This Time of Night

by Jon F. Merz

  "Yeah."

  "Another thing," said Mike. "There are some things you'll need to bring."

  "What kinds of things?"

  "Offerings," said Mike.

  ***

  At six that evening, after most of the rest of the company had left for the day, Fred rode the elevator down to the basement and stepped off into the realm of paper storage and the mailroom. He turned right off the elevator and strolled down to the end of the hallway, paper bag in hand and turned left. At the third door down on the right, he knocked twice, followed by two more knocks.

  A voice called out from within. "Come."

  Fred opened the door. Inside the room it was dark. "Hello?"

  "I'm here. Close the door."

  Fred stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The blackness swallowed him whole. "Can you turn on the lights, please?"

  There was a soft clap and the lights came on. Fred flinched and shut his eyes before cracking them gradually open again. Across the room from him, behind a veneer desk, sat the Resume God.

  "Luther?" Fred squinted. "Luther Goldbrick? But you...you're the copy boy."

  The Resume God shrugged. "Perhaps. But for you right now I am the Resume God."

  Fred sighed. "This is ridiculous. I can't believe I let Mike talk me into this."

  The Resume God cleared his throat. "What if it's not foolish? What if I can really do all those things Mike told you I could. What if I can get you that job? What would you say then?"

  Fred stopped. "Well, maybe I'd be a little more willing to take part in this charade."

  "It's not a charade," said the Resume God. "I can do it."

  Fred sat down across from him. "So, you're really some kind of powerful god?"

  The Resume God shrugged. "Are you referring to the lights?"

  "Well, yeah...I guess."

  The Resume God smiled. "That was the Clapper. Pretty cool, huh?"

  Fred stood again. "Okay, I'm out of here."

  The Resume God stood as well. "Wait. I’m sorry. Really. Sit for a moment, would you? Let's talk."

  Fred sat back down and sighed. "So, what gives?"

  The Resume God leaned back in his chair and folded his pudgy fingers across his heaving stomach. "I'm here for you Fred. But, it's up top you if you really want to do this or not."

  Fred glanced at his watch. What did he have to lose? "All right. I'm in. What do I need to do?"

  The Resume God leaned forward. "Did you bring the offerings?"

  Fred nodded. "Yeah. Six Jellies and two chocolate frosted. Here."

  The Resume God took the bag and removed the donuts. He placed them inside a circle drawn on his desk.

  "What's with the circle?"

  The Resume God smiled. "Correction fluid. It does the job nicely." He placed the donuts in a small pyramid and then looked at Fred. "And the final ingredient, please."

  Fred reached into his suit jacket and brought out a copy of his resume. "Here."

  The Resume God took it and placed it on top of the donuts. "All right. We're ready to begin." He clapped his hands again and the room went dark.

  Fred sat in the chair and heard the Resume God begin to chant softly. He strained to hear the words being spoken but he couldn't make them out. It sounded as though the Resume God was speaking in tongues but he soon recognized several fragments and made them out as "Toner, triplicate, staples, double-sided, and collated."

  There was a hissing sound then like something was burning, but no flames lit the room. Fred shifted in his seat.

  The chanting continued and then there was a poof and a cloud of smoke floated into the room. The chanting stopped.

  The lights came back on.

  The Resume God sat in his chair smiling. "It is finished."

  Fred frowned. "You've got jelly on your mouth."

  The Resume God blushed. "Yeah, sorry about that." He wiped his mouth and smiled at Fred. "Are you ready?"

  "Where's my resume? The one I gave you?"

  The Resume God gestured to a pile of burned ashes. "It has been sacrificed to the powers that be. They've accepted the ceremony."

  "You burned my resume?"

  The Resume God smiled. "Not really. They did. I'm merely the servant."

  "That was the only copy I had. You ruined it."

  The Resume God shook his head. "Relax, Fred. I have your new one." He unfolded his hands and a sheet of parchment appeared. "Take it."

