Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 1 March 2013
Page 6
“I can help you?” a woman asked, in a strange accent. Hungarian, maybe? Frederick whirled to see her standing at the counter along the back wall. She must have stepped through the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to the back. Heavy mascara rimmed her eyes and hoops dangled from her ears. She wore a brightly colored dress yet her fingernails were long and painted black. Her skin was ghostly pale. He smiled. How cliché.
“I noticed the sign in the window…” he began. She smiled and extended a claw-shaped hand.
“I see. My name Iselda.”
He took her hand, holding just the fingers. It was small, with delicate bones, and her long nails lay in his palm like talons. Her skin felt hot and dry, like a paper bag left too long in the sun. He retrieved his hand and casually brushed it against his slacks.
“Many people see sign and keep going, never wondering what it means.” Iselda’s lips twisted in a sly grin. She appeared pleased that he’d asked about it.
The cat stood in its basket, stretched, and turned around twice before settling again.
“Many years ago, my mother learned to harness rhythm of time. She created potion to give person extra second, whenever needed. If you control heartbeat of time, you control everything. The first vial is one hundred dollars.”
She waited.
“Well?” A smile teased her mouth but her eyes were cold, obsidian marbles.
“I don’t understand,” Frederick said, frowning. “You mean to tell me that you are selling a magic potion? What century do you think this is?” He laughed easily and she joined him, but it sounded dutiful.
“You mock what you don’t know.” Her voice sounded tired, as if she had told this story countless times. “But many people, even smart ones, come in to buy potions.”
Frederick looked around the shop again and then checked his watch. His meeting. There was still time, but not much.
“So how does it work?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You drink it, you get extra second.” Her tone implied he was a simpleton. She leaned forward and the artificial smile fell from her lips. “Is not rocket science, is magic potion.”
He shrugged and reached into his pocket, opened his wallet and dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the counter top. It didn’t seem to detract from the pile remaining in his wallet. Besides, he’d flunked science anyway. “Okay, sold.”
She reached beneath the counter and produced a vial of clear liquid, which she then handed him. He opened it. It smelled like water. He looked at her with a question in his eyes and she made a “hurry up” gesture with her hands.
He closed his eyes, tilted back his head, and drained the vial. It tasted like water, too.
“Well, that’s that, I guess,” he said, squinting at the empty vial in the light. “Expensive water, right?” He searched her face to see if the whole thing had been a joke.
She shook her head and moved toward the beaded curtain. “See you soon,” she said.
Frederick, who had turned to head out the door, stopped and looked back. “What makes you think I’ll come back?”
She peered at him coyly through the beaded curtain. “Oh, you will.” She raised a bony finger. “Of this, I have no doubts.”
Later, in the office, Frederick was pleased with how his day was shaping up. Having made his meeting with moments to spare, he had worked filling client orders on the phone. He’d opened, for a particularly wealthy customer, a position on an enormous block of shares scant moments before the stock’s quarterly earnings report hit the news. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at the computer monitor as the stock’s value leaped higher. He’d just made another killing for a satisfied customer by getting the order in quickly. Just like that. He snapped his fingers.
Jenny, the new receptionist, peeked around the corner, a tendril of brunette hair falling in front of her right eye. “You need me, Mr. Thomas?”
Frederick made to wave her away, then changed his mind. “Jenny, come inside and sit down. Close the door.”
She pulled the door behind her and walked to the chair in front of his desk, uncertain on her heels, skirt tight around her knees. She sat gingerly, her back ramrod straight, and looked him right in the eyes. Blue. Her eyes were so blue. “Yes, Mr. Thomas?”
Frederick leaned back in his chair. He knew it was wrong, but he’d not allowed himself any fun lately. He’d been too busy climbing the commission and bonus ladder. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jenny, if we are going to work together, why not call me Fred?”
“Yes, Mr. Thom…er, Fred.” Her lilting voice hesitated, and Frederick stole a glance in her direction. There was a pretty little frown line over her nose. He wanted to reach across the desk and wipe it away with his thumb. It was the only blemish on her perfect little doll face.
“Thank you. Now, I want to go over the quarterly commission reports tonight but I’m completely swamped. Do you have plans tonight?”
She bit the corner of her lower lip and, after a moment, shook her head.
“Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll pick you up out front of the building at six. Thanks, Jenny, that will be all.”
She rose slowly and walked to the door, put her hand on the knob. She turned and looked at him and drew in a breath, as if to say something.
Frederick frowned. “That will be all, Jenny,” he said, ice creeping into his voice.
She nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind her.
The next morning, when he awoke, the first thing he noticed was that his mouth tasted foul. He grimaced and rolled over to sit up on the edge of the bed. Rubbing his face, he marveled at how the hangover seemed to make even his hair hurt. He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. With water dripping from his chin, he peered into the mirror and brushed his lanky brown hair with his fingers, pulling it from over his forehead. He shook his head and winked at his reflection. “You sly dog,” he muttered, then threw two pills down his throat, chasing them with tap water.
