by Stephen King
“Wazzy-wazzy-woo-woo, yeah, great, fine, you’re now a client of the Borgia Agency. Here.” He pulled a thick envelope from his jacket pocket and slapped it into Paul’s hand.
“What’s this?”
Borgia sighed. “Do you see how much time you just wasted there? You could’ve just opened the damn thing and looked inside and we could already be on to a new subject. You think I’m gonna live forever?”
Paul smiled nervously and looked inside the unsealed envelope. “What the—? Oh. My. God.”
“Don’t bother counting it,” said Borgia. “Five thousand, cash. Yours to keep—providing you sign something.”
“A representation agreement.”
“No. You did that when you shook my hand.” Borgia waved Paul over to Woodward’s desk. Everything had been cleared from the center except for a dark blue folder; Borgia opened it and removed one sheet of official-looking stationary. “Have you ever heard of Scylla Enterprises, Paul?”
“Um … yes.”
“Really? You’ve really heard of them?”
“About six seconds ago, actually.”
“Good. You had me worried. The Borgia Agency—and you may repeat this to your wife but to no one else—is a division of Scylla Enterprises. What I have here is a confidentiality agreement. Sign this, and you not only get to keep the five thousand, but that will be your weekly salary until such time as I choose to raise it.”
“I don’t … five thousand? … I mean—what about your … commission and—?”
“I find complete sentences can be of great benefit to entertainers. My commission is taken care of, don’t worry that too-big-for-your-body head. By the way, that whole George-Harrison-hair thing’s got to go.” He offered a pen. “Read it first. If you choose not to sign, you keep half of the cash and the agency still represents you—you’ll just be assigned to one of my other agents. Sign it, and I handle you personally. You know my rep. I never personally handle more than ten clients at the same time, and those I do are either already very big or about to be.”
“I know, believe me.”
Paul took the pen and began to sign the confidentiality agreement when Borgia gripped his wrist. “Read it, Paul. It’s short and flensed of any convoluted legalese.”
There was a seriousness in Borgia’s tone that invited no further questions.
Paul pulled the pen away and read the agreement.
He reached the end of the last paragraph and felt his mouth go dry. “Oh, man.”
“It’s not nearly as ominous as it sounds.”
“What do you mean by ‘trial period?’”
“First of all, I don’t mean anything by it, Scylla Enterprises does; second, the trial lasts exactly six hours, starting the moment you walk into the offices; and third … I honestly can’t tell you.”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, I know, I just can’t tell you. We can talk about it after, but until then I’m Shultz from Hogan’s Heroes: I know nut-ing.”
Paul read the agreement again. “So at the end of the trial period, I’ll be offered an official contract with Scylla—”
“—and by default, my agency.”
“If I choose not to sign it, I’ll be given ten thousand dollars for my time and sent on my way, providing I never tell anyone about what happened.”
Borgia nodded. “And if you do sign it, you’re in Scylla’s employ for the rest of your life.”
“Oh, man …”
“You said that already. Gotta keep the material fresh.”
Paul stared at the agreement and felt a thin line of perspiration form on his upper lip. What a time to get a case of flop-sweat.
“Paul?”
“Yes, sir?”
“There’s the ‘S’-word again. Irksome, very irksome.”
“Sorry.”
Borgia leaned against the end of the desk. “Tell me about your sister.”
At nine-forty the next morning, Paul drove up to the building which housed the local offices of Scylla Enterprises: even though it was right smack in the middle of downtown, there was a parking space directly in front and the meter had nearly two hours left.
He pulled in with no difficulties, killed the engine but left the radio on, then turned to his wife and said: “I’m doomed, you know that?”
“Of course you are,” said Kim. “But keep in mind that your sole purpose in life might be to serve as a warning to others.”
He blinked. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Kim shrugged. “No—but I’m guessing that you don’t want to feel better right now, you prefer to feel anxious, insufficient, foolish, and inept. It’s part of your charm.” This said with not nearly as much humor as Paul would have preferred.
He looked at the glassy, monolithic building and shook his head. “What the hell do they want with me, anyway?”
“I’m guessing they might drop a couple of hints during the interview, if you ever actually go inside.”
He wiped some perspiration from his forehead, then checked his watch.
At that moment, the classic rock station he and Kim had been listening to began to play Mountain’s “Theme From An Imaginary Western.”
Paul felt his chest grow tight. He reached down and turned up the volume. “God Almighty.” He felt the familiar tightness in the back of his throat and the burning behind his eyes.
Kim leaned over and put her hand on the back of his neck. “Hey, c’mon … maybe this is a good sign.”
He looked at his wife as the first tears crept toward the corner of his eyes, dangled there for a moment, and dripped down onto the sleeve of his jacket. “I never really liked this song all that much, you know? I mean, I always preferred ‘Mississippi Queen’ or ‘Nantucket Sleighride,’ but Beth always liked this one. Anytime Mom or Dad would go off and start pounding one of us, she’d always come to my room later and ask me if I wanted to listen to records, and she always played this one. I asked her why once, and she said: ‘it’s sad but it makes it sound okay to be sad.’ The more I listened to it with her, the more I came to love it. It’s genuinely wistful.