  Fred frowned, but reached forward and removed the folded parchment. "This is it?"

  The Resume God nodded. "You must make copies of it, of course, especially since the font is a bit...antiquated."

  Fred unfolded the sheet and saw the curious script which filled the page. "I can't even read this!"

  The Resume God smiled again. "Relax, Fred. When you copy the document, the lettering will become clear. Trust me."

  Fred sighed. "All right. What else must I do?"

  The Resume God nodded. "Make the copies, then apply for the job. That's it. When you get the job-"

  "If I get the job."

  "When...you get the job," said The Resume God. "You must make four more offerings down here over the next year. This will seal the ceremony and ensure a successful career at your new position."

  "I feel like I'm in league with the devil."

  The Resume God frowned. "Come on, Mike. We're talking donuts here, not blood sacrifice. There's nothing evil happening here."

  Fred nodded. "All right. Is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "I must admit I'm still skeptical about all this. But if it works."

  "When it works," said the Resume God, "you will have the faith."

  Fred raised his eyebrows, but said nothing more. Instead, he walked out.

  ***

  "This is probably one of the most spectacular resumes we've ever seen."

  Fred raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

  The HR director peered over the tops of his glasses. "You seem surprised. I mean, what have you been doing wasting your time down in Accounts Payable? With a skill set like this, the hiring manager over in Marketing nearly fell off his chair with delight. They want to extend the offer to you."

  Fred smiled. "And the money?"

  The HR director set Fred's resume down. "The money is almost triple what you're earning now. Is that satisfactory enough?"

  "Uh...yeah, I think so."

  "Excellent. Fred, I don't mind telling you they expect great things from you with a resume like this. But I don't expect you'll disappoint them. Not with experience like this. Good luck."

  "Thanks," said Fred.

  ***

  Six months later and Fred Billings made his way down the elevator for the fourth and final time. Over the past months, he had been promoted twice in the department and quadrupled what he was taking home only eight months previously. It was, therefore, a helluva bargain by anyone's definition that the six donuts he carried with him on the elevator were the price to pay for the success he'd enjoyed since first journeying down to these bowels of the company.

  The door beckoned ahead of him and he knocked twice and then twice more.

  "Come."

  Again, the Resume God sat in his high-backed chair and motioned Fred to enter in to the office. "Ah, Fred, your last time coming down here, isn't that right?"

  Fred nodded. "Yeah. I feel kind of sad, though. I mean, I owe you so much for changing my life and all. I feel like six donuts four times a year is a petty price to pay for my success."

  The Resume God smiled. "Fred, I didn't give you success, I merely paved the way for you to be the success you've been sheltering all these years. You've got the talent and the skill, all I did was bring them to the forefront of your resume. The gods, they helped me as they saw fit. And you were granted what you wanted. But it's not like we do the work for you. It's been busy for you, hasn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "So, you see, all we did was get the job for you. It's up to you to make sure you were worthy. And as I've
been reading in the company newsletter, you've been making yourself damned worthy. Congratulations.

  "Thanks. But is there anything else I can do?"

  The Resume God held up his hand. "Just hand over your final offering and let's be done with it. There are a lot of other folks to help. Just be sure when you recommend somebody to us, that they are truly worthy of receiving, all right?"

  Fred nodded. "Yeah, okay." He stood to leave and then stopped. "Can I ask a question?"

  "Certainly."

  "I've always known you as Luther the Copy Boy. If you can get any job for anyone else, why not get one for yourself?"

  The Resume God shifted in his seat. "Fred, did it ever occur to you that I may be perfectly happy where I am? Not all of us need a high-powered career or lots of money. I have everything I need right here."

  "I just thought-"

  "No, you assumed. Be careful of that, Fred. Too many of your coworkers suffer from that disease. They expect everyone to behave like themselves and when someone doesn't, they crap all over them. Take care not to do that. Never step on the little people, but nurture those who need nurturing and leave the rest of us alone. We're happy where we're at. Got it?"

