Killing Floor

He asked if I ever killed a man.

The elevator doors closed—30 floors to go. His face was patched with unshaven gray, and his tie hung loosely around his collar.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Cindy?” He tilted his head and steadied himself against the wall.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you're talking about,” I said, glancing at the long column of elevator buttons.

“You work with her.”

I thought I might know the man. “Cindy…”

“Brighton,” he finished, waving his hand impatiently.

“Oh, Cindy Brighton. You know her?”

“Yes.”

I glanced at the floor indicator light. The elevator seemed slow, and it was unlikely to stop for anyone else on the way up.

He followed my glance and smiled. He reached into his pocket.

“She’s your assistant,” he said.

Was this who I thought it was? “Yes, that's right.”

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open, revealing the reception area for my office. I saw Barbera sitting at the curved desk. I looked back. He held a large, open pocketknife in his right hand, his back to Barbera.

I froze.

He used it to ruffle my tie. He stared intently. The doors closed again, and he pressed the button at the top of the column.

Observation Deck.

“My question?” he asked, staring at the ground.

“Which one?”

“Have you ever killed a man?”

“No!” I said incredulously.

“Ah, but you have, Mr. Prescott. You killed him here.”

Another chime. The observation deck terrace was lit by the morning sun. A mild breeze carried the din from the street below. It was abandoned at this hour.

“This is where your office party was held, correct?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He gestured with the knife for me to walk. “Are you remembering?” he asked.

The office party was for a new account. It was eight o'clock, and the stars were already out. Stringed lights, white tablecloths, and an ice swan. Girls like Cindy and Barbera knew how to dress for clients. Cindy wore a black slip dress, low-cut. She escorted the new client. They picked up drinks at the bar and walked to the stone railing, looking out at the city.

I followed.

He gestured around. “This is where you ended a life.”

I joined Cindy and the client. “Mr. Prescott,” Cindy said when she saw me. “I was just showing Mr. Connely the skyline.” I asked the client if I could borrow Cindy for a moment. We walked to a secluded corner of the terrace. Her champagne flute was still full.

“Mr. Prescott, thank you for letting me help with this account. I’m having so much fun!”

She looked at me with those eyes. 

I leaned in and kissed her. She was surprised and pulled back a little. I persisted, and she finished the kiss.

“I think I should ease up on the champagne,” she said.

“You are her husband?” I asked.

He nodded. “Mike Brighton. She told me what happened. Said it was just too much champagne and that I shouldn’t worry.”

“Look, Mike, she was right. We both had too much.”

“That kiss killed me, Mr. Prescott.”

He ran and leapt over the railing.

I stood there. I did not hear any commotion from the street below.

I heard a chime behind me.

“Mr. Prescott!”

It was Cindy. She put her hand on my shoulder and looked at me with those eyes.