Squirrel Bait and Other Stories

by Thomas P. Hanna

  * * *

  Since part of his job was to keep the lobby neat, while it was quiet before the lunch hour rush began Smith walked to the far planter to remove a newspaper that had been sitting there for some time.

  He took a minute to scan the headlines and when he looked up he saw Jonathan Simpson bustle in from the street. Smith tried to catch the other man’s eye without attracting Coolridge’s attention but didn’t manage to do that so a more vigorous move was required.

  Smith intercepted Simpson and stepped close and, barely moving his lips, said, “Mr. Simpson, could I please speak to you for a minute over behind the planter.”

  “Not now, Smitty, I’m in a hurry today.”

  “You could lose your vacation.”

  “What? What’s going on?” Suddenly Simpson wasn’t in such a rush.

  “There’s a man here looking for you. Has to see you in person. Waving around official looking papers.”

  “Oh no! I’m so close to getting away.”

  “He’s waiting at the far side of the lobby there, He’s not sure what you look like so he hasn’t spotted you yet. Just leave right now. You’ll be in the air before he knows he’s missed you.”

  “But I absolutely have to get to my office first. My plane tickets are there and I have to activate some essential security systems. Can I get to the elevators or the stairs without crossing the lobby?”

  “Can’t be done,” Smith said. “Any door from outside that doesn’t open into the lobby would set off alarms and that’d focus attention on you when security rushed out and grabbed you.”

  “What can I do? You’re supposed to be full of clever ideas.”

  “You’ll have to cross the lobby but not be recognizable.”

  “Are you saying I should put a paper bag over my head?”

  “No, that’d attract attention. This isn’t the New York City subway so people here will stare at what’s out of the ordinary.”

  “So what can I do? Help me. I promise you I’ll never overlook you again.”

  Smith thought, Aha, so you are aware of your omission, which means it was deliberate. He said, “How about some dresses?”

  “Drag? I’m not sure I want to go that far. If someone else recognized me...”

  “No, I mean the racks of ladies wear they roll in and out of here all the time for the showings in the different offices upstairs.”

  “Are you suggesting that I steal a dress from one?”

  “No, no. I’m suggesting that you could walk across the lobby blocked from view by a rack of dresses being wheeled along.”

  “Oh! Terrific idea. I owe you one for this, Smitty.”

  “And don’t think I won’t remind you of that. Here comes a delivery right now. Get out this way and persuade the man to let you walk with it.”

  Smith watched Simpson duck around the planter to intercept the rack of clothes, then he turned to find Calvin Coolridge coming across the lobby.

  “Has Mr. Simpson come in yet? I thought that might have been him a minute ago,” Coolridge said.

  “I’ll have to say that I haven’t seen him get on an elevator anyway,” Smith said not lying.

  “Okay, thanks,” As Coolridge turned to go back across the lobby he stopped to let the rack full of dresses go across in front of him. The delivery man was at the front end guiding it and Jonathan Simpson was walking along on the side facing the other two men with his arms spread along the dresses and his face buried in the cloth to avoid being recognized.

  Coolridge stared at Simpson. He turned to Smith with a questioning look but Smith just shrugged.

  When Coolridge looked away Smith coughed discreetly and gestured vehemently to Smith that the man to be avoided was now on this side of the lobby.

  Simpson made a wild jump, hoping to go clear through the group of dresses, but succeeded only in getting into the middle of them. But at least only his feet were now showing.

  Then a sequined black party dress fell off its hanger, wrapped around his feet, and tripped him.

  The deliveryman, walking on the other side of the rack, had been lost in the music from his radio and unaware of what had been happening through all this but when Simpson‘s thrashing about threatened to overturn the rack he stopped and looked back.

  From his awkward position Simpson called, “Keep going! For the love of Pete, don’t stop. It’s worth twenty dollars to you to hurry to the elevators.”

  At that moment Elevator One arrived at the lobby. Mitchell Mosley, lost in thought, walked out into the confusion with the dress rack. He glanced over at the activity as the rack of dresses with Simpson struggling to stay hidden inside with the one slinky number still hobbling him was pushed onto Elevator Two and that door closed.