  "Got it."

  "Good," said the Resume God. "Now get out of here, would you? It's time for the offering to be sacrificed."

  "Farewell, Resume God."

  The Resume God smiled and peered into the bag Fred had given him. "Oh...chocolate honey-dipped!"

  Shepherd

  Another ‘what-if?’ story that came about as a result of reading some very interesting documents relating to psychic research conducted by the Soviets during the Cold War. Who knows, maybe this could have happened…

  1986-Budapest

  The rain fell hard that night in January, making puddles in cobblestoned streets especially treacherous to the unwary. Amidst the glow of streetlights burning into rain, a lone figure made his way down the street.

  They called him the Shepherd.

  Ought to be snow, thought Henry as he skirted yet another puddle.

  Budapest always looked better under a thin veil of white. It helped mask the depressed state of the Communist country. And anyway, anything was better than rain.

  Henry flipped up the collar on his overcoat to help ward off the wind, but it did little good. It was an absolutely hellish night to be out. Few cars drove past him. Henry checked his watch and saw it was almost ten o’clock.

  He ducked down a side alleyway next to a small bakery. At the end of it, he hopped over a small fence and emerged on a side street running parallel to the previous one. Henry glanced both ways and then allowed himself a small smile.

  He was clean.

  No one was following him. No cars sat idling. No unusual noises made his nerves stand on edge. None of the fools in the Hungarian Secret Police had caught wind Henry was back in their country again. But, of course, there was a reason for that: Henry was the best.

  At five feet ten inches, he was neither too tall nor too short. At one hundred and seventy pounds he was neither too heavy nor too thin. At thirty-five years of age, he was neither young nor old.

  If he was anything at all, Henry was gray.

  That fact, combined with his linguistic abilities allowed him to move inside any country in Europe he chose without attracting any attention. It allowed him to get his work done.

  As the Shepherd.

  Henry liked the name. His pseudonym fit him perfectly and the fact that he’d never lost any of his flock stood as further testament to his abilities. If there was one man, one person, one agent who could arrange textbook defections, it was the Shepherd.

  Henry had been playing the game now for almost ten years. He’d graduated from Oxford with honors in French and Russian. He had minored in German. In his spare time, he’d managed to become perfectly fluent in Italian, Spanish, Ukrainian, Hungarian, and Czechoslovakian, Swedish, and Finnish.

  His father had been a school teacher who happened to speak thirty languages. Henry had grown up in a household where a different language was spoken each day of the week. At ten, Henry spoke five languages passably. By the time he entered Oxford, his studies were a trifle.

  Upon graduation, Henry intended to become a professor, following in his father’s footsteps. Instead, shortly after receiving his diploma, Henry met an interesting gentleman.

  They had walked through rose gardens near the university in May when the sun showed its golden rays through ubiquitous gray clouds. The man had spoken most, praising Henry’s language abilities. He had seemed extraordinarily well-informed. And when at last he had flipped open the black leather case showing laminated credentials identifying him as a representative of MI6, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, Henry had hardly been surprised.

  They needed people who could speak all the languages Henry spoke. And did he fancy an exciting career working abroad while helping his country simultaneously?

  Did he ever.

  His first stop following the usual paperwork for new employees, was a large estate outside of Lancastershire where he studied with a dialect coach. His new employers wanted any trace of a British accent erased. In fact, Henry was to speak with no discernible accent, thus helping him achieve a linguistic shade of gray when he spoke English.

  From Lancastershire, he’d traveled to Wales where he and several other new recruits were put through the basics of spycraft by veteran agents. He learned all about surveillance, counter-surveillance, intelligence gathering, dead drops, defections, and recruiting foreigners. He was captivated by the curriculum and always passed his tests easily.

