---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v106) (the May 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Purpose (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 230 page May - July/Aug. 2012 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Courier

William Masters

    LAID OFF.
    For the third time in eleven years, forty-four year old paralegal Philip Morelli felt victimized by law firm economics: with good settlement or trial victory for client, law firm sends attorneys to the Sonoma Mission Inn for a long weekend as reward and (after a victory celebration and banquet) lays off half the paralegals as currently unnecessary since the 2008/9 financial debacle.
    Vastly unsuccessful in any measurable terms of financial or career accomplishment, Philip had somehow missed any middle-aged feelings of sinister nostalgia or sour regrets for past mistakes. Instead he felt vaguely melancholy, vowing never to work in law firms again.
    As he completed the EDD on-line unemployment form, he made a few tabulations: he had $18k in a CD, $2500 in his checking account, 130k in his 401k plus his $920 monthly unemployment insurance “award,” a new, $423 monthly cobra premium (if he wished to keep his medical insurance), an old 1995 VW beetle in need of both a new clutch and a master brake cylinder (if he wished to keep his wheels), a bum right knee preventing him from any more serious bicycling, four more months of gym membership, a laptop and a couple of real friends.
    Unaccountably, he held an unjustifiably high opinion of himself as eminently worthy.
    “After all,” Philip reminded himself, “a good ego should function like a piece of corning-ware, able to take both the heat and the cold.”
    Philip resisted any compulsion to update his resume (again), to meet with headhunters (flowering examples of the carnivorous entrepreneur) or to place himself in the hands of temp agency personnel (hyenas, incognito). He refused to review daily legal publications for job listings and failed to implement the traditional gestures of the newly unemployed by informing his network of friends and acquaintances that he was currently looking for work, by adoption of an unemployment benefit budget, and by administration of that sobering inventory of self, triggered only by sickness, death, job loss, destitution, divorce, envy or fat.
    Instead, Philip purchased a bottle of McCallan single malt scotch (to dull his nervous system) and a slab of Marcel & Henri house pate (to raise his cholesterol) and walked home from the store (to exonerate his conscience for the fat and alcohol he was about to consume).
    When he reached his cozy, one-bedroom Russian Hill apartment, he mixed himself a large scotch and soda, spread some pate on a piece of sourdough baguette, and sat down at his keyboard to compose the following advertisement.
    EXPERIENCED INTERNATIONAL COURIER: RELIABLE, PRESENTABLE AND AFFABLE. Call (415) 775-8990 for detail.
    He laughed Monday morning as he paid for and sent his ad electronically to the San Francisco Span, the remaining vestige of yellow journalism in San Francisco (as compared to the morning paper which chronicled the news and the afternoon paper which examined the news more closely) to begin with the Sunday paper and run for a week. He laughed again, deprecatingly at himself, now $216.30 poorer, and placed his passport on the fireplace mantel as a sign of confidence (or folly) that his advertisement might produce some employment or adventure.
    After returning home the following Saturday afternoon after a brisk, but not strenuous bike ride, Philip noticed the red flashing of his answering machine light and hit the playback key to hear the following message in a heavy Russian accent: “This is Boris re: your courier advertisement. I will call only once more, punctually, at 9:00 PM. If interested, remain at this number.”
    By 7:30 Philip was eating linguine with homemade tomato sauce dusted with grated Romano and a baby lettuce salad with garlic croutons. He washed dinner down with a cheap, but friendly bottle of Peruvian Merlot followed by a scoop of Hagen Daz non-fat raspberry sorbet. Taking a cup of coffee into his bedroom, Philip laid on his bed working bridge problems as he waited for the call.
    At 8:30 Philip dialed the Menlo Park Geological Survey number to obtain accurate earth time and readjust both his clock and his watch. At 8:45 Jean called to make a bridge date, and by 8:55 Philip felt too excited to read his Bridge World magazine any longer.
    As the second hand swept the last fifteen seconds until 9:00 p.m., the phone rang. Philip let it ring a second time before answering,
    “Hello.”
    “This is Boris. Are you person who advertised as courier?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “What names are you using, please?”
    “Philip and Morelli,” he replied in his best smart-ass cadence.
    “There is a little delivery I would like you to make for me. Please listen without interruption before you decide anything.”
    “OK.”
    “Next Wednesday, I want you to personally deliver a blue envelope to a mailbox in Zurich, Switzerland. I will pay you $1500 in cash for this errand. Will you go?”