  Suddenly Mosley looked startled by a thought and rushed back onto Elevator One.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Mosley?” Maybelline Marshall asked.

  “It just hit me. Turmoil,” Mosley said.

  “It sure was,” Marshall agreed. “It’s anybody’s guess what that was all about out there.”

  “Would you please take me back upstairs immediately. I have to move on this,” Mosley said then sank back into his thoughts.

  “Is this one of your inspirations, Mr. Mosley?”

  Mosley mumbled distractedly, “Fashion Turmoil. They make dresses. I have to put in some orders.”

  “Can you please hold just one second?” Marshall said.

  Mosley was back in a dream state, his lips moving inaudibly, so he didn’t object.

  Marshall signaled frantically to Sam Smith. She called, “M and M tip. Fashion Turmoil. Spread the word.”

  Smith ran to a locked panel on the wall, fumbled it open and pushed a button. A loud gong-like tone sounded through the whole building. Smith shouted into an intercom phone which blared his words out through the P.A. system, “Fashion Turmoil. Buy! Buy!”

  Smith watched the floor indicator as Elevator One ascended. He was wringing his hands and doing a little dance of pleasure at the thought of making a lot of money.

  In the elevator Marshall said, “We sure do appreciate getting in on these things along with you, Mr. Mosley. We’re all gonna buy every available share of Fashion Turmoil stock and get rich.”

  Mosley was still mumbling and distracted. “Have to sell it all. Quick as possible. I’ve got to unload it all right away.”

  In the lobby Smith wondered what it meant when the floor indicator showed that Elevator One had apparently stopped between floors.

  In the elevator Marshall leaned close to hear clearly as she asked, “Could you please say that again, Mr. Mosley.”

  Mosley mumbled, “Sell. Sell it all. That’s what I’ll do.”

  Smith turned and walked out of view behind the planter just before the indicator dial started to move again. Elevator One was rapidly descending to the lobby,

  The door opened and Marshall looked around frantically for Smith but couldn’t see him. She glanced at Mosley standing mumbling in the elevator, took a deep breath and said loudly, “Call your floor, please.”

  Mosley snapped alert. He ran off the elevator and to a pay phone and dialed.

  “Sorry to do that to you, Mr. Mosley, but I need a short delay here,” Marshall said quietly. Then she called out, “Mr. Smith, where are you?”

  Smith appeared.

  Marshall yelled, “Sell! Sell!”

  Smith rushed to the wall panel, sounded the gong-tone, and announced over the P.A. “Clarification. That was sell, not buy. Repeat, sell not buy. Sorry about that.”

  Moans were heard in all corners of the building and phones were grabbed up in many offices.

  Calvin Coolridge came over to Smith again, “It’s getting late. I have to leave for another appointment. If you could please tell me Mr. Simpson’s office number I’ll just drop off the things I have for him.”

  Smith gestured that he’d be able to help in just a minute or two as he busied himself making elaborate notes about something on a slip of pa
per as an excuse for not responding immediately.

  Coolridge asked, “Is there any kind of an interoffice mail service in the building that could deliver it to him?”

  Smith glanced over and saw Jonathan Simpson getting off an elevator in an outrageous disguise involving a raincoat, a wide brimmed hat, and a mustache apparently drawn on with eyebrow pencil. Smith forced himself not to stare as Simpson hurried out the door and down the street.

  Coolridge took out the envelope he had waved around earlier. “These are his new plane tickets. The others were cancelled and his flight changed because he used an out of date charge card. His secretary was on the ball and caught the error and called in a valid charge number but the original flight was already booked up by then. It’d be a shame for him to get all the way to the airport and find out his flight isn’t until tomorrow.”

  As he watched Simpson disappear down the street outside Smith was trying to decide what to do. He thought, Nah, he’ll never figure out what happened. He said to Coolridge, “Here, I’ll take those and see that he gets them. Thanks so much.”

  Coolridge hurried off and Smith slipped the envelope into his inside coat pocket. He smiled and said to himself, “I’ll be sure to deliver them - about noon tomorrow. But first I’ll let him sweat it a bit. He has to learn that holiday tips to the building staff are very high priority.”