Walking back to the bed, he froze. In the dim pre-dawn light he could see a series of long curves distorting the sheets. He drew in a deep breath of regret. He raised his hand and brought it down with a large smack on the highest curve. Jenny’s bleary face burst from the sheets, her eyes unfocused.
“Wha…?” she said, her little kitten voice sounding confused. She dragged the hair out of her eyes with long fingernails, snagging it briefly in her fingertips. She shook them free with annoyance. “What time is it?”
Frederick sat on the edge of the bed, a smile playing on his lips. “I didn’t say you could sleep over, Jenny,” he said, his voice reasonable. “What were you thinking?”
She frowned, that little line appearing on her forehead again. It had lost its appeal overnight.
“I don’t know, Fred. I figured…” she waved her hand at the bed, implying a great deal of assumptions in a simple sweep of her arm.
“Well, you figured incorrectly. Now get up, get dressed and go home. This was a mistake.”
Her mouth opened in slow shock and then she closed it with a click, set her jaw and tore the covers from her body. She stood and stalked across the carpet to the chair, where she grabbed her dress and held it over her head, dropping it over her shoulders. She tugged the waist down, twisting it until it was lined up properly and then stepped into her heels. She made for the door and then stopped, turning to face him. Her hair looked like a mare’s nest, wild and in disarray.
“So what was this? Just a quick roll in the hay?”
Frederick shrugged and climbed under the sheets. “Whatever you want to call it is fine with me, Jenny. I call it unprofessional…on your part.” He closed his eyes and smiled when she slammed the door. He waited a full minute, then lifted his phone and dialed. When he heard the beep, he cleared his throat and spoke.
“Yes, Marge? It’s Frederick Thomas. I know it’s early in the morning so I just wanted to leave you a quick message. It’s about Jenny. She got drunk last night and followe
d me to my apartment, banging on the door and making a scene. Nothing happened, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to make trouble. Can you just let her go? Give her a month’s severance; maybe that will shut her up. Thanks, Marge. I know I owe you one for this. Can you send me a new girl?” He hung up and snagged a cigarette from the nightstand, lighting it and drawing the smoke deep. He smiled in the dark. Maybe the next one would be a blonde.
Over the next few days, he noticed how his trades would settle almost instantly, confirmation replies showing up shortly after he pressed his “enter” key rather than after a typical delay.
Additionally, his commute seemed to shorten. At stop signs he would turn his head to face oncoming traffic and notice an approaching “wolf pack” of cars. In the past, more often than not, the pack was too close for him to jump in front and avoid the wait. Since the visit to the shop, however, he always seemed to have enough room to accelerate from a full stop and continue on his way before the cars could reach him. Also, he seemed to be sliding through intersections under more yellow lights. His drive to work was about ten minutes shorter on average than before the potion.
Two weeks or so later, Frederick grew convinced that his orders were closing faster. He stopped by Brian’s office and stood in front of the desk.
“Hold on,” Brian mouthed, finger raised, phone on his shoulder, head tilted to the side. Frederick waited.
Brian spoke a few words and then hung up. He looked at Frederick. “What’s up?”
“Not much…did we upgrade the ordering system?”
Brian frowned. “Why, is something wrong? I told that creep in IT to hold off on installing any upgrades until the weekend.” He reached for the phone, but Frederick held up a hand.
“No, that’s not necessary. Let me ask a different question. Are your orders closing a bit more quickly lately?”
Brian snorted and clicked his keyboard, frowning at the screen.
“Nope, these are typical closing speeds over the last thousand transactions. Specifically, a six-and-a-quarter-second average over the past three hundred orders.”
“Thanks,” called Frederick, heading back to his own office. “I appreciate your checking!”
Sitting back at his desk, he gazed at the statistics glowing on his own monitor. Five-and-a-tenth seconds, on average, over his last thousand orders. The numbers glowed, serene and unassailable.
The days flew by. Although normally impossible to get IPO shares due to massive demand, he filled every order immediately. He didn’t wait for anything. It was luck, pure and simple, he thought. Wasn’t it?
He stopped and pondered. His drive to work was shorter because he kept getting lucky at traffic lights and at stop signs. His trades executed faster and he spent less time filling orders and more time talking to happy customers. As a result, his sales had increased, creating a nice spike in his commissions. A very nice spike. Twenty-five grand more commissions this quarter than last quarter. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Well, he thought. That made his next decision easy.
The next morning, the jangling bell in the shop brought Iselda from behind the curtain again. The same cat lay sleeping in the same shaft of sunlight. Nothing had changed. Frederick smiled at her.
“Back for another?” Her eyes danced with mischief. “I told you you’d return.”
“Yup. I don’t know how, but your magic potion seems to be working.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Dropping it on the counter, he smiled expectantly.
Iselda gazed at the money and moved her eyes up to his. “I’m sorry. Is more for the second potion.”
“What do you mean?” Frederick frowned. He didn’t like being played for a fool. Warmth built under his collar.
“The first potion cost a hundred dollars, and is worth it, no?”
Frederick thought. He was reluctant to let her know how much he wanted a second one, given how valuable the first one had been. She could charge him twice as much and he’d still pay.