    “Yes, when do I—.”
    “Wait. What is name on passport?”
    “Philip Morelli.” Philip heard laughter.
    “Ah, such utter lack of complication. On Monday at 10:00 AM you will bring your passport and pick up round-trip tickets, in your names, at the American Airlines office on Sutter near Stockton Street. With the tickets the clerk will give you a leather pouch. Return home BEFORE YOU OPEN THE POUCH to find further instructions, itinerary and cash. If you have not picked up tickets by 10:30, I shall assume you have changed mind or were detained. After 10:30 this offer expires. Timing is everything, Mr. Morelli. Good-bye.”
    Philip felt the twin surges of excitement and anticipation for a paid vacation under attack by vague, irrational fears; the whole deal might be a hoax.
    Nevertheless, on Monday morning at 8:30 AM Philip used his Fast Pass to ride the No. 45 bus downtown to Union Square. By 8:50 he sipped coffee and read the San Francisco Span at Forgis, a tony Sutter street cafe. Although the ticket office opened at 8:30, Philip did not rise until 10:15 to walk the half block to make the pick-up.
    Four faces monitored him as he passed through the revolving door. A tall, slim young woman rose from behind the counter and smiled at him as he walked past the velvet ropes.
    “Mr. Morelli,” she inquired?”
    She looked him straight in the eye. She wore no name badge. Neither did the other three people.
    “Yes, I’m Mr. Morelli.”
    “Good Morning, sir. May I please see your passport?
    She accepted and made a copy of the document.
    “Thank you. We always make copies of passports whenever clients obtain tickets in this manner,” she said, vocally italicizing obtain.
    “Is that often?”
    She ignored his question with smiling disinterest. From underneath the counter, she produced a brown leather pouch and gave it to him with the tickets.
    “Please sign this receipt for the tickets. Thank you.”
    She passed the tickets and the leather pouch to Philip. One of the other three persons opened the door for him and offered this information.
    “There is a limousine waiting for your use at the corner of Sutter and Stockton. It will remain there for five minutes. Good day, sir.”
    Out the door, Philip observed that a half block down Sutter Street, at the corner of Stockton, an illegally parked black limo waited with its lights flashing. As he walked toward the limo, the driver simultaneously waved away curious onlookers while beckoning to Philip.
    “Like a ride, buddy?”
    Some internal response clicked into place. Philip hadn’t seen The Ghost Writer (2010; Roman Polanski) for nothing. He shook his head no as he walked past the cab up Stockton Street to the tunnel bus stop, at which he almost immediately hopped a No. 45 home. While on the bus he resisted opening the pouch, but read the tickets. They were FIRST CLASS tickets departing SFO at 7:00 AM tomorrow, with an hour stopover in NYC, arriving in Zurich the following morning at 8:10 AM, and returning two days later. The round-trip price read $6729. Six thousand, seven hundred and twenty-nine dollars. Something didn’t make sense. $1500 paid to him to deliver an envelope using a $6729 first class ticket. Anticipation raced through Philip’s veins delivering the giddy feeling of a player holding a winning ticket.
    As soon as he arrived home, Philip sat down at his desk and opened the pouch to find a blue colored envelope without any outside writing and a letter addressed to him. The blue envelope felt as if it were made of some very thin metal. It was so light, that there might have been nothing inside, but Philip could see a small, dark rectangle through the blue envelope. He opened the letter. Fifteen one hundred dollar bills fell out. The letter read:

    Dear Mr. Morelli,
    After you arrive in Zurich, take a taxi to the Dolder Grand Hotel where I have reserved a room (room and meals prepaid) in your name. Refresh yourself and have breakfast in charming terrace dining room. After breakfast take leather pouch with the blue envelope inside to address in this letter. Use enclosed key to open post box and place pouch inside mailbox. After you relock post box, give key to duty person (badge name Hans Neumeyer). Return to hotel and call phone number under the post box address. Leave following message: “Thank you for the good tourist instructions,” and hang up. You have now completed your job. Do whatever you want. Make sure you are on plane returning to SF the following day at 10:00 AM (timing is everything). If you complete this task successfully, I may have other jobs for you. BORIS

    Later that morning, Philip took the fifteen one hundred dollar bills to his bank for examination. He hadn’t watched Five Fingers (1952; Joseph Mankiewicz) for nothing. The bills were not counterfeit.
