An Awkward Work Meeting

  Paul wasn’t his real name. Neither was Victor, or Jean, or Dean. But he could convince just about anyone that they were.

Passports, Driver’s Licences, Birth Certificates. Victor was married, and you could call his wife. Jean had a civil partner, whom you could watch gardening in the back yard of their suburban home. But Paul lived alone, and it was the simplest person he could be.

These men provided services- all kinds of things. Maybe you needed someone found, or someone lost. Maybe you needed a package delivered that the post would never take. Or maybe, just maybe, you needed something worse than all that.

Tonight was not one of those nights, fortunately for the man whose door Paul was knocking on. No kidnapping, no disappearing, no… persuading. The client had been clear about that. No, this guy just needed a little push, to provide a signature on a piece of paper.

Paul had been scouting over the past couple of days. The target didn’t go out much, and when he did, he wore a cap and sunglasses. Paul wasn’t quite sure what he looked like. The client hadn’t provided a picture, but since this was a somewhat legal call, he could confirm the man’s identity before negotiations began.

He adjusted his jacket, looked around, and knocked again. It was late, so maybe he hadn’t been heard. There was no one about, but a few of the other houses had lights on. He idly wondered if anyone were watching him right now, from those lit windows. Then he thought about the dinner waiting in his fridge.

Steak and pasta. An old favourite. His mouth watered a little as he imagined it.

After a third set of knocks, this time with his whole hand, he finally detected some movement behind the screen door.

He adjusted his collar, even though it was perfectly straight, then checked his watch. Best if the guy thought he was harmless.

The door creaked open, held back by a chain. There were no lights on, and the man behind the wood was only a shadow.

“It’s late,” croaked a voice muffled by sleep, “what do you want?”

Paul took a half-step forwards, very aware that a weapon might be being pointed at him. He selected a nasal, high-pitched voice, in the interest of allaying concerns.

“Mr….” he checked the sheaf of papers in his left hand, pretending to search for a name, “… Joe Wright?”

The shadow shuffled back a step, and Paul heard a sharp inhale. He stayed very still, though his right palm itched to reach into his jacket.

“Mr. Wright?” he asked again, injecting a quizzical note, “is that…”

“Bob?”

Paul froze. Hundreds of spiders crawled up and down his spine, sending tingles from his nape to his knees. Robert was a name that he avoided. Not one document in his dossiers bore that particular moniker, and for good reason.

He couldn’t go around using his real name.

The shadow stepped forwards into the light, revealing the lithe figure of a rather petite man. He was definitely the guy; Paul recognised his high cheekbones and pointed, stubbly chin. The eyes, however, he hadn’t seen. Hazel honeydews, pupils massive in the dim light.

“It is you,” the man said, “holy shit.”

Paul didn’t move, running the man through his internal database. He never forgot a face, it didn’t pay in his line of work. But he came up blank. He didn’t know this guy.

“Hang on,” he continued, and closed the door.

In the brief moments between the door closing and reopening, Paul weighed his options. There was the obvious; a disappearing act. Whoever this guy was could vanish, never to be seen again. But the client wouldn’t be happy about that, and it might impact future jobs badly.

I won’t get any future jobs if my name gets out.

A career is important, but you can’t work if you’re dead. This morbid train of thought was interrupted by the door opening back up.

“Come on in,” the man invited, walking into the dark of the hallway, “and shut the door behind you!”

Paul found himself obeying, stepping over the threshold. He winced as the lights came on, partially from the change in luminosity, and partially from the smell. The house was pungent with the aromas of various potted plants, scattered all about like skittles. Herbs, flowers, small bushes, a bonzai or three. Dried and drying leaves hung from hooks in the ceiling, and the floor was littered with gardening implements and open bags of potting soil.

“Sorry about the mess,” his target apologised, poking his head out of a doorway at the end the hall, “I don’t get much foot traffic in here.”

Paul just about managed to navigate the minefield of pots, tools, and dirt sacks, though a few dry leaves tickled his bald spot.

“I’ve seen worse.” He remarked, then nearly fell over a pot of thyme.

As he righted himself, an interior voice scolded him.

What are you, an amateur? Get the job done, and get out of here!

He made it to the end of the hall, through a curtain of beads and into a kitchen. It was cramped, not by virtue of its size, but rather because it was full. Boxes and tins and cookware crowded every surface, and the floorspace was reduced by a small forest of potted ferns. Paul glanced into the nearest box and found it to be full of seeds.

Shocking, he thought.

He was stalling, and he knew it. Whoever this guy was, he needed to be dealt with, one way or another.

“Mr. Wright,” he began, peeking around the central island as he did so.

“Come on, Bob,” Wright said from behind him, causing Paul to whip his neck around, “you can call me Joe!” He grinned, and Paul noted that he was missing an incisor. “We’ve known each other long enough!”

Again Paul searched his database, and again, it came up blank. Only… there was something familiar about the guy. The tooth, the hazel orbs, the cheekbones… but it was just out of reach.

