This short story was tucked away in a drawer for a long while but I figure it’s time to drag it out into the light of day. Hope you like it!
The Essentials
Miss Solly locked her bag into the lower drawer of her desk and clipped the key on the chain about her neck. She removed the dustcover from her computer and folded it into three before tucking it out of sight. She exhaled slowly. Mr Alexander Svaric, today’s applicant, would be here any minute—or should be, if he had any chance of being appointed. Brandon & Co Detective Agency had to find someone suitable soon or they’d be out of business and thirty years of her working life would disintegrate to a one-line resumé item.
Three floors below, Alex Svaric pushed his way past piles of uncollected mail by the doorway. He had heard glowing reports of the agency—all the biggest clients and the best jobs—so he’d expected lots of chrome with piped music in the elevators. Instead, he gasped his way up three flights of narrow unrenovated stairs. The musty smell increased with each level. Fresh air hadn’t filtered its way into this office block since last century.
Outside the door to the agency, he smoothed his hair and adjusted his tie. Mentally he rehearsed his pitch. His police training had been cut short when he was head-hunted for an elite unit in the armed services. Now it was time for fresh challenges. That was it—snappy tone, positive, forward looking—it didn’t do to dwell.
On entering, Alek’s second disappointment was the receptionist. He’d pictured a chatty blonde who’d appreciate a break and would give him some ideas about what might go down well with the boss. Women thought him handsome—though he knew that was mainly to do with his height and build. His nose had been broken so many times that, these days, he shot for rogue-like charisma instead of pretty boy. The job would be his in a heartbeat. Nice of him, really, to give Brandon & Co the opportunity to have him.
The woman behind the desk would have been fifty on a good day and, by the look on her face, today wasn’t that day. She peered over her bifocals by way of a greeting.
“Alek Svaric’s the name.” He flashed a grin. “You’re looking at the agency’s next best detective.”
The gargoyle surveyed him for a long moment. “Our next detective, or the next best one?”
“Ha.” The smile slid off his face. “I’m due to meet with your boss, Mr Brandon, at nine.” He emphasised ‘your boss’. Put the bitch back in her box.
She inclined her head toward the chairs.
He sat.
And sat.
Rapid-fire clicks came from the old dragon’s keyboard. Every so often, the clicking would stop, only to be replaced by the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty, then ten o’clock came and went.
Might as well check his emails while he waited. He foraged in his pocket for his phone. The damn suit must’ve shrunk; he didn’t know why he’d bothered getting it cleaned. He slid his butt forward on the seat of the wooden chair, sucked his stomach in and eased his hand into the pocket. The tips of his fingers fumbled with his phone—it was chunky and heavy. He needed to update—if he got the job, that is.
He stabbed at the screen. No signal.
No internet reception? How did this place get its reputation?
Perhaps the office was shielded in some way. He stared at the stony-faced woman—when she wasn’t tapping like some demented woodpecker, she was sliding the mouse. Then she’d pause and flick her thumb, slip and slide, another pause, another flick—right-click this time, her wrist jerk barely perceptible. Yes, she was on the net, all right. So that made sense—security conscious, with restricted internet access only.
He put his phone away.
Eleven o’clock. Had she even let the boss know he was there?
He cleared his throat. Before he’d uttered a word, the beady eyes were upon him.
“Mr Brandon has been delayed.”
“I’ll come back another day,” he said, standing. Why didn’t she tell him this two hours ago?
Her stare lasted for what seemed like a full minute.
“You could try that.”
It was a dare. Leave now and kiss the job goodbye. Well, he’d show her; he would wait. He’d been in a lot of waiting rooms over the last twelve months. Maybe it’d be for nothing, but he’d be damned if he’d give up.
With each tick of the clock, the sides of the room pressed in further. No paintings on the walls. Just wood panelling, interrupted by mottled glass partitions. Gold lettering on the door to the right of the reception desk— probably Mr Brandon’s office. The office on the other side was unoccupied. Behind the glass he made out the blurred shadows of cardboard boxes piled in a discarded heap. An office of his own, that’d be the way to go. But a job in an agency this well-known would have a shed load of applicants. Most private investigators only got casual work—that was the way of things these days, but the advert had said permanent full-time and it had appeared for weeks now. So, were they being picky, or did the other applicants think better of the deal after they’d seen the place?
One o’clock. What he’d give for a drink. He was parched. Dehydrated, no doubt, from last night. God, he’d put a few away. He’d settle for water now though. He ran his furry tongue across his teeth, imagining how it would feel to stick his head under a tap and let the water flow into his open mouth.
With the image, came a responsive twitch from his bladder. Don’t think about it. He wasn’t going to put his hand up like a kid in class and ask the schoolmarm to be excused to take a leak. Think about something else.
The typing stopped. The woman removed a plastic container from behind the desk. She snapped the lid open, took out a small plastic fork and speared a lettuce leaf. The leaf disappeared into her jaws, two crunches and the fork dived again. He was almost grateful for the diversion. Finished, she rose and walked briskly through a small doorway at the far end of the office.
There’d be a toilet in the office washroom, he thought. This was his chance—he’d duck out and be back before she knew he’d gone. He was half-way to his feet when she returned.
Fed and watered, the snow-queen seemed—or perhaps he was imagining it—marginally less ice-bound. It was worth a shot.
“So, how would it be,” he asked—no grin this time, keep things respectful, “if I left my resumé for Mr Brandon to look at when he’s free?”
Her expression was placid.
Encouraged, he continued. “I’m sure he’s eager to fill the position, given the time it’s been vacant.” He paused, indicating the empty office with the cardboard boxes. “You could give me a call or email and let me know when he’d be sure to be available.”
She nodded, picked up the phone and pressed a button.
The door to her right opened a crack. Mr Brandon was the sort of man who would pass unremarked in a crowd. He had lips so thin that, when he talked, his mouth movements were only visible by a wandering line like an old cartoon character.
“Come in, Mr Svaric. At last, we meet.”
When five o’clock came around, Miss Solly could still hear the men’s murmured voices from behind the partition. She draped the dustcover over the computer, unclipped her key and retrieved her bag.
The selection of candidates took a long time, she thought, but, as Mr Brandon always said, there were three criteria that made a good detective and every one of the criteria had to be met to meet the agency’s standards. Punctuality and persistence, of course. Third, there was flexibility—things didn’t always go according to plan in following a case.
The handle turned and Mr Brandon ushered the candidate out of his office. Mr Brandon’s thin lips creased into an upturned crescent moon.
“Mr Svaric will be joining us from tomorrow, Miss Solly. I leave the arrangements to you,” he said and disappeared back into his office.
Despite the news, Svaric’s body was tense.
Miss Solly jerked her head toward the door. “Conveniences on the ground floor; first left down the hall. We’ll see you tomorrow—nine o’clock sharp.”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. Walking fast with his thighs clamped together, he bolted for the door.
Mr Brandon’s three criteria for selecting a detective were all very well. But, Miss Solly mused, stakeouts were often long, and people being followed could not be relied upon to stay in one place long enough to allow for comfort stops. It was her fourth criterion that was the clincher.
