But Angela did exist. And a girl like Angela Endicott simply could not be, not in Matthew’s world. Not in a world of order. A girl like Angela Endicott was chaos personified.
“Matthew!”
It was the concern in his friend’s voice—and oh, if only he knew—that finally shook Matthew from his stupor. “Do you know if she’s ever been kidnapped?” he blurted out.
“Kidnapped?” Charlie said, laughing. “Of course not.”
Matthew should have taken comfort there, but there was something off in Charlie’s voice. A hitch. A pause. A singular moment of shock.
“Charlie,” Matthew began, trying to stay as calm and even as possible, “have you ever heard of a company called Limbus?”
For a long moment, Charlie said nothing. Then, in a voice that Matthew had never before heard from his old friend, he spoke.
“Matthew, I don’t know what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into, but you’ve got to get out of it. Get out of it right now.”
Before Matthew could say a word, the line went silent. He put the phone on his desk next to the book. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to look at it, but then he couldn’t bring himself not to. Before he knew what he was doing, the book was open, and the next story began.
We Employ
By
Anne C. Petty
Dallas squeezed himself into the stall behind the guy from the bar. Trust his luck to pick the grubbiest shitter in the row. At least there wasn’t anything floating in the bowl.
The guy went right for his fly, no messing around.
“Wait!” Dallas pushed his hand away. ”Payment up front, we agreed.”
“Yeah, but maybe I wanna sample the goods before I pay,” said the man, Jim Beam leaking from his pores. He grabbed Dallas by the crotch.
Dallas’ knee came up, but there was barely any room to defend himself. His foot slipped, and the guy pushed him toward the wall.
He landed on his butt between the toilet bowl and the stall divider. His head cracked against the tiled back of the stall and stars blossomed behind his eyeballs. The door banged shut. Heavy footsteps squelched away and soon were gone.
Dallas lay on the damp floor, the tang of urine infesting his sinuses. Well, that could have gone better. Granted, he was beyond desperate to resort to a stunt like this for money, but the alternative was sleeping on a piece of cardboard under the bridge.
Shaky, he emerged from the stall and was relieved to have the men’s bathroom of the seedy South Beach night club to himself. He caught a glimpse of the nondescript street person in the mirror over the sink. Disheveled brown hair, skinny frame wrapped in a threadbare T-shirt, grubby jeans at half-mast. Not to mention he needed a shave and definitely a shower, things a reasonably civilized person took for granted until the means to make them happen were beyond reach. He regarded the reflection with distaste. You’ve sunk to a new low, Hamilton.
To complete the picture, there was toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe. It figured, the way things were going. But on closer look, he saw it was a card. He bent down, head throbbing, and picked it up. Plain white. Dallas turned it over. He saw red print on a white field with some kind of holographic logo that looked like a globe of the world.
Limbus, Inc.
Are you laid off, downsized, undersized?
Call us. We employ. 1-800-555-0606
How lucky do you feel?
Dallas made a rude noise. That was about the lamest employment come-on he’d seen yet…and he’d seen plenty in the months he’d been out of school and out of work. He started to chuck it in the trashcan but stopped in mid-toss. The slogan had changed.
Live your life on the edge.
What the fuck? He looked again. It said nothing about feeling lucky. Where had he gotten that? Maybe banged his head a little too hard. He did feel kind of dicey, probably mildly concussed. He held the card up to the light. No address, just the phone number, which was a bitch because he didn’t have a phone. At least it was a 1-800 number. He rubbed his finger over the globe logo and instantly the little image began to rotate, with tiny pinpricks of light exploding and disappearing over all the continents. Dallas stared. Was there a chip embedded in the card? An animation app? He blinked. An address had appeared just below the company name. Dallas stifled the urge to flush the card and get the hell out. But hallucination or not, his curiosity was hooked.
