by Brian Bakos
***
In another week, Beamon could scarcely recognize his department. More resignations had followed McConville’s exit, and certain other pesky subordinates had transferred out. Their replacements were bright, energetic types eager to work. Those of the old guard still remaining at their posts now displayed proper decorum.
Beamon felt like a new man. He moved down the rows of diligently working people with a new spring in his walk. Productivity was up, absenteeism down, and everybody spoke to him with respect.
“Hello, Mr. Beamon. Yes, sir, Mr. Beamon,” they said. “Have a nice day, Mr. Beamon.”
Vince and Max had both disappeared without notice, which suited him just fine, even though he’d had to do without a secretary for a couple of days. Those guys were creepy, and they belonged in the past with all that other ‘personnel enhancement’ unpleasantness.
Amid his joy, a single question continued to bother him: Why had Vince gone up to the 40th floor?
He finally pushed the question out of his mind. Who knew what was going on behind the scenes to accomplish the transformation of his department? Forget the guy. This was a new day!
Doris, his regular secretary, reappeared from her maternity leave. Her first morning back, she approached Beamon in his office, leaving the door open behind her as was her custom.
“Mr. Beamon,” she said, “my computer is all different.”
“Yes,” Beamon replied, “there have been a lot of changes since you’ve been away.”
Doris looked nervously over her shoulder toward her work station, then gathered up her courage.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Doris said. “There’s a new executive secretary opening in Accounts Payable, and I was wondering if ... well, I was thinking of, maybe, a transfer?”
Beamon smiled broadly.
“Certainly,” he said.
“You mean, it’s all right?” Doris asked.
“Of course,” Beamon said. “It’s only natural to want change – new baby, new job, new surroundings. I’ll be happy to provide a reference for you.”
A great weight seemed to lift from Doris’s shoulders. She returned Beamon’s smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
Beamon consulted his watch. He was in a magnanimous mood. Getting rid of Doris would fit in nicely with the new order of things. He’d like to see a fresh, younger face posted outside his office.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go put in for that transfer? Then take the rest of the day off. First thing tomorrow, we’ll finalize things.”
“Okay, I really appreciate this!” Doris said.
“Sure thing,” Beamon said. “Now, don’t keep that baby waiting.”
“Thanks again, sir.”
Doris retreated to her workstation and gathered her belongings. After a final, uneasy, glance at her computer monitor, she was gone.
By 6:00 pm, everyone was gone. Only Harry Beamon remained, master of the realm. He stretched back in his chair and looked out the recently cleaned window. For the first time in quite a while, he was reluctant to leave.
Ah well, he thought, just one more glance at the emails and I’m out of here.
He flicked on his computer. The machine wound through its preliminaries and displayed the password screen. Beamon entered his password, and the pick menu appeared. It was not the normal menu.
“What the hell?” Beamon exclaimed.
He leaned closer. In place of the usual choices, the monitor displayed:
window
gun
knife
permanent logout
No! It can’t be ... my mind’s playing tricks!
Or was this some parting gift from the Jerry McConville crew? Tomorrow, there’d be hell to pay!
The machine beeped to hurry him along.
Cautiously, Beamon snaked his hand to the power switch on the machine tower. A violent shock ran up his arm, throwing him back in his chair. His heart stopped, then raced wildly. His breath returned in shallow gasps.
The monitor flashed red:
MAKE A CHOICE! MAKE A CHOICE! MAKE A CHOICE!
A shattering noise came from outside, followed by an equally shattering scream. A man hurtled past the window.
Beamon stumbled to the glass pane and looked down at the sidewalk. Even from this height, he recognized the trademark gray suit and bright, wide necktie of the CEO. The man was lying spread-eagled on his back staring up at him with dead eyes.
“My God!”
On the edge of madness and unconsciousness, Beamon heard a whirring noise coming up behind him. An iron hand gripped his shoulder.
Sometime later, after the police had finished their investigations and the place had been remodeled, Vince entered the office. He glanced approvingly at the updated furnishings and new carpet. Then he moved to the fresh pane of window glass and looked out at the crowd bustling along below. Interesting how they still avoided a certain area of sidewalk.
He sat down at the computer and got to work.
Rifle King
1. A hopeful future
The rifle possessed a heavy masculinity. When Frank Kough presented it to his son that morning, a true changing of the guard took place.