“Well,” she spread her hands. “That is the way of things. The next second is worth much more than first because magic is…” She leaned forward and spoke very slowly. “…compounded.”
She fumbled under the counter and brought up another vial, which she held balanced on her palm, holding it just out of reach.
“Now costs a thousand dollars.” Her voice was stone.
He opened his mouth, and then shut it tight. Twenty-five thousand up, what was a simple thousand? Better not to argue. He reached into his wallet again and threw nine more bills down on the counter.
She handed him the vial and scooped up the money, her long nails clicking like beetles on the glass surface as her hands gathered up the bills. He drained the vial in one gulp, tossed the empty vial to clatter on the glass, whirled and left the store.
The next few months were pure magic. He broke office sales records and hit his annual quota by July. His commission percentage, accelerated as he broke through level after level, hit stratospheric heights for the first time ever. Every stoplight turned to green as his brand-new Lexus approached. When his coworkers asked for his secret, he shrugged. “Timing,” he’d say, then wink. He’d laugh at their confused faces, then walk back to his office.
His boss summoned him to a conference room one afternoon and Frederick closed the door, noting the two men in suits already there.
“What’s up, Walt?” he asked.
“Sit down.” Walt pointed at a chair.
Frederick sat.
“These guys are with the Securities and Exchange Commission. They wanted to talk to you a bit.”
Frederick leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. Two hours later, he shook the men’s hands, grinned, shot Walt with his forefinger, and strolled out of the office. They wouldn’t have believed him anyway. The clear advantage he was enjoying was, they’d decided, unusual but rational luck.
On a muggy August Wednesday, he entered Iselda’s shop again. The cat was gone from its typical cushion, and some time passed before Iselda emerged. Nobody else was in the store. Frederick wondered, idly, how they stayed in business.
“How much…” he began.
She held up her hand, stopping him. Her face was unusually pale and worry lines etched the corners of her eyes.
“No more potion,” she said. Her voice was flat, and he could see worry…and something else in her eyes. Perhaps fear.
He paused. His mind raced through dozens of possible arguments, but asked a question instead. “Why not?”
She looked at him. “Is not safe. One potion, maybe two, they are nothing, they don’t mean much. But three,” she paused and then her voice grew firm. “Is too much.”
What was she talking about?
“I have cash, and it doesn’t look like you should be turning down the sale.” He looked around the empty store and raised his eyebrows. He pulled out a wad of bills.
“How much?” he said again and began to count the bills.
She hesitated, glanced at the pile of bills in his hand and shuddered. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, long black hair cascading like twin curtains alongside her face.
“Ten thousand,” she whispered.
He snapped the bills off one at a time, raining them down like autumn leaves on the glass counter, creating a small pile.
She reached behind the counter and produced another vial. “Please, don’t,” she said, gripping the vial in her bony fingers.
He snatched the vial from her hand, opened it, lifted it in mock salute, and drained it. He threw the bottle against the floor, shattering it. The door slammed so hard upon his exit that the bell fell to the floor, its jangling silenced by a thick rug.
He spied her for the first time at a restaurant a month later.
The third vial had really seemed to transform his luck. Not only had he not seen a red light since his latest visit to Iselda, it also appeared as if there were fewer people in the world. He snorted to himself. That was silly
, he knew, but it certainly felt that way. If he arrived late to a dinner engagement, a car would pull away from the parking spot nearest the door just as he drove up. If a traffic jam formed on the highway, his lane would speed through without interruption, no matter which lane he happened to be in. It was as if the world was cleverly staged to accommodate him. Only for him. He patted his lips with his napkin, looking at the remains of his sandwich on the plate.
He dropped a bill on the table and got up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a woman looking at him but, by the time he turned his head, she had whirled around and was walking away. He liked her shoulders, the sway of her hips, the easy physicality she projected without effort. Unlike Jenny, this one seemed to be a mature woman, not just a girl. The strong neck, the posture, these attributes added up to a very confident woman. He chuckled to himself.
Girls like Jenny weren’t enough for him anymore, not for a guy on his way up. He needed a power partner, somebody who would be his intellectual equal. A peer. Somebody strong-willed enough to stand up to his personality. He followed her casually. As he stepped from the restaurant onto the sidewalk, she turned the corner a half-block away. He jogged to the end of the block, tie flapping, and looked down the alley, but she was just disappearing from view around the next corner. He sniffed the air, thinking he could smell a faint odor of jasmine, but it quickly wafted away. He shrugged and went home.
He saw her again a week later, during a speech he was giving to a local volunteer group. They had asked him in to give a short talk on the life of a successful stockbroker. The guy who invited him implied that they were considering him for inclusion. Right. As if he’d join their little social club. The food was free, so why not?
As he was wrapping up his talk with a wry anecdote about a wealthy customer who could never be satisfied, she walked by the open door of the hotel conference room, glanced in and paused for just a moment. He looked up, a fraction of a second too late to see her face, and she was gone. He knew it was her again. Her posture, her shoulders. There was no doubt.