    Punctually, at 4:00 AM the following morning, a Super Shuttle picked up Philip and drove him to SFO along with two dangerously cheerful and wide awake passengers.
    In the first class section on board the plane, the steward offered Philip a succession of food choices (all rejected) and alcoholic beverages (all accepted). During the flight, Philip observed that none of the first class passengers engaged in any conversation with anyone else. No one seemed to be traveling with a companion. Two people worked on laptops (the faint noise of hand hitting the non silent keyboards was still heard five rows away), three people slept, two read.
    Philip, feeling the effects of some not so vin-ordinaire, napped. Awakening sometime later, he felt vaguely uncomfortable, sensing a distinctly metallic aftertaste in his mouth. Trying to stand, dizziness forced him back into his seat. He rang for the steward whose perfunctory sympathy mocked Philip’s condition.
    “I know I drank a lot of wine. Still, if this were a train, I might claim that I’ve been drugged.” He hadn’t seen The Lady Vanishes (1937; Alfred Hitchcock) for nothing.
    The steward’s attitude morphed itself into unconditional disbelief.
    “May I offer you something to dilute the damage sir,” asked the steward unconvinced?
    Philip nodded yes.
    “Allow me to suggest a remedy. Our special brew of hangover tea,” responded the steward authoritatively.
    Both laughed as Philip good-naturedly accepted the offer.
    Some impulse made Philip pull out his faded, blue canvass overnight bag from underneath his $6729 seat. He opened it to find the leather pouch MISSING. Of course, he had both the instruction letter and mailbox key in his trouser pocket and the blue envelope inside his jacket pocket. He hadn’t read so many Graham Green novels for nothing.
    Feeling better after drinking his hangover tea, Philip got up to stretch his legs as he walked to the bathroom. Inside, he splashed some water on his face and combed his thick, luxuriantly wavy brown hair. Opening the door to return to his seat, Philip noticed that the person occupying the right-hand window seat was the limo driver who had beckoned to him near the ticket office. Lying on the empty seat next to him was the brown leather pouch.
    The former limo driver, now an expensively dressed first class passenger looked at Philip, innocently inquiring, “Did you happen to lose this, buddy? I found it on the floor in the bathroom and was about to notify the steward.”
    “Why, yes I did.”
    “Oh, really,” he asked handing the pouch to Philip, “I noticed a folded piece of paper inside when I checked for identification.”
    “Thank you.” Returning to his seat, Philip opened what should have been an empty pouch to find a piece of paper folded in half. Unfolding the paper, he read: Don’t try to deliver your package or you may not awaken from your next nap, buddy.
    He laid the pouch on the empty seat beside him and rang for the steward to order more wine, suppressing a knee-jerk compulsion to send a written response to the fake limo driver because he couldn’t think of anything witty to say. Instead, he drank another glass of wine and fell asleep.
    Philip awakened to the unpleasant aroma of eggs and toast. While other passengers ate breakfast, Philip ordered coffee. After tasting the coffee, he ordered an espresso.
    After the breakfast service, the steward announced landing in 65 minutes. Philip asked the Steward for his jacket. He actually hadn’t checked it since finding the pouch stolen, so sure with his blossoming aplomb that the letter remained untouched. Philip’s hand found the letter. He put it inside his shirt, feeling the envelope slip to his waist. He packed the empty pouch in his overnight bag and readjusted his watch to the Pilot’s announcement of current Zurich time.
    Since Philip had no baggage to claim, he headed straight for the Customs section. The Customs official was the woman from the San Francisco ticket counter. After checking his luggage and welcoming him to Switzerland, she asked,
    “Do you still have everything?”
    “I do,” responded Philip.
    “Good luck, Mr. Morelli,” she added, smiling conspiratorially. The name on her badge read Ms. Froy.
    As he entered the section taking him to the transportation center, he saw a young man holding this sign: Dolder Grand Hotel - Transit for Mr. Morelli. The same gut feeling that had stopped Philip from taking the limo in San Francisco now sounded an alarm to stop him from accepting this ride. After all, he hadn’t watched Dr. No (1962; Terence Young) for nothing. Feeling a surge of boldness derived only from the sublimity of ignorance, Philip decided to play.
    “What password did the hotel tell you to use for me,” Philip asked the now puzzled young man?
    “Password,” he asked, completely fooled by the ridiculous piece of hokum?