The address was an office tower near Bayfront Park, off the Macarthur Causeway and a couple of blocks down Biscayne—about a six-mile walk from where he was. The park, a thirty-two acre urban extravaganza of fountains, outdoor amphitheatre, rows of boxwoods, and tightly grouped ornamental trees, had been his nighttime refuge more than once. Dallas went outside and started walking toward the causeway. His circumstances were dire, but he was resourceful, even for a college dropout. If only his parents had given him a little cushion money before they’d disowned him for flunking out it would’ve made things a lot easier.
A cop car cruised by and slowed. He put his head down and kept walking. Stay unobtrusive, unremarkable. It glided on past. Once it was out of sight, he thumbed a ride as far as Watson Island, and headed up onto the high causeway bridge, walking fast, trying not to think about the dark, deep water underneath him. He hated bridges. The weather was warm and he didn’t mind the hike, just as long as nobody fucked with him. He’d only been in one serious fight since leaving college and ending up on the street. He’d come out of it robbed and bloodied, but mostly intact—no broken bones or cuts that needed stitches. Since that encounter, he’d been more careful and much less trusting. Except for that stupidity back in the bathroom. He must have been losing his grip. If he could somehow find a job, even something as degrading as scooping dog poop from the sidewalks, he’d be willing to take it. He wondered if that Limbus agency had jobs like that. Maybe they were so high-level he’d need to be a laid-off AIG exec to even get an interview. That was unlikely, given where he’d found the card. He felt around in his back pocket and pulled it out by the corner, as if it might bite. To his relief, it hadn’t changed since he’d last checked it in the South Beach restroom. He rubbed his thumb over the logo—nothing happened, which confirmed his suspicion that all the weirdness he thought he’d seen under the flickering bathroom lights had been a concussion headcase illusion.
He got to the office tower around noon of the next day. Standing on the sidewalk looking at himself in its mirrored windows, he knew there was no way in hell he could waltz into this glass and steel monolith and ask for a job. He was lucky its security guards didn’t swarm out of their air-conditioned safety zone and lock him up for impersonating a human. He hauled his jeans up over his hipbones—had he lost that much weight?—and thumbed a ride to Miami Shores where his parents lived.
*
Dallas stood on the doorstep of the modestly comfortable house he’d grown up in, feeling like a complete stranger. The last time he’d been here, his father had slammed the door in his face and left him standing on this exact spot with no belongings and no money. Sink or swim, the man had said, or something to that effect.
Dallas pushed the doorbell. He knew his mother was home because her Camry was in the driveway. If she was on the phone or lunching by the pool it might take her a minute to answer. He waited, and then rang again. After a few seconds the door opened and his mother, a petit hair-salon blonde, looked up at him. “I’m sorry, this neighborhood doesn’t allow panhandlers—” She stopped in mid-breath, took a closer look at Dallas, screamed, and slammed the door.
He sat down on the front steps. Pretty much the reception he’d expected, but what to do now? He needed to get cleaned up before he could go to the Limbus office. He heard the door open behind him.
“Good lord, it really is you, isn’t it?”
Dallas got up and faced her. “I…I have a job interview and I just need to get some clean clothes.”
His mother looked him up and down, frowning. “What kind of job?”
“Um, wh
atever they need. It’s a new agency, so … they need a lot of recruits.”
His mother’s shoulders softened a smidge, by which he knew he’d won. “Stay right there, you smell like a landfill.” She shut the door, more gently this time.
Dallas let his breath out. For once he’d made the right choice. He waited some more as she took her sweet time. Probably calling his father, which would be majorly awkward what with the potential for a parental meltdown but he hoped to be long gone before that unpleasant scenario could play out. His mother opened the door and handed out a stack of folded jeans, polo shirt, socks, and briefs. A towel and bath and shaving stuff rested on top.
“I can’t let you in smelling like that. Go around to the back and use the cabana shower. And for God’s sake shave your face.” Her expression was grim.
He took the clothes. “Right. And could you … I’m really starving.” No joke there—he felt and looked it. He could feel her disapproval like a force field that kept her from coming any closer. “Just go clean up.” She pulled the door shut.
