suspicious. “If you pulled the switch to try and score, you are starting with the
wrong
person, let me tell you
that
up front. I am a black belt karate champion, and if I choose to move on you you’ll feel it all the way down to your balls. I’m—”
“Excuse me, miss,” Steven snapped.
“You
are the one standing next to the control panel. Why don’t you try pressing the emergency button instead of making speeches?”
“Miz.”
“Oh, so sorry, do forgive me. Miz. Do you think you could be kind enough to press the emergency button?”
“I can’t see the goddamn button.”
“Don’t you have a match or a cigarette lighter?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Huh! I should have guessed!” She zipped open her shoulder bag and groped for her Dunhill lighter. “Shit!” she exclaimed, remembering that she had left her lighter on Costa’s desk. “I don’t have it.”
“What?”
“My lighter. Are you
sure
you don’t have any matches?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“
Everyone
carries matches.”
“You don’t.”
“True.” She stamped her foot down sharply. “Goddammit, I
hate
the dark.”
Steven put his arms out in front of him and edged across the elevator. He touched Lucky and she responded with a swift kick, catching him on the leg.
“Ouch! Why did you do that?”
“I told you, fella. Start anything and you are in big trouble.”
“You really are a nut case,” he complained. “I am merely trying to find the emergency button.”
“Good for you.” She backed into a corner and squatted down on the floor. “Hurry up, will you? I hate the dark.”
“You said that once,” he replied coldly. His leg felt like a sledgehammer had hit it. He would probably be sporting a purple bruise any minute. He felt down the panel of buttons, pressing them all for good luck. Nothing happened.
“You find it?” she snapped.
“Doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Wonderful! That’s why they have emergency buttons so that when you’re in a goddamn emergency nothing FUCKING HAPPENS!”
“No need to scream.”
“Don’t tell
me
what to do.”
There was silence while they both considered the situation.
Lucky thought, just my luck. Trapped with some dumb jerk-off artist who doesn’t even smoke. Uptight schmuck!
Steven
thought, What a mouth! She sounds like she’s been sharing a room with the New York Yankees!
“So,” said Lucky, forcing her voice to remain calm, “what are we going to do?”
Good question. What
were
they going to do? “Sit tight,” replied Steven.
“Sit tight!” she screamed. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“Will you stop using that language?”
“Oh, sorry.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I’ll never say kidding again.”
Upstairs in his luxurious office, Costa Zennocotti fumbled in a cupboard for some candles. He lit them with Lucky’s cigarette lighter lying on his desk. Then he walked over to the window and looked out. The city was spread out before him, lit only by the moon. It was just like the time before in 1965—only then everyone had said it was a freak cut-out and couldn’t possibly happen again. Well, it had happened again, all right.
He swore softly under his breath as he thought about the forty-eight flights of stairs he would have to climb down. Maybe not. Maybe this time it would be a short blackout.
He sighed and returned to the cupboard where he had gotten the candles. His secretary, a pessimistic girl, kept a special shelf for just such emergencies. Apart from a stock of candles, there was a blanket, a portable battery-operated television, and six cans of orange juice. Clever girl. Tomorrow she would get a raise.
Costa took out the television and a can of orange juice. Then he loosened his tie and made himself comfortable on the couch.
The small set sprang into action as soon as he switched it on. Charlie’s Angels cavorted across the screen. Costa went to change channels, and as he did so it occurred to him that
wrong
person, let me tell you
that
up front. I am a black belt karate champion, and if I choose to move on you you’ll feel it all the way down to your balls. I’m—”
“Excuse me, miss,” Steven snapped.
“You
are the one standing next to the control panel. Why don’t you try pressing the emergency button instead of making speeches?”
“Miz.”
“Oh, so sorry, do forgive me. Miz. Do you think you could be kind enough to press the emergency button?”
“I can’t see the goddamn button.”
“Don’t you have a match or a cigarette lighter?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Huh! I should have guessed!” She zipped open her shoulder bag and groped for her Dunhill lighter. “Shit!” she exclaimed, remembering that she had left her lighter on Costa’s desk. “I don’t have it.”
“What?”
“My lighter. Are you
sure
you don’t have any matches?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“
Everyone
carries matches.”
“You don’t.”
“True.” She stamped her foot down sharply. “Goddammit, I
hate
the dark.”
Steven put his arms out in front of him and edged across the elevator. He touched Lucky and she responded with a swift kick, catching him on the leg.
“Ouch! Why did you do that?”
“I told you, fella. Start anything and you are in big trouble.”
“You really are a nut case,” he complained. “I am merely trying to find the emergency button.”
“Good for you.” She backed into a corner and squatted down on the floor. “Hurry up, will you? I hate the dark.”
“You said that once,” he replied coldly. His leg felt like a sledgehammer had hit it. He would probably be sporting a purple bruise any minute. He felt down the panel of buttons, pressing them all for good luck. Nothing happened.
“You find it?” she snapped.
“Doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Wonderful! That’s why they have emergency buttons so that when you’re in a goddamn emergency nothing FUCKING HAPPENS!”
“No need to scream.”
“Don’t tell
me
what to do.”
There was silence while they both considered the situation.
Lucky thought, just my luck. Trapped with some dumb jerk-off artist who doesn’t even smoke. Uptight schmuck!
Steven
thought, What a mouth! She sounds like she’s been sharing a room with the New York Yankees!
“So,” said Lucky, forcing her voice to remain calm, “what are we going to do?”
Good question. What
were
they going to do? “Sit tight,” replied Steven.
“Sit tight!” she screamed. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“Will you stop using that language?”
“Oh, sorry.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I’ll never say kidding again.”
Upstairs in his luxurious office, Costa Zennocotti fumbled in a cupboard for some candles. He lit them with Lucky’s cigarette lighter lying on his desk. Then he walked over to the window and looked out. The city was spread out before him, lit only by the moon. It was just like the time before in 1965—only then everyone had said it was a freak cut-out and couldn’t possibly happen again. Well, it had happened again, all right.
He swore softly under his breath as he thought about the forty-eight flights of stairs he would have to climb down. Maybe not. Maybe this time it would be a short blackout.
He sighed and returned to the cupboard where he had gotten the candles. His secretary, a pessimistic girl, kept a special shelf for just such emergencies. Apart from a stock of candles, there was a blanket, a portable battery-operated television, and six cans of orange juice. Clever girl. Tomorrow she would get a raise.
Costa took out the television and a can of orange juice. Then he loosened his tie and made himself comfortable on the couch.
The small set sprang into action as soon as he switched it on. Charlie’s Angels cavorted across the screen. Costa went to change channels, and as he did so it occurred to him that
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