Now, at the shooting range, Kough relaxed in his fold-up chair and watched his son at work. Hot June sunshine reduced his eyes to slits through which he observed the dedication and respect – love really – with which Bobber handled his new firearm. Kough’s hands were clasped behind his head, and his lips drawn back in a smile of fatherly pride.
His son appeared to enjoy the hearty slam of the rifle as it recoiled against his shoulder. The boy was obviously unprepared for the shock, though, because the first bullet went high and missed all the inner rings on the target.
This powerful new .30 caliber would take some getting used to. It was worlds apart from the tame little .22 Bobber had been shooting. A smooth movement of the bolt sent the brass shell casing flying.
Bobber continued firing. Soon, his hits were grouping together with greater accuracy and compactness. Kough watched intently through his binoculars. The last three hits clustered quite near to the bull’s eye.
The Hatchel’s barrel was hot now, and Bobber’s shoulder was hurting – time for a rest. He withdrew the finely machined bolt and sat twirling it in his hand with his characteristic expression of deep thought.
Such intensity in a kid of only fourteen! This type of concentration and skill was rare, something you saw only in the most dedicated pros. You’d have to be an utter fool not to see the boy’s potential.
Kough’s mind turned over great hopes and dreams: Work up through the lower tournaments, on to the National competition with its huge purse. Rake in additional millions from celebrity endorsements. Be the next Rifle King!
Follow the path that he, himself, had trod as a young man – and floundered upon.
Kough’s expression soured as he recalled the destruction of his own dreams decades earlier. He simply lacked the talent to become a Rifle King. He understood that now, but as a young man the realization had come as a shattering disappointment. His son was different, though. Bobber had the true genius.
Kough’s face darkened further as he recalled the many arguments he’d had with his wife on the subject.
“He’s not cut out to be a shooter, he’s a sensitive boy!” she’d said. “Besides, he’s only fourteen.”
A lot of hogwash. Anyone could see that Bobber was a natural with guns, that he had an intimate relationship with them going far beyond the simple mechanics of aim and shoot. And why would anyone think that being youngest persons in competition was a disadvantage? The media would eat it up!
But all the arguments they’d had so far would pale compared with the one they’d surely have today when he dropped his bombshell – the news that Bobber had been accepted at the government shooting school. Kough push
ed the unpleasant thought as far as possible out of his head.
Cross that bridge when you get to it, he told himself.
Bobber resumed shooting again, rapid fire. His hits were grouping beautifully now, edging into the bullseye.
Good work, son!
Then the ammo was used up. Bobber ejected the final shell casing with an authoritative, almost violent, yank of the bolt. He turned to look at his father.
“Dad, can we get more ammunition?”
Kough couldn’t answer for a moment, so startled was he by the expression on his son’s face – cold, feral, like a big hunting cat.
“Uh ... no, Bobber,” Kough said. “I think that’s enough for today.”
Disappointment entered the boy’s eyes, and perhaps a flash of anger?
“Give that shoulder a break,” Kough said. “And by that, I don’t mean a broken bone!”
Bobber did not respond to the lame attempt at humor.
“You can practice some more with the .22 if you like,” Kough said.
The boy glanced over at the case containing the smaller rifle and sighed. His demeanor softened.
“That’s okay, Dad.” He set his new rifle down on the shooting stand. “Guess we’d better get going, huh?”
“Sure, son.”
Kough left his chair to help pick up the spent shell casings. Ammunition was expensive, and you couldn’t afford not to reload the empties.
But before he could retrieve any of the gleaming objects lying on the ground, sharp pain jolted through his back, halting him in mid bend. Kough stifled a cry of agony. He attempted to straighten up but couldn’t.
Concern shot across his son’s face.
“Dad?”
Bobber rushed to help.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of things.”
He gripped Kough’s arm and gently eased him upright. Then he assisted his father back to the chair.
“Just take it easy a minute, Dad.”
“T-thanks, son.”
Bobber trotted back to the shooting station and began picking up the casings, stooping effortlessly to the task.
Kough twisted about in the chair, trying to locate a less uncomfortable position. The pain in his back receded, leaving room for toxic feelings of humiliation and powerlessness.
He chided himself for his impulsiveness. Since his workplace accident two years ago, even the simple act of bending down could present an impossible situation.
Things will be different soon! he assured himself obstinately.
The day would come when he would not have to worry about pinching pennies, when avid fans would, themselves, stoop to retrieve souvenir casings from the rifle of the great Robert W. Kough – son of Frank Kough.