The Promotion (A Short Story)

by Gabriel Beyers

“I don’t think that will be necessary, sir. I can handle this collection.”

  “You think so, huh?” he asks. It’s so casual and unlike his normal tone that I’m once again struck speechless. He senses my confusion and laughs. “There is a world of difference between Level 2 and Level 3. The variables are numerous.”

  “I understand that, sir. I still feel I am up to the task.”

  He lets my words hang in the air like a noose. “Alright, Agent 102498, you are now upgraded to probationary Level 3.”

  I jump up from the bench and pace on wobbling legs. The green and earthy scents of the park vanish and the whole world seems cast in a golden light. “Thank you so much, sir. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he says and the malicious levity in his voice stops me in my tracks. “There are some rules.”

  “Rules, sir?” The bile spurts to the roof of my mouth. I knew it was too good to be true.

  “Yes, rules. First of all you must complete this collection by Matthew Goodwin’s birthday. Any time after and the collection is off.”

  This is understandable, I agree to the rule.

  “Next rule. Before the Goodwin collection you must collect a man by the name of Herbert Frost and frame an innocent for his death.”

  I grit my teeth. I have four days until the boy’s birthday. Doing another Level 2 collection, not to mention one with a frame job, will put me in a bind on time. But what choice do I have? I agree to rule number 2.

  “Third and final rule. You can only collect one member of the Goodwin family. We suggest the mother, Bethany.”

  “No,” I speak out before thinking.

  “You are not in a place to negotiate terms, Agent 102498.”

  I don’t like the subtle aggravation that permeates my superior’s voice. It is like hearing the hiss of a cobra just before it bites you. I must act fast. To hesitate would be to show weakness. And in this business, weakness is never rewarded.

  “I mean no disrespect, sir. I will comply with the first two rules, but I must disagree with the third.”

  “And why is that?” my superior asks.

  I take a deep breath to calm my quivering voice. I am treading deep waters now. “If I am only allowed one collection, then I must insist it be the boy, Matthew.”

  “Explain.”

  “I want to go for maximum sorrow. The Goodwins can’t have any more children. If the mother is collected, it will cause some pain, for sure, but Thomas will someday remarry. The same goes for Bethany if Thomas is collected. However, if I collect Matthew on the eve of his birthday, it will send ripples outward into the community and destroy every bit of happiness Thomas and Bethany have together.”

  My superior sits quiet, contemplating my words. Nervous agitation, like schools of angry eels, fills my legs and I have to sit again. Sweat drips into my eyes. I feel as if I’m going to vomit.

  “We agree to your terms,” my superior says.

  “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.” My elation bubbles over and I consider doing cartwheels. But my excitement is short lived.

  “I won’t,” he says, “but you may.”

  My blood turns to ice. “Sir?”

  “Your desire for advancement is clear, but it may come at a price.” A hint of pleasure bleeds through in my superior’s voice. “If you can complete these collections, adhering to all three conditions, then we will promote you to G.R. Agent Level 3. If, however, you fail any part you will be demoted to G.R. Agent Level 1.”

  “I understand,” I say through a knot in my throat.

  “We will be watching.” My superior hangs up the phone.

  I feel the weight of the sand slipping down the hourglass, but I can’t yet move. My nerves are shot, my mind a super highway congested with erratic thoughts.

  I have no doubt that I can collect Matthew Goodwin just as I outlined. The unknown variable is Herbert Frost. Always before, when I’m dispatched for a collection I am equipped with a dossier for the person of interest. Now I’m flying blind. I’m an excellent bloodhound, but the time limit has me worried.

  I begin by moving through town, listening to the locals, trying my best to catch even a mention of Herbert Frost. I start at the center of town and work my way out in a spiral pattern.

  I ration my conversations. In my experience people remember the guy asking a notebook full of questions and I prefer to remain in the background. I spend half the day roaming stores and businesses, listening to the orchestra of banality that these locals call conversation. I wish that I were a Level 6 Agent so that I could collect the whole town in one fatal swoop.

  Toward midafternoon I am sitting in an ice cream parlor, at a table near the back, chewing my fingernails to the quick. This town is small, I thank the Fates I’m not in New York, but I could still spend all four days scouring every house, hut and hovel and never find Herbert Frost.

