Hired Gun
by Jay Petto
Rebecca Sykes stared across the table at the little man who was about to destroy her life. “You can’t, not after I just ...".
The cafe seemed to isolated from the city that rushed around them. Anyone watching would have seen a well-dressed young woman with auburn hair talking with a balding, middle-aged man in a rumpled grey suit. Perhaps the lady seemed distressed, but the holiday season had that effect on some people.
Walters gave her an amiable smile. “Please, this is just business. It’s a matter of pride to me that I successfully execute my contracts—all of my contracts, I might add. Mr. Hartwell has paid me to ensure that you will not be chosen for a seat on the board—and so here I am. By the way, there’s still some gingerbread on your blouse.” He took another sip of coffee.
She brushed the crumbs away numbly, then started to rise. Panicked thoughts tumbled through her head. Someone had to be able to help her, the police, the waiter, a bystander, anyone! This can’t be happening to me! she thought. It isn’t real!
“More money, I can give you more money than Hartwell”, she babbled. “And anything else you want!” Her eyes darted, looking for a refuge.
“Sit down! I’m a professional and I take my job very seriously.” His icy tone made her turn and for a moment she could see into the empty blackness of his eyes. Something in them drew her in, a void that seemed to leech away her will. Rebecca dropped back into her chair.
Walters pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “I apologise for my tone; it was quite uncalled for. Now let’s get down to business. I’d like you to sit quietly, attract no attention to yourself and listen carefully to my instructions. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Good. Now, you remember the gingerbread man you just finished eating? What no one knew is that he was a magic gingerbread man. Very soon, he will pull himself back together in your stomach and start to climb up your spine. It won’t hurt, but it will tickle. When he gets to the top, he’ll be in your brain. From there, he can see the little buttons and levers that make you go. Since Mister Gingerbread is a horny, curious little cookie, he will make you do all the sorts of things that will make him happy. Do you know what sorts of things I mean?”
Her face became even paler.
“Ah, I see you do. But don’t worry; even naughty gingerbread men aren’t evil, so he won’t let you hurt yourself. You will know that he can’t be gotten rid of until the holidays are over, though. Then he’ll just fade away. But for now, Mr. Gingerbread just wants to play, have fun and not do any work at all.”
Walters smiled again. “Now I want you to leave. When you take your third step, you will feel Mr. Gingerbread in your stomach. On the fifth step, he’ll be climbing your back and he’ll be all cozy in your head by the time you’ve taken ten steps. Naturally, you won’t recall our little meeting at all.”
Rebecca stood; as she turned to leave, the image of the little man faded along with the sound of his voice. What was that strange sensation in her stomach?
Behind her, Walters finished his coffee and took out a newspaper. He had some time to kill before his next appointment.
Roger Hartwell was extremely amused at the little man’s report. “So she ripped her clothes off in the street and just started doing herself?", he said. “God-damned, but I wish I’d seen that.”
Walters nodded. “Then you are satisfied with the results?”
“You bet! No way she’s going to be on the board now, it’s packed with more Puritans than the Mayflower!” He reached into his suit and drew out a well-stuffed envelope. “Here’s the other half.”
“Thank you.” The envelope disappeared into a grey pocket and Walters drew out a small paper sack. “There is one more thing. Ms. Sykes was aware of my occupation and wanted to hire me. In fact, she brought the entire fee with her.”
“Well, it won’t do her much good now, will it? Not while she’s jilling herself crazy in the mental ward. Gingerbread man! I never saw one of those used for THAT before!”
“No, I’m afraid it won’t do her much good. The problem is—once I’m paid I always see the job through.” He held out the bag. “Have one.” It was not a question.
Hartwell’s hand reached forward and pulled out an animal cracker.
It was a monkey.