  At Hereford, he and the others were taught rudimentary techniques of shooting and unarmed combat by members of the Special Air Service, Britain’s top commando unit. The SAS frowned on fancy martial arts techniques and took their hand-to-hand training from esoteric Japanese arts combined with bare knuckle fighting techniques that worked in nasty situations regardless of body type and size. Henry graduated at the top of his class and from there was sent abroad.

  His first year kept him busy getting reacquainted with Europe. He traveled extensively, building his cover up as an international businessman. When he was given his first assignment, to help guide a defector over from Czechoslovakia, Henry had done so well, any defections thereafter were immediately his jurisdiction. He had earned his new cryptonym instantly.

  He ducked down another side alley and backtracked once again to make sure no one had gotten behind him. He knew they hadn’t, but he followed protocol exactly. The one time you didn’t was when the enemy got you.

  Ahead, a single lit window in the apartment house loomed like a lighthouse urging ships away from jagged rocks below. Henry glanced around once more and then darted up the steps and disappeared inside. The door clicked immediately and he went up.

  On the second floor, the musty, moldy air made him stifle a sneeze. It was cold in the hallway. He rapped on the heavy wooden door and one of the numbers fell off. Henry caught it in his hand and pocketed it, sighing when the door finally opened.

  “Yaw Eshtayt.”

  Henry smiled. “Little Bo Peep.”

  The door opened and Henry stepped inside. “Kursurnum. Meechado pochayk idur von!”

  “Kayrem, aleeg besaylek modyarul. My English is much better then my Hungarian, would it be okay?” asked the rotund little man.

  Henry shrugged and switched to English. “I said the weather was awful.” He glanced around. “Mind if I have a seat?”

  The little man smiled. “Please. Be comfortable.” He sat opposite Henry on the sofa.

  Henry smiled keeping his right hand in his coat pocket. “That’s three seconds gone already...”

  “Eh? Oh, so sorry,” the man smiled. “I am supposed to say to you something, yes?”

  “Five now,” said Henry thumbing back the hammer on the small .380 pistol he was aiming at the man.

  The man looked pained. “I am not used to this.” He frowned and cast his eyes upwards.
“Let me see...ah, ‘Is a lousy shepherd,’ completes it, isn’t that right?”

  Henry smiled and let the hammer down slowly on the gun. “That’s good. Had me worried for a split second.”

  The man rose and offered his hand. “I am Dmitri Grevzchenko.”

  “I’m Kent,” said Henry. “Were you briefed on how this works?”

  Dmitri shrugged. “Nyet, I was merely told to be here in this place at this time.”

  Henry nodded. Good. So far nothing was out of the ordinary. “Right, we’ll sit here for a spell. We wait until our transport shows up. We go downstairs, hop in, have a quick ride, you wake up and we’re inside a nice friendly non-Communist country. From there you hop a flight to England and you’re home free.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Dmitri. “You will not have them chasing you.”

  “‘Them’,” said Henry, “will never even know where you’ve gone off to. Trust me, Dmitri, you’re perfectly safe even now. I’ve been doing these for a long time. I haven’t lost one yet.”

  Dmitri stood. “Would you mind if I had a drink?”

  Henry shrugged. “Should be some vodka in the freezer. I requested it be kept there.”

  “You drink it like a Russian,” said Dmitri. “How come?”

  Henry smiled. “I’ve traveled quite a bit, Dmitri. You pick up things.”

  Dmitri nodded and found two glasses. “It’s rude to drink alone. Is your tolerance as elevated as your sense of Russian custom?” He poured two glasses full of the liquor and handed one to Henry.

  “We’ll see, I suppose,” said Henry drinking it down. One glass would not affect him. He left just enough in the glass to keep Dmitri from refilling it. Russians drank like Japanese, never letting a guest’s glass get empty, but if one left just enough, it would still be considered full.

  Dmitri downed his and refilled it. “They have told you what it was I did for them?”

  Henry shook his head. “No. I don’t care what my clients do. It’s only my job to get them safely to the other side.”