    Philip, transformed by his absurd pleasure in sensing this fakery, walked confidently away from the potential kidnapper to hail a cab. Four Saabs tried to fit into one space. He picked the cab with the oldest looking driver, a fifty-some year-old woman and asked, “English?”
    “Of course, sir” she replied. Her “of course” sounded just like Arnold Schwarzenegger. “German, Italian, English and French. In that order.”
    Both Laughed. She opened the door for Philip, and laid his suitcase on the seat next to him.
    “Dolder Grand Hotel, please,” instructed Philip, amused at the loftiness of the name.
    “I don’t like to lose a fare, sir, but that very exclusive hotel always supplies a personal driver to transport its guests.”
    Philip felt touched by her honesty.
    “I know,” he lied. “I didn’t like the driver.”
    “All right, mister, get in and we go” she said as the taxi moved carefully into an airport exit lane.
    “How long will it take us to reach hotel?”
    “About 20 minutes.”
    “You inspire my confidence. Can you tell me anything more about this exclusive hotel which sends drivers to pick up its guests?”
    “Oh sure. First, you don’t look like the people the hotel usually picks up.”
     “Why not?”
    “You are not expensively dressed,” she began. “You don’t have good luggage. You are too well mannered to taxi drivers. Also, you don’t look like you work out with a personal trainer.”
    Although Philip felt certain her concluding remark had something to do with the potential amount of the tip, he felt the rest of his newly gained stage confidence leaking away when he noticed the false Dolder Grand driver was tailing him. He informed his current driver.
    “The Dolder Grand drivers are always tall, gray-haired men,” she replied, looking in her rear-view mirror, “this driver looks like a ski instructor.”
    Philip agreed.
    They arrived at the hotel at 9:40 AM. He asked her if she could return at noon to take him to the address in the letter. She replied that she could. The ride would be about ten minutes. She gave him her card. Philip looked at the name.
    “I’ll see you later, Anna,” he said, giving her a hefty tip (expenses).
    A hotel attendant opened Philip’s car door, sternly informing him that a hotel driver should have met him at the airport. Philip ignored the attendant and carried his own worn, canvass overnight bag inside the hotel. The attendant, unaccustomed to such cheap luggage, delivered a look of carefully gauged contempt, reserved for guests unfamiliar with protocol, and without the slightest knowledge of how to conduct themselves with servants.
    Once inside, an impeccably dressed, tall, once blond-haired man of about 60 greeted Philip by name, shook his hand, introduced himself as Hans Mueller, the hotel’s executive manager and escorted Philip into a plush, private office.
    “The hotel sent a driver to meet you, Mr. Morelli. Did you miss him? We haven’t heard from him ourselves.”
    “Was he a 5'9, 22 year old blond with very white teeth,” Philip asked?
    “No, Franz is a 6'2, 64 year-old with thick gray hair.”
    “Then I am reporting Franz missing from duty. Some blond 22 year-old ski instructor type impersonated your official driver. The impersonator followed me here.”
    “I see.” Mr. Mueller rose, having relieved Philip of his passport and had a bellman show him to an unexpectedly elegant room containing a real fireplace, a stand-up desk, a sofa and an arm chair with matching hassock.
    “Enjoy your stay, sir.” The bellman waved, leaving before Philip could tip him. Immediately, Philip checked the time (timing was everything).
    He locked the door and inserted the letter and key into the pouch taking it with him into the bathroom. He took a long shower, redressed into his-single change of clothing. Carrying the pouch, he left, anticipating a first-rate meal in the charming terrace dining room.
    After the waiter brought breakfast, including a pot of coffee, Philip felt famished, but caution stopped him from consuming even a taste of the waffles, sausage, eggs or a nibble of the baguette.
    “Maybe just a cup of coffee,” he thought to himself. “Oh, no,” he remembered! He hadn’t seen Notorious (1946; Alfred Hitchcock) for nothing. “I’ll eat lunch in some posh hotel dining room later,” he thought to himself, “after I deliver my ‘merchandise’.” He laughed at his attempt at “spy terminology.” Pushing his food away, he opened some bottled water to drink.
    Two tables further down in his row, the waiter greeted (“Welcome back, Mlle.) and seated a woman with pale, wound blond hair. Her legs were pretty and her teeth were white. She could easily have been the older sister of the fake chauffeur. The waiter obviously knew her. Philip turned away, ignoring her with interest as the waiter approached his table.
