Apartment 14254, early, Mr Vision goes to work.
The window faced east and light streamed through the stained glass panels as the sun rose. The materials for the window had been imported at great cost. Sections of glass from all the great cathedrals, made with love and devotion. A pelican pierced her own breast, dropping blood to feed her children, the Lamb, without reproach, bowed its head for sacrifice. Both were there, if you knew where to look. Light streamed through, a chaos of red and gold and blue, spattering the luxurious room with colour.
Jon ignored it, having other things on his mind.
He infinitely preferred the view from the window that faced south. Below him the City spread in a neat grid pattern, teaming with fragile, delicate toothsome life. There was the asphalt strip of the freeway - if he thought about it he could smell the exhaust, hear the squeal of brakes, the grind of metal - and there was the abbatoir. The hospital was another favorite - so much hope and pain and anguish. He smiled and the light died. Clouds rolled in to cover the sun and he drew his attention inwards to the Manor, his ‘home’.
Things had been a little - dull lately. Time to liven it up.
6 am, on the eleventh floor, Mrs Calcagno paused in putting a shirt in the wash and peered suspiciously at a fleck of color on the cuff. Lipstick - bright red. Not her color at all. “You don’t have to take this.” The thought was amazingly clear, almost as though a tiny voice had spoken in her mind. “No, I fucking well don’t,” she agreed.
6.20, on the sixth floor, Mr Kelso stepped into the elevator to go up for his morning swim and greeted Mrs Muncie who was bound on the same errand. As they chatted he eyed her back view in the mirror, long lovely legs, ass as round as a peach. “And tight - oh you betcha.” Mr Kelso smiled.
6.30, in the lobby the security boys were handing over shifts. Orsini was stifling a yawn as he made his report to the Chief, who looked equally tired. Baker eased his belt around his belly. He just looked bored. "Fancy a little excitement, boys?" Their heads came up at that and Orsini paled.
Jon grinned.
6.40, the coffee shop was busy even at this hour. Night workers were grabbing a bite before bed. Day workers were getting breakfast. Mr Calcagno took a final sip of his espresso to wash down the last bite of his bagel - Mrs Calcagno couldn’t cook for shit, stupid bitch - and stooped to tuck his mail into his briefcase. He checked his watch as he stood - and pain ripped through his chest.
Jon’s grin broadened as his organisation swung into action. The barista screamed for security. They fended off the tenants’ efforts to help or gawk or relish the drama. Abrams rang 911. The dispatcher said, “Awww shit, not that place again.” They had a special code for the Manor now. Jon loved that. It showed people really cared.
Twenty minutes and it was all over. Ambulance and police were gone, maintenance were mopping the floor in the Mocha, respectfully grave though Jon made a private bet they’d be out by the dumpsters sharing a spliff before the floor was dry. The Mocha barista glumly offered free coffee to everyone who had been there. “Yes, a tragic loss,” she agreed.
By then Jon was in his chair at his desk, cigar between his teeth and in a very good mood. He thumbed the button for the office and said, “Mary, hun, bring in the application list. We’ve got another vacancy.”