Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

It has of course occurred to me to call the real Brown to help me dispose of the body of the imaginary Brown, but I won’t do that either. It would be a nice irony but one he would not understand. I will either have to do the job myself or hold on.

Besides, I have not seen the foul man here in days...

It’s all too much. I couldn’t deal with it any more and accordingly dragged Brown’s body to the landing for pickup tomorrow morning. That should solve the problem, although I’m concerned at the rupture of my pattern and also by the curious weight of his body as I lumbered with it, fireman-carry fashion, to the stairwell. He’s the most unusually corporeal of all my victims. Even in imaginary death he seems capable, typically, of giving me real difficulties.

Two policemen at the door in full uniform, with grim expressions, demand entrance to the apartment. Behind them I can see a circle of some tenants from the building.

I seem to be in some kind of difficulty.

At my very first opportunity during this interview I intend to distract the police and kill them — put an end to this harassment — but I have a feeling that won’t work.

I should never have abandoned the living room as a disposal unit. That was my only mistake. I should have begun disposing of old corpses as they were replaced by the new. It would have been sufficient.

But it’s too late now, the police say.

I’m standing here on the stairwell, waiting. He comes by here every evening, usually the last one out of the office. He takes this stairwell because it lets him out into that part of the parking lot where his car stands alone.

Not tonight, though. He’ll never make it to the lot. The steps are sharp, angular. And hard, made of unyielding metal. When he comes down, I’ll be waiting, a hello on my lips, an arm raised in greeting. A strong arm, an arm that will send him bouncing and bruising down the stairs. If that doesn’t kill him, I’ll simply finish the job by smashing his head against the angle of a step. An accident. That’s what it will look like. Something that could happen to anyone hurrying down these stairs.

It started early this morning with the forlorn shape of Yuddic — an old Gaelic name, he told me one time — with Yuddic McGill slouching against my desk. Mac isn’t a pushy sort, and it took me a few moments to become aware of his presence and a few more to note the worried look on his face.

“Talmage, I’ve got bad news.”

“Bad news?” I remarked unconcernedly. Mac was always blowing things out of proportion, so I rather pointedly kept on with my job of sorting and posting vouchers.

“Yes. Stromberg just fired me.”

Now, this gave me a turn, caused me to look up, perhaps feel a twinge of fear — you know, don’t ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee, and that sort of thing. Always believed in it. Well, I thought, who diminishes old Yuddic diminishes me. If Stromberg could get away with this arbitrary action, then the old domino theory might come into play and who knew who’d topple next?

Besides, the figure Mac cut was one to invite compassion. He was a diminutive, retiring, almost ridiculous man. Atop his sloping shoulders resided a head on which was impressed a face of such undistinguished features as to foster the belief that the die of character had been applied too lightly, or had been nudged at the precise moment of contact. Around this was arranged a head of listless, squirrel-gray hair allowed, mod fashion, to grow to his jawline, intimating a spirit to which the remaining cut of his Establishment jib lent the lie.

Mac’s news, matched with the sympathy that the image of Mac himself always evoked, goaded me. I jumped from my seat and said to him earnestly, “He can’t do that to you, Mac! You’re one of the key men in this outfit. Have you gotten the formal notice?”

“I’ll get written notice later today. The old pink slip. He called me into his office for a little oral preview so I wouldn’t faint dead away later on.”

“Well, that’s good. It’s not official until you receive the slip. You can’t let him get away with it, Mac. You’ve got to do something.”

“What’s to do?” He shrugged and stood there, a pitiable, defeated sight.

“March right back in there and let him know what’ll happen if he lets you go. Give him a picture of the impact that the loss of your expertise will have on this organization.”

“Oh, Tal, I can’t do that. I can’t blow my own horn,” he said despairingly. “He wouldn’t believe me as much as he would someone else.”

“By God, then I’ll do it!” I exclaimed, not unaware of the admiring attention I was receiving from the other workers sitting nearby. “I’ll go in and lay it out for Stromberg. Don’t worry, Mac, you’ll still have your job at the end of the day.”

Then to the silent huzzas of the people in the outer office I marched down the long aisle formed by two rows of identical desks to the ominous green door behind which sat the equally ominous Stromberg. I tell you it took nerve and I won’t say I didn’t look back. I did once and was confirmed in my resolve when I saw the glimmer of hope spreading across the face of my little buddy, Yuddic McGill.

I pushed myself forward, ignoring the protest of Miss Frisby, Stromberg’s secretary, and threw open the door. Stromberg looked up from a pink form in front of him and smiled inquiringly as if he had been expecting me (the man has spies everywhere). I recognized the form and noticed it was still blank. Talk about timing!

I moved into the office, slammed the door, and before Stromberg could say one word, was all over him.

“Mr. Stromberg, if you fill in that pink slip you’re getting rid of one of the best men we have. McGill’s a man of unquestioned ability. Firing him will be like slicing off your right arm. Accounts Receivable will pile up a week’s backlog in two or three days. He’s the real strength in this department.”

And I went on with much more of the same puffery, but that gives you the idea. All the time Stromberg just sat there silently and smilingly taking it in. When I paused to catch my breath, he said crisply, “Thanks. Appreciate it.” Then he picked up the phone and pressed an intercom button.

Miss Frisby came on and Stromberg barked, “Ring McGill’s desk!” A pause during which he smiled some more at me. “That you, Mac? Forget what I told you earlier. Right, you’re not fired. Good God, man, stop blubbering and get back to work!”

He slammed down the instrument and looked at me. I’m sure my face showed real gratitude as I said, “You won’t regret it, sir. McGill will give you a fair shake. Nine for every eight you pay him, I’m sure.”

“Took a lot of courage coming in here,” Stromberg said briefly and then went back to the pink form in front of him and began filling in the spaces.

What’s this? I thought. Was it all some sort of unfeeling joke played on poor Mac?

I was wrong. Stromberg handed me a copy of the completed form. My name was on it. There I had it, my two weeks’ notice. I was fired! I could hardly keep myself from strangling the man right there at his desk.

“It was either McGill or you,” Stromberg explained. “It was McGill until you barged in here and did a good selling job on him.”

“Oh, sir,” I whined, all the starch gone from my voice, “won’t you please reconsider?”

“Sure, if you can get McGill to quit,” Stromberg said and cackled cruelly.

In the outer office I joined the others in congratulating Mac on his deliverance and in accepting accolades for my part in it. I didn’t tell anyone that I’d gotten the ax, particularly not Mac. I couldn’t spoil his good news with my bad; nor could I make the ridiculous request that he decline Stromberg’s benevolence so that I’d be kept on.