    “Is something wrong with our food,” he asked with mock alarm, looking at the untouched breakfast?
    Philip wondered if the waiter was related to the airplane steward.
    “No,” he replied and rose to leave.
    Since he had twenty minutes before Anna arrived, he headed back to his room. Just as he was ready to push the elevator button, the bellman appeared.
    “Telephone call for you, Mr. Morelli. You can take it in booth no. 3,” he said pointing out a row of handsome telephone booths.
    Philip entered the leather-lined booth, sensing immediately from the closed door that the booth was soundproofed. He picked up the phone.
    “Yes, what is it,” he asked?
    “This is your guardian angel, buddy, reminding you that heaven is best seen in old age. If you insist on making your delivery, you will arrive in heaven decades early.”
    The angel hung up. The manager knocked on the booth’s door.
    “Mr. Morelli, you have a confidential telephone call on the line in my office. Please follow me.”
    “I shall leave you alone now. Just pick up the phone and press the flashing button.”
    With a tone of mild expectancy, Philip answered, “Yes?”
    “Mr. Morelli, this is Boris. Listen carefully. You will not deliver the envelope as planned. A driver will pick you up in five minutes and take you to meet someone who will receive the envelope. Is this understood?”
    “No,” replied Philip with matured annoyance, “I have been drugged, robbed and threatened. I’m afraid to eat food based on the justifiable apprehension that I would not survive it. So, I repeat, no. I only go with my planned taxi driver, Anna. So if you want me to make the delivery give me the address NOW or I will simply fly home, leaving the letter here for you, and keep the money.” Silence lasted for about ten seconds.
    “Please, Mr. Morelli, I fear that you have slipped into rhetoric. Do you have pencil?”
    Philip picked up a fountain pen from the desk and a piece of hotel stationery. “I do.”
    “Tell taxi driver will take you to 84 Curzon St. W. Ring door bell and deliver letter to person who will open door.”
    “No, I don’t like that address, he said. “I didn’t see The Secret Agent (1936; Alfred Hitchcock) for nothing. Forget it. I want some place more public.” He fingered a brochure of fine dining on the concierge’s desk, eyeing the restaurant listing. “Have the person meet me at the Scobar Grill. I am going to order a large lunch that, incidentally, will appear on my expense account. Give me a description of the person, who will receive the merchandise,” he said authoritatively.
    “The blond woman who sat near you in terrace dining room. Do you remember what she looks like?”
    “I do.”
    “I am leaving in five minutes for the restaurant. If the woman hasn’t arrived by the time I finish lunch, I shall assume that she is not coming and leave. Good-by.” He hung up, amused by his own shallow audacity and left the office to ask the concierge to book a table for him at the Scobar Grill. As he walked outside, he saw Anna, a few minutes early, waiting for him. Entering the taxi, he informed her of the change in destination.
    “I only hope the restaurant will let you in, sir, without a jacket. It is a very snooty place,” she said, with lifted eyebrow and an emphasis on the word snooty.
    “Since this very exclusive hotel has just made the reservation, I shall depend on its lofty reputation to get me in,” he answered. He wore a pair of navy blue cotton Dockers, long sleeved linen; white collared T-shirt (to show off his good upper body) and a pair of woven Italian sandals, the most expensive piece of footwear Philip had ever purchased. His side trouser pocket now carried the letter.
    “Is the restaurant close?”
    “In four minutes,” she replied holding up four fingers of her right hand.
    “After lunch, when I am ready to go, is there a way I can call you?”
    “Yes,” Anna replied, giving him another card. “Call the taxi number and ask for the driver number on the card. A Dispatcher will radio me. How long do you think you will be?
    “My guess is about an hour and a half.” Philip gave her an American fifty dollar bill (expenses).
    “All right,” Anna replied noting the denomination of the bill and soon drove up to a large porch. There was no sign. As the taxi stopped, an attendant opened the taxi door. “Welcome to the Scobar Grill, sir.”
    Philip entered the restaurant by stepping down into an enormous dining room. In the middle of the floor, a quintet played chamber music. The host (the fake blond kidnapper from the airport) approached, taking him (rather too firmly) by the arm and leading him to a table by the front window overlooking the porch entrance.
    “Welcome, Mr. Morelli. We have been expecting you ever since your hotel called and we are... overjoyed that we can seat you.”
