The Rain Plunder

"You took risks, Dennis, on folks you knew could not repay." Frank, the hardened retail keeper, aged and punched as his Bruichladdich whiskey.

The soured listener retorts, "It's incomprehensible why you're shaming me as if I composed disaster."

Dennis' desk faces him from the brick wall decor in the southeast direction. He pounders his forecast some yards from the 75 by 48-inch painted signage window. The loan broker had turned his sitting furniture from the street view. Few customers enter, and fewer qualify for a loan in this dead-end district. Seated, the structure holder has not removed his scorned expression. The single office tenant realized days ticked as hours, dispatching his enterprise finale. The realtor cuts Dennis a break; he is spared the last month's rent if he can vacate within two weeks for the incoming barber shop.

"The banks hate you. The urban folks need to be more indigent. They enjoy coffers for a quick fix and buck flee their agreements."

"Is our meeting over, Frank?"

"Be unlike your customers; keep your word. I'll be back after this place is cleaned and left empty like you."

Although he was consistent on his lease, he didn't expect kind, parting words from the man. The doomsayer left. Good. The last sore note for a long day, time to cut it and go home.

Dennis raises his arm, noticing his second-hand wool blazer fray fibers. The thin blanc string is partly unrevealed from its dress shirt cuff stitch. He fingers the end arrow of his forest-green tie; the color is sun-faded.

A downpour dumps as if poured from a massive bucket above the city skyline. Is Jehovah sending me a message? He nags himself. Yes, go to the broom closet and find the damaged umbrella. Dennis searches for it behind the mop, pail, brooms, and on top shelves. He now recalls discarding the thing. Turning to his desk, he notices a trail of wet footsteps directed to it and a dark-dressed young Indian man seated in the chair soaked.

"Good afternoon, sir. I need capital to further my industry."

"Sorry, son. My business is closing. I can't help you."

"Incorrect, you are legally obligated. No sign reads you stopped. I am a potential patron. You must serve me," he explains with a dove's calmness.

Dennis sits, his tired vision fixating upon his visitor. "Do you want a cloth to dry yourself, a hot cup of tea or coffee? I have those left to serve you."

The broker tilts his sight for a moment to open his drawer. A glance later, he witnesses the gentleman wholly parched, his drenched, wrinkled garb appearing dry-cleaned and pressed professionally. Dennis couldn't find the liquid footprints that trailed the entry. Yet the deluge streams are like a waterfall running into the cobblestone drainage.

"How did you evaporate all the slog?"

"I prefer water," he answers. "If you fill my needs, you will flourish."

Dennis locates dual glass cups in the broom closet, washes them in the utility sink, and brims them with tap water. He gives his guest a glass and reciprocates to his seat to study the clear fluid.

"The ale last night probably prolonged its effects. Ann warned me to halt drinking late before bed." Dennis rolls his cup between the pairs of his fingers. "Sorry, I don't have filtered water."

"It will do, thank you. Please inform me if you will start my loan application."

Dennis rubs his closed eyelids and his forehead. "You're still here."

The broker removes a clipboard with a three-page application from the side drawer. He slides a pen instrument under the clips, stands, and hands it to the customer. "Please complete it, take your time, it's detailed."

Dennis asks him as he sits, "What is your name?"

The young man extends the clipboard to him before Dennis rests his rear in the chair. "I am Wilbur Musa."

"Okay, something's wrong with the paperwork? I can explain line by line." Dennis flips through the application; it is complemented and signed. "Sorry, Mr. Musa. I thought this was blank."

"You didn't notice my signature?"

Astonished, Dennis repeats the examination page by page to conclude with the signed Wilbur A. Musa. "Are you playing tricks with me? I don't need the nonsense. I've been under a lot of strain."

"Dennis, I am a man of integrity like my great forefather. Please be at ease. You'll feel fine."

"Fellow, I need a day to check your references and conduct a background search. Please understand the investigation may affect your credit rating if the loan is denied." Dennis expounds.

Wilbur sinks his hand in his inside trenchcoat pocket, fisting items in his hand. He expands his fingers to the top desk center and drops two ancient coins - these spin before Dennis to bear inscribed faces of unrecognizable men and semi-circled twigs of leaves.

"You may save time by depositing the coins in the pay phone at the corner of Ball Street and Ervin Avenue. A reference will confirm my qualifications." Musa invites.

Dennis is aware that a vandalized, hallowed, rectangular metal container that long ago housed a functional payphone exists. The broker reckons he's stuck in a dream.

"I wish you a good evening. I will return tomorrow for an answer." Said Mr. Musa, smiling.

Where is Ann to wake him? He has not cried to her because Wilbur is unthreatening to be a nightmare.

He reopens his side drawer to find the rubber-banded stack of business cards. "Until then, let me give you one of my cards."

The guest chair is empty. The downpour has ceased. The door did not unfurl and shut with an audible. It is as if, in a split second after Dennis looked away, Musa vanished.

******

Under the streetlight near the vacated corner of Ball Street and Ervin Avenue, Dennis notices the restored Palco Telcom payphone. He feels for the coins in his pocket and slides them into the slot. Before him, the broker holds his notebook of references from Musa's application. Gingerly, he presses the buttons one after another. It rings.

"What else will happen in this Twilight Zone?" Dennis speaks.

"Greetings, this is the Carnegie residence. May I help you?" The receiver, a woman, responds.

"Hello, my name is Dennis Faber, loan officer of -"

" - Yes," the youthful woman sparks in volume, "Mr. Carnegie has been expecting your call. Please wait."