Dallas sighed and went around the side of the house where mango and grapefruit trees and a tall hibiscus hid the pool fence from the street. He went to the patio shower and stripped off all his clothes in front of God and everybody just for spite, giving any curious neighbors an eyeful. Soaping and rinsing in the cool water, he began to feel better, and after he’d toweled dry and pulled on the clean clothes, he thought he might live. He stepped into the cabana and shaved his ratty beard away. His face in the mirror looked like the old Dallas Hamilton, only not so naïve. Wary, less trusting. Nothing he could do about the hair for now. It wasn’t quite long enough for a ponytail, but clean and pushed back behind his ears it wasn’t too bad.
He retrieved the Limbus card before tossing his torn T-shirt and beyond-redemption jeans in the City of Miami waste disposal canister near the fence and was about to slide it into the breast pocket of his clean polo shirt when he saw it. Not possible—the slogan had changed again.
Gate expires May 31. Hurry up please, it’s time!
Dallas’ fingers shook as he held the card—something was definitely hinky and it wasn’t the bump on his head. So, the mysterious card was quoting Eliot now? It was almost enough to make him laugh if he weren’t so spooked.
His mother came out of the back door carrying his old high school book bag. She set it down on the patio table. “I put some extra clothes and a few supplies in it. That’s the best I can do.”
“Mom, I’m really sorry—”
She put up her hand. “Don’t. Just don’t. Sixty thousand dollars of your father’s hard-earned money to finance your education and you manage to flunk out your last year with no degree.” She crossed her arms over her narrow chest.
“I know how it looks, but—”
“I’m not going to tell your father you were here. His blood pressure and all.”
Dallas gathered up the book bag. “It was good seeing you, Mom.”
She nodded and went back inside without another word. He wasn’t sure that bridge was burned, but he decided not to push it. He checked the book bag. A change of clothes, some fruit and a sandwich, and an envelope with $40 in small bills. He felt rich beyond expectations. Dallas inhaled the food, hoisted the bag strap over his shoulder, and headed down the sidewalk to the bus stop, feeling weirdly expectant. The first thing he intended to ask those Limbus people was how they did that thing with the card.
*
Dallas found the Limbus office without much trouble. It was on the second floor, down a very long hallway.
The company name was on a small plaque beside the door. He turned the knob and found himself in a waiting room that looked more like his dentist’s office than an employment agency. Institutional green paint, uncomfortable vinyl sofa along one wall, matching side chairs on opposite walls, an old-fashioned umbrella stand and coat rack beside the door. To his right, the built-in reception window allowed a glimpse of file cabinets, fax machines, and printers crowded into a small workroom. He went to the window, but saw no one. No business cards or company brochures on the narrow ledge under the window. No bell to ring to call anyone. An open hallway directly across from the door he’d come through revealed gray carpeting and rows of cubicles on either side, filled, he supposed, with workers hiring people like himself into jobs they could live on. The only flaw in this assumption was the utter stillness of the office—no voices, no phones ringing, no keyboard clatter.
He walked over to the sofa and took a quick look at the dozen or so books and magazines scatted over a low table. Brane Theory for Dummies. The Zoltron Dynasty Then and Now. Body Templates Catalog. Offworld Travel Tips. The hairs along the back of his neck prickled. He should walk away now and forget he’d ever heard of Limbus Employment Agency.
Turning, Dallas stared at the company sign affixed to the wall over the reception window. There was the turning globe, with its little pinpoints of light pulsing on every continent. The slogan below it read simply, We employ. Without a doubt, this company had the dumbest motivational slogans of anything he’d ever seen. They needed to fire their copywriter.
This was looking less and less like anything he wanted in on. He turned to leave when a short, squat man stepped out of the first cube in the row. With bald head and bulbous features and practically no neck, he looked to Dallas like a toad in an ill-fitting suit.