“Her favorite line in the song was that one about fallen faces by the wayside looking as if they might have known. She said she sometimes dreamed about fallen faces, that they were happy and resting and not afraid anymore. I always wanted to tell her that the fallen faces were actually the dead bodies of Settlers who didn’t make it, who died along the way, and what they might have known was the new world that they never reached, the land and life that was waiting for those Settlers who did make it … but it seemed mean to ruin that for her. She was only six years old and so much had been ruined for her already.”
Kim scooted closer to him. “Shh, Paul, c’mon, baby, don’t do this to yourself.”
“I should’ve been there, Kim. I mean, I thought Mom and Dad had gotten better, that it’d be all right to take that camp counselor job. It was just for a month, but everything seemed to be better.”
They did not speak for a moment, only sat listening to the song reach its refrain.
“That’s bullshit,” Paul whispered. “The truth was, I couldn’t look at it anymore, I couldn’t stand being in that fucking house with them, walking on eggshells, never knowing when one of them might go off. I figured I might earn enough money to buy a couple of bus or plane tickets so Beth and I could take off, go out to Kansas and stay with Grandma—at least, that’s what I always told myself. Especially later, after—”
“Just stop it. Stop it right now.”
He pointed at the radio. “In the last twelve hours, two people have said something to me about Beth—and one of them had never met me until last night, and now I’m sitting here with you on what would have been Beth’s sixteenth birthday, and I’m waiting to go in there and the radio starts playing this, of all songs. No one plays this goddamn thing, Kim. No one.”
“Then look at it as a sign. Maybe it’s Beth’s way of telling you that you don’t have to keep yourself
on the hook anymore, that she doesn’t blame you. It’s time to just pay the fine and go home.”
Paul wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “You picked one helluva time to get mystical on me.”
“It’s just a song, and their playing it now is just a coincidence, that’s all. It’s nothing to get freaked about.”
The song finished, then the announcer’s voice came on: “That one goes out to Elizabeth Cormier on her sixteenth birthday.”
Paul looked at Kim, who was staring at the radio.
“Okay, now I’m a little freaked,” she said.
“What the hell is going on?”
Before Kim could say anything to him, a uniformed security guard knocked on the driver’s side window. Both Paul and Kim jumped. Paul snapped off the radio as if he were squashing a bug, took a deep breath, and rolled down the window. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all, Mr. Cormier,” said the security guard. “I’m here to escort you up to the offices.” The guard leaned down and smiled in at Kim. “Good morning, Mrs. Cormier. Your husband will be here until four this afternoon. If you’ll come back then, this same space will be waiting for you.”
Kim laughed nervously. “You’re kidding?”
“No, ma’am,” replied the guard, his smile seemingly frozen in place. “We’re to give both Mr. Cormier and yourself the red carpet treatment today. The space’ll be here.”
Not waiting for a response, he opened the door and stepped back so Paul could get out.
“Good luck, honey,” said Kim, and then kissed Paul. “Everything’ll be all right. You’ll be dazzling.”
“Wrong reading,” he replied, trying to sound cheerful.
“Okay, then: Don’t fuck it up, we could use the money.”
“There’s my girl.” He kissed her, then climbed out of the car and followed the security officer up the stone steps and over to a glass elevator that ran up the outside of the building.
“The Scylla offices aren’t accessible to the public from inside, Mr. Cormier.”
“Do all Scylla employees have to use this same elevator?”
“No, sir, only escorted visitors. There’s a block of private elevators inside, but since I’m Escort Security I don’t have clearance to use them.”
Paul leaned against the inside railing in the elevator, and as the doors slide closed, it began a surprisingly rapid ascent. “So they’re big on security, huh?”
His smile unchanging, the security guard replied, “Very big on it.” He reached inside one of his pockets and removed a laminated I.D. card attached to a ribbon of thick blue thread which he offered to Paul. “Scylla Enterprises took the liberty of making this temporary I.D. for you, Mr. Cormier. Please hang it around your neck and make sure that your photo is visible at all times.”
“Where’d you get my picture?”
“From the DMV’s computers.” He offered no further information. “Please put it on now, sir, we’re almost at the main Scylla floor.”
Paul hung the I.D. around his neck, making sure his photo faced forward.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and one of the most beautiful women Paul had ever seen was standing right outside waiting, flanked on either side by two other security guards.
“Mr. Cormier,” she said, offering her hand. “Welcome to Scylla Enterprises. My name is Cathy Brown, I’m Mr. Smyth’s assistant. Would you follow me, please?”
Flanked on either side by Ms. Brown’s personal goon squad, Paul followed her through a maze of corridors and offices and two doors which required her to slide not one, not two, but three sec-urity cards through a small electronic reading device installed next to each one.
And you couldn’t walk three yards without encountering a sec-urity camera peering down at you.
Paul, now anxious as hell, let out a small laugh.
Without turning back to look at him, Ms. Brown said, “Something funny, Mr. Cormier?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense at all, Paul—may I call you Paul? I was just curious.”