He attends to a more senior woman's voice in the background.

"Who is on the other end, Harriet?"

"Madam, he is the loan broker who will process Mr. Musa's funding."

"Do hurry and fetch my hubby, and after, escort my granddaughter to her bedroom with a story read to her."

"Yes, madam."

In minutes, he hears a man who takes his time to descend his stairwell. Dennis is sure this will be different from the one a famous music hall in New York is named after him. No way.

"Good evening, Mr. Faber. Andrew Carnegie is here. You can proceed; I confirm Wilbur Musa's acceptable standing in the community."

"You have the same name as the late 1900s steel industrialist?"

"Mr. Faber, I am surprised a man in your interchange does not recognize my tongue. There's only one Andrew Carnegie." The older man stressed conviction no one could doubt.

Dennis says I should go along with it. "Please pardon me, sir, excuse my inquiry. Thank you for your confirmation."

"Sleep well, Faber. Banknotes are restless creatures. We have whiplash em' in our command for good." Mr. Carnegie asks, "You comprehend, Dennis, what I prescribed?"

"The advice well received, Sir. I wish you and your family a favorable evening."

Dennis waits for the elderly billionaire to disconnect quietly. He stands stunned and manages to motion himself to his studio flat.

******

Slumped in his armchair before the medium screen monitor broadcasting financial news, Dennis conceals his countenance and fuzzes his front follicles. Annabeth, in her robed nightgown, approaches from behind with her iPad.

She says, "Sugar, I found this on Facebook. Listen."

The woman sits on his lap. They hear a static recording of a historic New Yorker delivering a public discourse. Ann pauses it.

"Is he the man you heard?"

"Sounds precisely like the Andrew on the coin phone," Dennis affirms. "Lord, help me. I must be going bonkers."

She busses his forehead. "I'm here to support you. You're under intense pressure with the business shutting down. We will weather the storm as usual."

Ann rises and caresses his shoulder and massages his hair.

"Accept the guy's advice; 'sleep well.'" Come to bed."

She leaves. Dennis leans and bows to analyze the rug fibers beneath his discounted shoes. He pushes himself to stand, powers off the monitor with the remote, and treks to the bedroom.

******

A green light beeps in a darkened room and proceeds by window sliders dividing the giant leath left and right. Behold the morning sun rises above the city's horizon. Its brilliant light beams through the vast tinted windows and radiates on the waking man under satin sheets. Dennis peaks alert and sits up in bed. How did our cramped bedroom become a luxurious haven overnight?

He surges to alert Ann. She is not there. Dennis slides the double doors to view a room-sized closet; his two dozen suits hang across from Ann's three dozen dresses. The frayed fiber wool flawed with wee moth holes is missing, and an exemplary constructed display of shiny soles replaced his limited collection of plastic dress shoes.

After dressing, Dennis encounters the young maid in the loft's kitchen while seeking Ann. The name label on her uniform reads, 'Harriet.'

"Mr. Faber, good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"I don't know if I'm asleep," he responds. "Where is my wife?"

She grins and giggles, "Sir, you silly man. She visited her hometown not long ago. You look so sharp and awesome. Breakfast today?"

"I will have it on the commute."

******

If an elevator has this many floors, it's probably a skyscraper, Dennis figures. Other occupants lessened the uncertainty, each rembling elevated-income Park Avenue residents. Their leased small canines are seen as pet parlor clients.

"Mr. Faber, I read about Frank Jiopean's conviction. I'm sure you're happy about the outcome." inquired a prep school teen.

"Ah, what?"

Her father speaks, "Excuse my daughter. She should mind the textbooks more than the news."

"It's okay, I was like her," Dennis says, and he departs the elevator on the first floor.

Patrons and staff express their congratulations as he passes the lobby center. He wonders why he thanks them.

He nears the entry and glimpses via the stylized windows flocks of reporters and video photographers who anticipate his exit.

"They are eager, sir, and we're prepared," the concierge sides him. "Please follow me. Your driver is close to the trucking docks."

"Can you brief me on what the event is?" Faber is baffled.

The concierge chuckles, "Sir, you're in the right hands. A staff will bring your briefcase to you. Harriet said you left without it."

******

Debbie, a lovely African-American woman, strolls in private conversation with Dennis. They progress down a corridor of suites.

"It's the second time you relate a dream about being a down-and-out loan officer." She recites, "This time, you had a conversation with Andrew Carnegie without recalling yesterday you heard Jiopean's verdict in court. That's wild."

"I understand you're my vice-president, but do not recall the first dream and sending Ann away. I'm crazy mad, Deb." Dennis exerts.

"It isn't looney we can seize Frank's slum dwellings and restore them for disadvantaged New Yorkers. Den, you ought to celebrate a bit more."

"The world's best ale won't snap me out of this funk."

"Believe me, you're in the real life. Carnegie's saturated in the earth's soil." Debbie assures him, "Take a few days off, boss, re-chill yourself. Make Ann happy. We'll manage."

They linger in front of Dennis' office's double doors.

"I'll contact Ann and join her at her parents' estate."

"You are the man." She confirms.

The receptionist informs Faber a letter is on his desk. He sits down and recognizes the ancient two coin images embedded in the wax seal. The unaddressed envelope glistens like translucent teal crystals. Dennis unseals it, and the letter reads:

"Did I not assure, 'If you fill my needs, you will flourish.'" Signed, Wilbur A. Musa, the IV.

- End -