    Indeed not another vacant table remained among the 40 or so other tables, each set with a potted begonia of ravishing hue.
    “Will someone be joining you, sir, he asked?
    “Someone will, but only for a drink. Please bring me a Lillet blanc on the rocks with a splash of soda.”
    The blond faker turned without a word and walked to the bar to place Philip’s order. A server brought a menu. Philip noticed that he was the only male without a jacket and tie.
    “What am I doing,” thought Philip? “Having an adventure,” he answered himself about to order a fabulous lunch (and expense it) hoping fun or joy would invade immediately. Instead the host arrived with his drink.
    “Please do me a favor,” asked Philip.
    “Why of course,” answered the false chauffeur.
    “Taste my drink.”
    Without waiting a second, the faker drained half the glass.
    “I love Lillet. This and the next are on the house,” he replied, chuckling as he left.
    The server brought a replacement drink and escorted Mlle. (dressed in some silky looking, long-sleeved white blouse and beige skirt) to his table. Philip rose, not ungraciously, but without enthusiasm. “Won’t you order a drink,” Philip asked?
    She smiled at Philip. “My usual, Pierre,” she said distractedly. The red begonia on the table (the only red begonia among the ravishing hues of the other tables) looked like a piece of jewelry seen against her white blouse.
    “I am Josette.” She spoke without accent, reaching for the envelope that Peter had placed in his empty plate. As her hand glided toward his plate, Philip snatched the blue envelope and placed it underneath the shiny piece of round, white porcelain in front of him.
    “Are we playing a board game, Mr. Morelli? You’re not going to ask for more money?”
    “Certainly not,” replied Philip. “Nothing as adolescent as a board game nor beneath contempt as a request for more money. I have an appetite for information.”
    “Ask me anything,” she responded impatiently. The sibilance in ask assumed a vaguely foreign intonation. The server brought her a cocktail.
    “What is it?”
    “Stoli on the rocks with two squeezes of fresh lime.” She drained the glass with a single gulp, lifted the empty glass, and then hit the table with it.
    From across the dining room Pierre recognized her signal for another drink. “I want to know what the dark rectangle inside the envelope is.”
    “Realize first that every additional minute I sit here reduces your chances of survival.”
    “Then please begin.”
    “The dark rectangle is a new kind of disk, differently shaped for both sound and three dimensional picture transmissions. The inventor doesn’t trust the patent office to keep its design confidential. We couldn’t use any normal courier service. Boris insisted that only an ignorant innocent could complete the delivery. Don’t you think this is an intellectual property problem for an unemployed paralegal like you,” she asked with immeasurably controlled contempt?

    Pierre delivered another double to Josette. Gradually, Josette’s speech continued in a vaguely Middle European accent. “The picture projection is particularly valuable. As a teaching tool, it’s unparalleled...” Her pronunciation of “t’s” now reached staccato articulation.
    “...medical students and doctors can observe a life-sized projection of some famous doctor displaying some new surgical technique without the famous doctor’s actual, physical presence. I’ll bet that doctor or his ‘agents’ will charge plenty, too,” she added parenthetically.
    “One can watch the assembly of a piece of furniture. Furniture instructions are especially worthless. Imagine someone demonstrating how to set the most advanced DVR, use of Blue Ray or offer guidance for use of the latest software for a new, underused PC. In the comfort of your own home you can watch some famous chef preparing fabulous dishes or a munitions expert demonstrate bomb assembly.”
    “The projection quality now attainable is so remarkable that one could fool an audience into believing that the projection and sound quality on stage was the actual presence of the person standing in front of the podium. What an alibi that could furnish someone whose projection spoke to an audience of 600 dentists in Omaha, Nebraska while the speaker was actually strangling his mistress in Marbella, Spain.”
    “But the real breakthrough,” Josette continued, “is the ability of the projection to fully integrate with matter. Just imagine someone projecting the image of a safecracker inside a locked vault; the projection has only to use its hand to turn the inside handle and open the safe from inside.”
    “Consider projecting the image of an assassin right inside the White House into the President’s bedroom. The chief executive enters his bedroom, sleepy after a long day of fund-raising for his second term to find some Cheshire cat, smiling assassin sitting on the foot of his bed, waiting to shoot him. The projection, integrating with matter, picks up and fires the very pistol kept in the nightstand for the President’s personal use. The bullet, entering through the forehead, lodges itself in the President’s brain, resulting in hemorrhage, hematoma and death. The secret service rushes into the bedroom to find only the corpse, but no assassin. Someone simply turned off the projection leaving no evidence of entry. This is the world’s greatest assassination technology, Mr. Morelli.”
