Rudely Interrupted

The clock radio let a pre-emptive metronome drone into the bedroom like drumbeats of a Nazareth solo, entering the crowned wooden headboard and Mr. Finlay's slumbering brain with the discomfort of early morning intrusion. In moments the bedside too would quiver with similarly forced vibrations, a cellular "br-r-ring" like the opening of a cash register and the growl of Tokyo plastic on a varnished tabletop. There was little question of this caller's identity, whether drunk beyond human courtesy or island-bound clientele marking these ungodly hours with margarita-glasses and surfboards.

"Y-hullo?" He'd answer; cool, composed and fumbling in unadjusted darkness for the mobile antenna. No whisper would be necessary for the vacant pillow at his elbow.
"Yes, I have his records. Did you send the transcript? The pay stubs?"
The window had been wedged several inches and kept with a wooden bar. Long luxurious drapes folded naturally at the sill and kept the chill from billowing in. Unusually hot and stale, the bedroom air was in sudden waking as unbearable as a summer nightmare.
"Alimony is at it's rope's end. She'll have a time convincing the judge of any payment at this point."
Perhaps he heard an owl outside. It was uncommon for owls to nest in the pines this late in the year—a coyote.
"My son was a screw-up too, works in drywalling of all things. With all honesty the grades show no ambition. It's for the best." He'd explain, lying through an open smile that seemed to fix itself magnetically in such professional conversations. He'd say this, yes, had the phone begun its rattling chime near the radio that quickly ceased its earlier telltale strum. It hadn't.
Finlay rubbed his eyes and landed with a labored sigh in a pair of leather slippers, casting a spiteful glance at the dormant phone and shuffling off down the hall. In the bathroom mirror the lawyer's jaw was stiff and grim. He needn't smile at his reflection, it didn't pay him well enough. With a splash of filtered water he watched himself wander back into the restless bedroom, both cheeks unwashed of their dark dimpled hollows.

The plush layers of Finlay's bedspread were without the expected comfort of warm feathered velvet, but like smothering flames of toil and sweat and torture, a suffocating reminder of hellish deeds unpaid. Despite the salt that slicked his chicken limbs like grease before the final fire, Finlay drew the quilt above his chest and burried his offensive cheschire grin in its expensive thread-count. What had he to fear with tomorrow than another bout of lies and filth—another sob-story to fill his pockets.