  I want to stay in the parlor. The air is crisp and light from the enhanced air conditioning and the sweet aroma of fresh baked sugar cones surrounds me like a beautiful woman’s perfume. The minutia of colorful tubs peeking at me from behind the glass counter brings a childish grin to my lips. I hate small town life, but this place calms me for some reason that I can’t explain. Perhaps it reminds me of simpler days, when I roamed the world as a faceless Level 1 Agent, collecting the old, sick and injured.

  At the time I hated being a Level 1. It’s busy, monotonous work without glory or honor. I felt it was beneath me. But I must be honest, with the stress of this task pressing down on me, I sort of long for those old pressure-free days.

  I step out of the cool ice cream parlor and wade into the humid afternoon. The glaring sun passes over the tops of the buildings, mocking me with the speed of its decent. The wind picks up, stirring the treetops into a frenzied dance. Thick thunderheads drift in from the west, carrying with them an early twilight.

  By eight o’clock that evening the storm arrives, pelting the earth with swollen raindrops and lightning so fierce it seems the heavens are being rent in pieces. The deluge evacuates the streets, driving the town’s folk into the warmth of their homes. I continue on, searching the few places unaffected by the rain.

  There are four taverns in this town. Three are located close to the center, the fourth hides on the outer limits. I make short work of the three, finding no sign or mention of Herbert Frost, so I move on. The fourth tavern is an old honkytonk named The Castaway, which is apt as the bar sits nestled in the forest like some banished leper.

  I cross the darkened entry way and step through a set of batwing doors that would be at home in any spaghetti western. No one notices me enter, not because of my stealth, but because the percentage of the inebriated is somewhere around ninety percent. A cloud of cigarette smoke hangs thick enough to darken the halogen lamps in the ceiling. The stench of stale beer and body odor is enough to make my eyes water.

  I walk down a short flight of creaky wooden steps to the open floor. I move past the tarnished bar with its tattered and duct-taped stools, where a woman showing far too much skin for her age allows two men to fondle her in ways that would get you stoned in certain countries. I step over a man face down in a pile of vomit that may or may not be his own. In the back two women roll on the ground, pulling hair and punching as the bouncers try to untangle them.

  I sit at a small table in a dark corner, feeling a bit washed out by the amped up country music and raucous drunken conversations. It’s hard to concentrate in this place. I want to leave. Truth be told, I’m itching to barricade the doors and set the building aflame. But right now I have nowhere else to go.

  After an hour of listening to incoherent conversations and watching the dregs of society poison their rotten lives away, all without a whisper of Herbert Frost, I’ve hit my tipping point.

  I start to slide back from the table when I notice a woman watching me from across the smoke-filled room. Her eyes are locked onto me and I try not to squirm in my seat. I hold her gaze, keeping m
y face unreadable, though my mind is a whirlwind of panic.

  The woman stands up and walks toward me. I do not recognize her, but I know by the fearless way she carries herself, by the coldness in her eyes, what she is. She is one of us.

  “May I sit down?” she asks me.

  I smile and nod to the chair opposite me.

  “Thank you.” She sits, crosses her long legs, and folds her delicate hands together. “I am G.R. Agent 011880, Level 2. And you are?”

  “I am wondering why you are here?” I shoot her a smile laced by my own set of cold eyes. “Were you sent to watch me?”

  She tosses a full throated laugh back at me. “Are you so infamous that you need watching? Are you on assignment?”

  “That’s my business.” I have a terrible feeling she already knows everything about me. “Why are you here?”

  She watches a fly buzz about her head as if it is more interesting than I am. “For the same reason as you, I suspect. To make a collection.”

  My forehead beads with sweat and I pray the smoke is thick enough to conceal it. “Who is your mark?”

  She pulls a paper napkin from the table’s dispenser and dabs the droplets from my forehead. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. Maybe we can help each other out.” She tickles my earlobe with her fingertips.

  I back out of her reach. “Thank you for the offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

  I try to leave, but she catches me by the wrist. Her fingers are as slender as a spider’s legs, but her grip