Giving a quick glance to each security guard, Paul cleared his throat. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice the security measures taken here. When I was in college, I went on a tour of the Pentagon—at least, the areas where the public is allowed. They didn’t have this much security.”
“Ah. Well, actually, the Pentagon does, but they’re not quite so overt with most of it. Put enough cameras and enough electronically locked doors in enough fortuitous locations, and people tend to be on their best behavior.”
Paul exhaled, but didn’t feel relieved. “So you don’t have quite as much security as it seems?”
“No. We have much more.” They paused at a set of large oak doors with bright brass doorknobs. Ms. Brown turned toward him and smiled. “In fact, Paul, this particular floor has just slightly more security than the inside of the West Wing of the White House.”
“You’re kidding?”
“This is Scylla Enterprises, Paul. We may joke about a lot of things, but security is not one of them.” Her smiled grew wider as she opened one of the great doors. “Come with me.”
Paul followed her, but the two security guards remained in the corridor.
As soon as they were inside the next room—what Paul assumed was the reception area—a large, dangerous-looking man with a buzz-cut and hands so big a ten-year-old could comfortably sit in one, came up to Paul and said, “Please raise your arms.”
Paul did so. BuzzCut ran over his body with a hand-held metal detector.
“He’s clean,” said BuzzCut, taking two steps back and folding his hands in front of him.
Paul looked at his watch. “Why didn’t … why didn’t it go off? I mean, there’s my watch, there’s the change in my pockets, my belt buckle … I’ve got a pin in my left hand from where I broke it skiing when I was twenty-one—”
Ms. Brown raised one of her hands, silencing him. “The detector that he used is designed to sound only if it recognizes certain alloys.”
“You mean like in a gun?”
“I mean like in a gun, or certain types of detonation devices.”
“What if I had one of those all-plastic guns—what’re they called, Glocks?”
“Yes, they are. You were x-rayed for any plastic or plastique while you rode up in the elevator.” She gestured toward a large, ornate desk—assumedly hers—and the two even larger oak doors beyond it. “Mr. Smyth’s background checks are exceptionally thorough. If for some reason, you had a condition which made x-rays detrimental to your well-being, you would have been brought in another way and patted down.
“Before we get too far off the track, Paul, take my word for this: there is absolutely, positively, beyond any doubt no way a weapon can be smuggled into these offices … and we’re one of only nine places in this country where that holds true.” She walked over to her desk and pressed a button. “He’s here, sir.”
“Ten A.M. on the nose,” replied a voice. “Were we right, did he pull up in front twenty minutes early?”
“That he did, sir.”
“Excellent. I’m guessing right now he’s got one more question to ask you. Answer it for him and then send him in.”
Ms. Brown looked up at him and waited.
Like an actor who’d missed his cue during a run-through, Paul started, blinked, and said, “Oh, yeah, right—how did he know I’d get here twenty minutes early?”
“Because our studies have shown that that’s your pattern when you have any sort of an appointment. You’d rather be there forty minutes early than one minute late. Your average time of arrival is twenty minutes prior to your appointments.”
“How do you know that?”
“Mr. Smyth will answer that for you, Paul.” She pressed a button, a buzzer sounded, and the two massive doors swung open.
Paul waited a few more seconds, then shrugged and walked into the office beyond. As soon as he was inside, the buzzer sounded again and the doors closed.
He wondered if they were locked.
Several things registered with him simultaneously; the small kitchenette, the large leather sofa, the large desk where two-engine airplanes probably landed on a daily basis, the washroom off to the left, three smaller doors which he assumed led into closets or storage areas, a wet bar, and very plush carpeting. No surprises there.
The surprises came when you looked beyond the expected executive amenities and saw the decor; framed movie posters (the one for The Wild Bunch, autographed by all the cast members as well as Sam Peckinpah himself, caused him to actually gasp), a dart board, bookshelves filled with various toys and dolls still in their shrink-wrapped boxes, a lava lamp collection, an expensive stereo system which currently played The Band’s “The Weight,” and countless knickknacks.
“Paul,” came a voice from inside the washroom. “Have a seat. Pour yourself a drink. Wait, scratch that, reverse the order. There’s a good fellow.”
Paul remained standing.
A few moments later, Mr. Smyth emerged from the washroom.
Paul had frequently heard terms like “presence” and “charisma” applied to various actors, politicians, and performers, and had always thought that they were over- as well as ill-used. He himself had never met anyone who could mesmerize simply by walking into a room … until now.
Smyth was of average height, a bit on the thin side, and dressed in a surprisingly casual manner for a man who ran such a powerful company; his hair was thick, wavy, fashionably unkempt, and a tad longer than you’d expect to see in the corporate world, and his left eye was covered by a large black patch. These details in themselves weren’t enough to take anyone’s breath away, least of all Paul’s, but Smyth carried himself in such a way, and emanated such confidence and power, that even the most jaded person would stop and stare at him as if his approval were the most important thing in the world.
Spellbinding, thought Paul. That’s the word.
Smyth stopped, looked at Paul, and grinned. “You should see your expression—Bo-Bo the Dog-Faced Boy looked more intelligent.”
“Jim Woodward said the exact same thing to me last night.”