    Pierre served another drink; a double hit the table. Josette consumed it with a coal miner’s thirst.
    “The Japanese will probably buy it,” began Philip, “since they recently paid twelve million dollars for Claude Monet’s ‘Rouen Cathedral, Afternoon Effect’. Yes, they will bid the most and buy the secret. Then they will manufacture the technology and sell it to whoever can afford the price. News media will report the names of the Presidents, Premiers, and Dictators found murdered in their bedrooms and limousines, in their saunas and their private jets while the tabloids will headline the names of the murdered bookies, rich husbands, plastic surgeons and attorneys dispatched by their respective customers, forgotten wives, scarred B movie queens, and unhappy clients. Stock markets will soar and plunge according to the hits. Newly invented polls will forecast public support (or displeasure) for the next victims. Las Vegas will supply odds for the next likely assassination candidates. A group calling itself Citizens For A Cleaner World will nominate five people each year for assassination. Release of these names will coincide with the announcement of the Academy Award Nominations each January while the actual assassinations will follow the Oscar broadcast in February.”
    Philip stopped to catch his breath and admire his invention.
    “You know,” continued Philip, “I think I can identify, catalog and index vodka fantasies as well as any other unemployed paralegal. Since you won’t tell me the truth about the item, maybe you will identify this material,” he asked now holding the envelope in his hand?
    “It is a special metallurgical covering used to maintain a constant temperature of —.” Sensing her mistake, she stopped mid explanation.
    “Would removal of the item from the envelope and exposure to room temperature destroy the contents,” Philip asked matter-of-factly?
    “You Americans are apt to overdo good deeds and heroic gestures. So you think destruction of the article a good notion? You come from such a nation of do-gooders. You make me sick. Your naiveté only invokes revulsion in me.”
    Suddenly, Philip grabbed Josette’s hand, applying a slow, painful squeeze.
    It was a gesture so unexpected, so physical that Josette’s gasps turned heads from nearby tables.
    “You don’t seem to be a projection,” he said.
    “Flesh and blood,” she replied, as Philip released her hand.
    “I can’t say that I believe anything you’ve just told me. Still, you rate an award. You recite nicely.”
    Philip handed the envelope to Josette who quickly put it inside her purse.
    “Thank you, Philip,” she said with just the slightest slur in thank. “Now I can go.” She rose from her chair, and with a single wobble, turned to leave.

    Philip’s eyes followed her exit. For a second, she remained out of sight until she emerged on the porch. He watched her through the window, framing her movement like the rectangle of a giant movie screen, as she stepped down to the sidewalk. Philip noticed that she no longer carried her purse. He was just about to look around for it at the table when a gun shot, so loud that it may have been amplified, dropped Josette’s body to the sidewalk. From his seat, watching through the window, it seemed as though Philip were watching a movie. A large red spot, growing larger like a flower opening its petals, appeared on Josette’s blouse. An ambulance appeared. Two persons lifted Josette’s body into the vehicle and drove away.
    Philip supposed the police would arrive and question him (especially since she had just left his table) and the others who had recent contact with her. The Hotel waiter knew her. (“Welcome back, Mlle.”) This restaurant knew her (“My usual, Pierre.”). Boris knew her. (“The blond woman who sat near you...”).
    Shaken and numb, Philip signaled for Pierre who merely asked him if he was ready to order lunch.
    Philip ignored the question.
    “Aren’t the police coming?”
    “I don’t think so. Today’s special is—”
    “Stop,” cried Philip! “Please call this number and request this driver,” he said to Pierre handing him the card. “I don’t think I’ll stay for lunch.”
    He sat, poetically still, for several minutes, waiting for the taxi and concentrating as if he were solving a bridge problem. Suddenly, the horror of the murder faded within Philip’s thoughts. Appetite, so long ignored, returned. So did Pierre.
    “Your taxi is here, sir,” he reported.
    Philip left a generous tip. “For the floorshow,” he said circumspectly to Pierre. Anna waited outside. He got in the taxi.
    “Back to the hotel, please.”