“You want coffee? You still drink coffee?”

Paul nodded by reflex.

“Cool!” Joe clapped his hands together, “you go sit in the living room, and I’ll bring us coffee!”

He skittered off into the crockery maze. “First door on the left!” his muffled voice called, “we’ve got so much to talk about!”

To Paul’s utter astonishment, his feet carried him out of the room, and back into the hallway. His shock was maintained as they turned him to the left, through the first door, into Joe Wright’s living room. There did his hands rebel also, flicking the dull yellow light on to reveal perhaps the most astounding thing of all: a relatively sparse room.

There were two armchairs, a coffee table, and a single broad-leafed plant in the centre. As his turncoat feet carried him to a seat, he noticed the blackboard opposite the chairs, on the wall to the right of the door. Notes and equations were scribbled in neat patterns all over it.

The chair his body had selected was comfortable, but he barely felt it.

How does he know me? The question swirled through his mind, over and over, who is he?

The steel trap was rusty. It couldn’t catch this deer.

A steaming cup was passed under his nose, bringing his focus back to the room.

“Hey, earth to Bob!”

The strong earthen scent of a cup of Joe filled his nostrils, clearing out the odour of plants. He took the mug and looked into its inky depths. Victor’s wife liked astrology, and tea leaves, at least when she wasn’t smashing someone’s kneecaps. Maybe she’d be able to tell his future from the grounds in the bottom of this cup.

He was stalling again.

Joe the purveyor of Joe sat in the other armchair, nearly vanishing into its plush. He watched Paul over the rim of his beverage, looking at him as if to drink him up.

“God, it’s been so long…” he mused. “How’ve you been, man?”

It was about then that Paul decided that enough was enough.

“Look, Mr. Wright…”

“Joe.”

“… Joe; I’m here because-”

“You don’t recognise me, do you?”

There was an odd cocktail of sadness and satisfaction in Joe’s expression. A half smile curled his stubbled lip, but his eyelids drooped low.

“Guess you’re not here for a friendly visit, huh?”

Paul put the coffee down.

“Mr. Wri... Joe, I don’t know who you think I-”

“This refresh your memory?”

The words hit like a bullet to the forehead. Well, not so much the words. The voice. Joe’s croaky rumble had jumped up two octaves, and had the slight round tones of Minnesota. It wasn’t quite how he remembered it, a bit lower, a bit more of a rasp to it, but it was close enough to flint to spark memory’s flame.

“Sandy?” he murmured, “Sandy Foreman?”

It was her. Absolutely, one hundred percent- older, leaner, hairier and more muscular, but undoubtedly her.

Her eye twitched at the mention of her name.

“Sure, Bob, but that’s not my name any more.” She grated, returning to the deeper voice, “my name’s Joe.”

The reminder was gentle, but there was iron in there. Strong, and brittle. But Paul didn’t care.

“My God, San, I- I never thought I’d see you again…”

“Bob,” she stared him down, her hazels hawkish, “My. Name. Is. Joe.”

That splashed water on his campfire. She- no, he was leaning forwards, hands on knees, every line of his body tense. It would look like anger to some people, but Paul recognised it as fear. Joe was afraid, but of what?

“Sorry,” he apologised, “it’s… sorry, it’s an adjustment.”

The tension drained, though Joe’s lips remained lightly pursed.

“Apology accepted,” he said, “I know it can be… hard.”

Even just saying it seemed to pain the man. Like he was admitting something shameful.

“I never would have guessed it was you,” Paul said, “you’re so… different!”

The fear had dissipated, to Paul’s relief. Frightened people could be unpredictable- he preferred to tie them up first.

“Well, it has been twenty years.”

Maybe not the first thing that Paul would have thought of, but he didn’t comment. The subject seemed sore.

“Last time I saw you, you were off to MiT.” He recalled instead, “how’d you end up-” he gestured at the house at large.

Joe settled back into the cushions and brought his coffee to his lips.

“Got my degree, got a job, hated the job, got a different one, hated that too, made enough money to retire early, got an apothecary degree.” He took a long draught, shrugging, “the usual.”

Paul just nodded. He wasn’t one to judge people’s life paths, considering his own.

“What about you?” Joe asked with a smile, “what do you do?”

The papers were suddenly a lot heavier in Paul’s left hand. He looked down at them and grimaced.

“Right…” he muttered.

The magic of the moment was lost, crushed by the weight of the white sheets. He handed them to Joe, not looking at him. They sat in silence as the smaller man read what was printed there.

“They want me to sign this?” Joe asked, breaking the quiet.

Paul rubbed the ball of his thumb into his palm, trying to settle his roiling guts.

“Yes,” he said, without looking up.

Joe said nothing for a moment, but Paul could feel the hazels burning a hole in his shoulder.

“It’s horrible,” Joe stated, “immoral. Hell, it might be illegal.”

