his pocket. He took one of the cigarettes and lit it, then replaced the items back into his pocket.
Ah, a smoker too, Mort thought. At least they had one thing in common now.
"Look, Mr. Shooter. I don't know where you got this crazy idea, bu--"
"Maybe my name's not Shooter. Maybe it's something else," Shooter said, a grin spreading over his face and he suddenly appeared very sly looking.
Finally, Mort was getting somewhere. "I see. What's your real name?" He asked.
"I didn't say it wasn't my name. I only said maybe. It doesn't matter anyway."
Mort became annoyed by the crazy man. He wanted him out. Out of his life. For good.
"If I give it to you, will you go back to wherever you came from and leave me alone?" Mort asked.
Shooter took a drag on his cigarette and nodded. "Three days," Shooter repeated, and got back into his car. The car pulled out of the clearing and back onto the nearby road.
Mort stood still and silent, watching as Shooter drove away.