    Back in his room, Philip felt wasted. He hit the bed (having made a taxi reservation with Anna for 7:00 AM tomorrow) and fell asleep. The phone awakened him. He looked at his watch. 7:18 PM.
    “Hello Philip.”
    “Boris. You big espionage magnate, am I done?
    “Yes, you have completed your job.”
    “I haven’t solved the riddle.”
    Silence.
    “Riddle? Philip, I think you suffer from jet lag. Thank-you for good job. I will be in touch.”
    Philip called the desk to ask for a 5a.m. wake-up call. Philip undressed, felt the cool sheets against his skin, and fell comfortably asleep. When he awakened, five minutes before his wake-up call, his condition recalled to him the first morning of summer after school term ended. He felt slightly weightless and wonderfully relaxed. He could do anything. He still had his life before him. Hopes and aspirations renewed themselves.
    He answered the phone to hear a real person making his wake up call. He took a ten minute shower and dried himself off using the warm air attachment next to the shower. The room service waiter found him dressed and packed when he delivered the coffee and rolls.
    At 6:45 a.m., he went downstairs to retrieve his passport. Anna had arrived early. On his way to the airport, Philip debated whether or not this line of work might have a future for him.
    “Could I do this every week,” he asked himself?
    At the airport he paid Anna and gave her another big tip ($1500 plus expenses).
    “Good-by,” he said feeling as if he were saying good-bye to a teammate.
    Customs offered no surprises. As he boarded the plane with the other first class passengers, he noticed, far in front of him, a tall woman with pale, wound blond hair, smiling and alive. Well, Philip hadn’t seen North By Northwest (1959; Alfred Hitchcock) for nothing.
    Yes, he thought, spreading himself in his seat, closing his eyes in exultation, timing is everything.
    After a nap, Philip declined (as usual) any food, but accepted (now out of tradition) an offer of chilled wine.
    He felt certain of a new, burgeoning career. As he reviewed the circumstances of the last twenty four hours, he considered whether or not all the threats and warnings were just so much borscht. Philip now laughed at the fake shooting. In retrospect, he now realized the whole gallery of players comprised a troupe of actors playing multiple roles. The disk wasn’t the new technology, but simply a device used to camouflage the real invention: the blue envelope. Or so went his current theory.
    With only his carry-on luggage, Philip had nothing to declare and passed like sand through customs. Approaching the front of SFO, Philip remained on the lower level to find a taxi instead of taking the escalator to the second level for a Super shuttle. At 10 a.m. no traffic impeded the ride and Philip found himself deposited in front of his building by 10:35a.m. holding a $42 taxi receipt (for expense purposes) in hand.
    Unlocking his front door, he felt giddy as he entered his apartment. Three days had not changed his home. His umbrella tree did not need watering. Nothing had spoiled in the refrigerator. Only two phone messages awaited him. No unusual mail. Still, his apartment felt smaller. He suddenly minded, for the first time, that this fireplace did not work and that his bathroom was not spacious.
    Number one phone message was from Boris: “Everything OK. You rose to all occasions and successfully passed job test to receive permanent offer of employment from company. Please remain home tomorrow in AM until you receive my FEDEX. Will speak with you soon.”
    The following morning at 8:30, FEDEX made its delivery. Inside the FEDEX letter Philip found a pad of expense account sheets and a dozen self addressed envelopes (with post box numbers, of course), new employee medical forms, eight one hundred dollar bills and this letter:

    My Dear Philip,
    Please accept this additional $800 to cover your expenses (taxis, food, tips) plus little extra for unpleasant excitement. Next time will be easier. Will phone you tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM with new offer. If you do not pick up, I assume you are not interested in my offer of employment.
    Boris
    P.S.: Rio has good weather this time of year.

    The 2nd phone message was from the agency that had placed him with his former employer. Although he had not notified anyone (layoff news circulates fast), some perfunctorily smooth-sounding, but anonymous voice offered to send him on an interview to some prestigious, but unnamed law firm. Philip immediately called the agency to inform it that he was already employed. When the diligently nosy person asked what firm had hired him, Philip replied that he was now in the shipping and receiving business and asked to have his name removed from any list of possible candidates for future positions (his nose imagined the faint smell of smoking timbers while a picture of burning bridges passed before his eyes). He said good-bye, and before any response, hung up.
    “I have never been to Rio,” thought Philip deciding what to have for lunch as he searched the internet for phone numbers to luggage stores.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...