Strange how an obvious statement of fact could be so impactful. It was almost like a curse; turning Paul from a cold, consummate professional into a squirmy, wet worm. He wiped the sweat from his brow and lifted his gaze, trying for the ice he usually froze people with.

“I strongly advise that you sign.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Joe met Paul’s gaze levelly. There was no trace of that earlier fear, only calm calculation.

“What I don’t get,” he started, slowly, “is why you’re here.”

The sweat was a stream, rapidly becoming a river. Paul teetered on the edge of a precipice.

“You’re not a lawyer,” he continued, “not one of Haley’s regular goons…”

“San- Joe, please-” Paul croaked like a boiling toad “-stop.”

Joe stared at him, just watching. He couldn’t help it, but he saw Sandy in every line of that soft face. Whatever surgery he’d had, whatever hormones he was on, they couldn’t hide her, not now that Paul knew. But he hadn’t recognised her, because he was Joe now, and Joe was not Sandy, even though he was.

Most people would only see the man, but Paul saw both. The engineer he was here to squeeze, and the girl he’d grown up next door to.

And by God, he didn’t want to hurt her.

Joe’s eyes flicked down to Paul’s open jacket. To the holster strapped under his arm.

“What happens if I don’t sign this?” he asked.

Paul had no idea. In that moment, he wasn’t really Paul any more. For the first time in years-

“Then I leave,” Bob said.

Joe didn’t seem convinced.

“Nothing else?”

Slowly, so as not to startle him, Bob reached into his jacket. Joe’s eyes never left him, his breathing steady, his gaze fixed. It was a projection of calm, but the tension had returned. Bob unholstered his pistol and pulled it out. With a smooth, careful motion, he reversed his grip and extended the weapon.

“Take it.” He said.

The two held each other’s gazes, not moving an inch. Joe broke the stalemate, by shaking his head.

“No,” he whispered, “I trust you.”

Bob hung his head.

“You shouldn’t.” He muttered, “you have no idea what I’ve done.”

“Are you going to shoot me?”

The question trickled into the deep reaches of his consciousness, where the killer dwelt in its icy palace.

I should, the killer said, I should take him out, and burn this place down. To hell with the contract, I can make up some excuse. Why should I risk everything for this guy I don’t even know?

Bob put the gun down on the table.

“No,” he said.

“Then I trust you.”

A rush of pressure burst out of Bob’s head; a snort out his nose and tears out each eye.

“I considered it.” He confessed, “I’m still not sure whether I should or not.”

He looked up at Joe, lower than him by virtue of being hunched over. The man stood, putting down his empty coffee next to Bob’s cold one, and walked to him. He loomed over the conflicted assassin, his hands slightly clenched. Then he bent down, and folded Bob into a hug.

Paul, Victor, Jean, Dean, the killer, the cobra, the monster, all of them flinched like they were being attacked. But Bob leant into the embrace, and cried like a child.

“I heard about what happened,” Joe whispered, “to your mom, your brothers. I’m sorry I never checked in on you.”

“That doesn’t excuse me,” Bob moaned, “I’ve… I’m…”

“Shh…” Joe comforted, patting him on the back like a sick dog “it’s gonna be OK.”

Bob didn’t see it, but Joe glanced down at the glock on the table. If ever there was a moment, it would be now. He looked back at the weeping man in his arms, and knew he’d never have the heart. Even if Bob was a monster, he was still Bob.

Bob got himself under control. He had a job to do, whether he liked it or not. He pulled away from Joe, and stood.

“I take it you’re not signing, then?” he asked, clearing his throat.

Joe stepped back, arms folded.

“No, I’m not.” He confirmed.

“She’ll send someone else,” Bob warned.

“I know,” Joe replied, “I’ll tell them the same thing.”

Bob frowned at his friend.

“They’ll hurt you,” he said, “they might kill you.”

“Well then, you should stick around,” Joe quipped.

It was a casual thing, but his eyes were deadly serious, “looks like I’ll need a bodyguard.”

Bob’s frown deepened.

“I’m the last person you want around,” he said, “I’m worse than any of them.”

“That’s exactly why you should stay,” Joe countered, “you’ll scare them off.”

Bob looked away.

“It’s not that easy.” He said.

“But it could be,” Joe replied. “At least stay for dinner.”

Bob’s gaze returned, puzzled, “Dinner?”

“To give you time to mull it over,” Joe explained, “you still like steak and pasta?”

Bob’s stomach growled loudly, earning him a laugh.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” Joe chuckled, “I’ll tell you when it’s ready.”

With that, he was gone.

Bob stood alone in the living room, with only the plant for company. He listened to the thudding of his heart, to the creak of the settling house, to all the quiet noises of growth and living, to the faint bang of pots and pans in the kitchen.

The smell of steak filled the room, overpowering the herbal odours. There was a decision hanging in the air, with the smells and the sounds.

He looked at his gun, then at the door.

He chose the door.