“Hello, I am Recruiter Rigel.” He beckoned to Dallas. “Please come have a seat.” He motioned toward two folding chairs in front of his desk.
Dallas entered the cube, still fighting the urge to bolt for the door. “Is there some company literature I could have a look at?”
Rigel sat down. “Literature?”
“Don’t you have any brochures? Every employment agency has brochures.”
“Did you want a job or not?”
“Well, yeah, why else would I be here?”
“We have one. Tailored for you.” Recruiter Rigel opened the central drawer of his desk and extracted a sheet of paper, an official looking document with very fine print, and pushed it toward him.
“Don’t you want me to fill out some kind of application? How can you tell if I’m suited to a job if you don’t even know anything about me?”
“This one was pre-selected for you. Please read it over carefully.”
Exasperated, Dallas snatched up the page. It looked like an ordinary job description, with sections labeled Tasks, Qualifications, Duration of Work, and Compensation. He started reading the bullets under the headers. It was at that point all similarity between any previous job description he’d ever seen and this one took a sharp detour.
The job title was Dog Walker. He scanned the Qualifications column:
Must like dogs
Must be nondescript and not stand out in a crowd
Must have a good sense of direction
Must be dependable and resourceful in life-threatening situations
Dallas snorted. Who were they kidding? And what kind of effing dog were they talking about here? He imagined a bloody-fanged junkyard mastiff with red glowing eyes.
“It’s a temp job, but the pay’s high. They’ve had trouble keeping someone,” Rigel was saying.
Dallas looked at the really fine print at the bottom of the page. “What’s this about a bonus?”
“If you complete the job successfully by the deadline, which you’ll notice is not far off, you will have earned a bonus.”
Dallas mulled this over. “How much?”
“That’s for you and the recruiter to decide.”
Dallas glared at Rigel. “I don’t see how you can run a business this way.”
“I don’t run the business. I am merely a recruiter.” Rigel tapped his badge. It said RECRUITER in bright red letters.
Dallas ground his teeth. “I can see that.” He consulted the Job Description again. That was a lot of money just to walk somebody’s dog around the block for ten days. He checked the end date of the contract. Just like the card
had said, May 31st. “I’ll do it.”
Rigel took a pen from the desk drawer and handed it to Dallas. “Sign your name, there at the bottom. Today’s date is May 21.”
Dallas wrote his name and dated it. He handed the page back to Rigel. “Don’t I get a copy of it, for my files?” As if he had any such thing, but one should ask, shouldn’t one?
“Why would you need a copy?”
“Well, in case I had questions, you know, about the job. Like how to find the freaking place with the dog.” He’d given up being polite. This was clearly a fly-by-night operation and as soon as he got an actual payment from the owner of the dog, he was hitting the road.
“The address of the contractor is on the card,” Rigel said with a trace of contempt, as if Dallas truly deserved his status of college dropout.
Dallas pulled the Limbus card out of his pocket and indeed, the contractor’s name and address appeared in the spot where the spurious slogan had been entertaining itself. Her name was Marilyn Fairbanks and she lived at an address in Coconut Grove.
“I still want a copy.”
The recruiter got to his feet, took the signed contract, and walked around his desk and out into the hall, presumably heading for the tiny workroom Dallas had glimpsed from the reception window. He heard a copier warming up and, eventually, its gears grinding.
Rigel returned and took his seat at the desk. He put the original contract in the middle drawer and handed the copy to Dallas with a look that telegraphed every ounce of how much trouble it had cost him to make that unnecessary copy. Rigel straightened his too-tight jacket across his shoulders. “This is a new client, so try not to embarrass us.” He looked doubtful.
Infuriated, Dallas pushed back his chair and stood up. “I may be a failed academic, but you have no idea of the excellence with which I will be able to walk this dog.” He assumed irony was lost on this toad, but he couldn’t stop it from slipping out the side of his mouth.
Limbus, Inc. Page 18