The Sequel by R. L. Stine Page A

start a real career, to find something he could “fall back on?”
    Was it because the Howard Striver character came to him as if in a dream?
    Howard Striver, please don’t haunt me.
    I like you, Howard. No. I love you. I’ll always be grateful, old buddy. But I need to leave you behind.
    Zachary sips the latte, already on its way to lukewarm. A flash of an idea. What if an author’s character won’t leave him alone? Pursues him in real life?
    It’s been done. But it’s the start of something.
    Zachary leans forward. Shuts his eyes to allow his thoughts to flow. Prepares to type. A shock of pain as a hand squeezes his shoulder.
    He turns and gazes up at a big, broad man, fifties, maybe sixty, salt-and-pepper stubble of a beard on a jowly, hazel-eyed face. Sandy hair in disarray. The whole face is blurred, Zachary thinks. Like the man is somehow out of focus.
    A homeless man looking for a handout? No. He’s too well dressed. Pale blue sport shirt open at the neck, dark suit pants well pressed, polished brown wingtips.
    The hand loosens on Zachary’s shoulder. “We need to talk,” the man says through his teeth. The lips don’t move.
    The harsh tone makes Zachary lean away. “Do I know you?”
    â€œI’m Cardoza,” the man says.
    â€œS-sorry.” Zachary has always had a stammer when he’s surprised.
    â€œCardoza,” the man repeats. The hazel eyes lock on Zachary. “Cardoza. You know me.”
    â€œNo. Sorry.” Zachary turns away and returns his hands to the keyboard. “Please. I’m working. I don’t have time—”
    The man named Cardoza lunges forward. He reaches for the lid of the laptop and slams it down hard on Zachary’s hands.
    Zachary hears a crack . Then he feels the pain rage over his hands and shoot up both arms.
    His scream cuts through the coffee house chatter. People turn to stare.
    â€œYou broke my fingers! I think you broke my fingers.”
    Cardoza hovers over Zachary.
    Zachary frees his hands from the laptop. He tries to rub the pain off his fingers. “What do you want? Tell me—what do you want?”
2
    â€œWhat do I want? Just what’s coming to me.”
    Cardoza pulls out the chair opposite Zachary and, with a groan, lowers his big body into it. His smile is unpleasant. Not a smile but a cold warning. He spreads his hands over the table, as if claiming it. Large hands, dark hair on the knuckles, a round, sparkly pinky ring on his right hand.
    Zachary rubs his aching hands, tests his fingers. They seem to be working properly. If this man intended to frighten him, he has succeeded. Zachary glances around for a store manager, a security guy, maybe. Of course, there is none.
    Why can’t he get the man’s face in focus? It seems to deflect the light.
    He slides the latte cup aside. “I really am working here. I don’t know you and I really think—”
    Cardoza raises a big hand to silence Zachary. His smile fades. “I don’t really care what you think.”
    Zachary glances around again, this time for an escape route. The narrow aisles are clogged with people. Two women have blocked the aisle with enormous baby strollers.
    Two of his fingers have started to swell. Zachary rubs them tenderly. “You’ve attacked me for no reason. I have to ask you to leave me alone now.”
    The smile again. “Ask all you like.”
    Zachary doesn’t know how to respond to this. Is Cardoza crazy? If he is crazy and wants to fight, Zachary is at a disadvantage. He’s never been in a fight in his life, not even on the playground as a kid in Port Washington.
    He eyes the man without speaking. He knows he’s never seen him before. A tense silence between them. Zachary’s laptop case is between his feet on the floor. Can he slide the computer into the case and get ready to make his escape?
    Cardoza breaks the silence. He leans over the small,