Their host finishes his story.
Suddenly there was a siren, screeching tires and a scuffling from the street outside. Carly and the two men fell silent as a loudspeaker blared, "Drop your weapon and lie down on the sidewalk! Arms extended and hands open!"
"Oh, shit," came a man's voice. "It's just a radio!" he pleaded. "Look, I–"
There was a single gunshot and a second later someone in the darkened room started moving quickly. They heard two doors open and slam closed in quick succession.
"Damn young fool," their host muttered. "Guns don't solve anything. The entire history of–"
"Guns solve everything," the tall man rumbled in a loud whisper, and the rest of his comment was drowned out by a sudden burst of gunfire from outside. The tall man tried to complete his thought a couple of more times, but each time he was drowned out by more shooting. He finally gave up and Carly thought she felt him chuckle. She was still trying to absorb the fact that there had been a fourth person in the room with them. She wondered if there were any more.
The tall man went totally still as the din outside finally died down. She felt him lean forward. "Who was that, old man?" he demanded in a low voice. "The person who ran out of here."
Their host sighed. "That's a long story," he said wearily. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, whoever he was, he's dead now, or arrested. So, will those cops come back here? To see if he was alone here or not?"
"An interesting question," their host said. "Why, you have some pressing reason you want to live a bit longer?"
"Hell, yes."
"Then be quiet and listen."
They all fell silent, and to Carly it seemed about as pointless to try to hear what was going on out on the street as it would have been for her to try to to see the two men who shared this room with her. But they all stayed quiet, straining to hear something. Carly started wondering if all the nights she had spent in clubs listening to bands had really had an effect on her hearing. She thought she heard a ringing in her right ear. Was it real, or just in her imagination? Had she suddenly gone deaf? Then she clearly heard a car drive away out on the street.
"Well, that's that," the tall man said, relaxing. "We lucked out." He leaned back on the narrow bench. "I have three questions, old man. Is there any more tea? And, since this room is sealed so well that we can't see any light from outside, why can't we risk a light? It's as black as the inside of a cow in here. And, finally, am I correct in assuming that the answer to the second question is that the darkness was so that we wouldn't see your other guest?"
"You know what your problem is?" their host demanded. "You're a smart guy, at least in your mind. In your rather restricted universe, all of the rest of us exist only to prop up your exaggerated idea of your own intelligence. Young man, reality doesn't exist only in order to–"
"Answers?" the tall man interjected with a chuckle.
"Oh, very well. My other guest, now presumably deceased or incarcerated, is none of your concern. I can produce a light if you'd really like to see this weathered and yet kindly old face. As for the tea–"
"Screw the tea," the tall man said cheerfully, "do you have any coffee?"
Carly felt a sudden fondness for the tall man, and she moved as far away from him as she could on the narrow bench.
"For a guest, you're mighty demanding," their host said. "But, since I am the host, I have the quaint idea that it's my responsibility to make every effort toward your comfort. I have no coffee, but I have some special tea which should serve. I'll put on a light, if you insist."
They heard a metallic clanking and then saw a match flare. Their host's bearded face pinched in concentration as he carefully lit the wick of a battered old oil lantern. When it was lit, he carefully slid the glass top down and then hung it from a hook in the low ceiling.
Carly looked around the tiny room. It was smaller than she'd imagined, with three walls of concrete and one of brick, an uneven concrete floor and a low ceiling of exposed beams and rusted pipes. But it had been made quite home-like, with books piled around, a small camping stove, two broken old armchairs and an ancient army cot which looked like it wouldn't even hold her weight, let alone the portly body of their host.
He had his back to them, working over the camping stove. He was probably not much taller than she was, but quite a bit wider, draped in various worn items of clothing and bedding. Finally, trying to be as casual as possible, she looked up at the tall man. He was watching their host, pretending (she thought) to be unaware of her gaze.
He was tall and broad, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows. He looked very fit and tan, wearing a dark suit and a trench coat. She was wondering how in the world he got his hair so perfectly trimmed and combed when he looked down at winked at her. She almost punched him, but it seemed it would be about as productive as punching one of the walls.
He stood up and stretched, as well as he could in the constricted space with the ceilings barely higher than his head. "No offense to Ms. Stein," he rumbled, "but that little bench was griping my butt."
He turned and grinned down at her. "So, Ms. Stein, do you have a story for us or don't you?"
She nodded. "Yeah, I've got a story."