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Fast Track

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2023. Fast Track. p. 9-16 in: Polar Borealis 25. April 2023. https://polarborealis.ca/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/POLAR-BOREALIS-25-April-2023.pdf

“Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Nicholson.” Old Man Nicholson was senior management. A founding partner, in fact. His presence in an office this far down the management chain was intimidating. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve assigned you the unenviable task of informing everyone in your division they’ve been laid off.”

“Right before Christmas? Really?”

“Of course. It’s traditional. The gift that keeps giving, you might say.” He chuckled, then held up a pale finger to forestall a response. “You must do this in person. No shortcuts like form letters, e-mail, or”—Nicholson shuddered—“videos on Instagram.”

“Isn’t that kind of callous?”

Nicholson pursed his lips, then sighed. “It’s all about the spin. We prefer to spin it as providing the human touch to soften the blow.”

“But right before Christmas, Mr. Nicholson?”

Nicholson sighed, looked at the floor as if seeking strength, then gazed up at his junior, who quickly avoided that disturbing gaze. “Mr. Jones, you were selected for this task because we felt you had management potential. If we were wrong, please correct our misunderstanding so we can rectify the situation and avoid any future unpleasantness involving dashed hopes, tears, recriminations... premature layoffs...”

Jones took a deep breath, held it a moment. “Very well. I’ll do it.”

Nicholson’s smile was chilling. “I’m glad to see we have an understanding, Mr. Jones. Please report for reassignment once your task is complete.”

“Re—”

“No, Mr. Jones. Not that. Provided you implement our instructions efficiently, we’ll reward you with a promotion appropriate to your skill level.”

Jones took another deep breath, and rose to shake hands with his superior. Nicholson’s hands were surprisingly warm, almost feverish; Jones had anticipated something icy cold to match his demeanor.

As the door closed behind the older man, Jones remembered a parting exchange during his last performance appraisal: “Don’t worry that you lack the training for a future management post, Mr. Jones. We at Mirk don’t require sociopathy as a pre-condition for promotion.”

“That’s a relief,” he’d replied.

“No, we’re a modern company. We provide on-the-job training.”

***

Jones sat at the bar, staring at the bottle of Jack standing before him in a puddle of spilled beer. He contemplated another shot, then resisted the temptation. He sat straighter on his stool.

“Is this seat taken?”

Jones looked up. A statuesque bottle-blond towered over him. The tip of her tongue protruded demurely between her lips.

“Um... no, it’s not. Help yourself.”

She sat gracefully, held up a finger to catch the bartender’s attention. “Another glass, Frank? Ta.” Then she turned her attention to Jones. “You look like you had a hard day.” Then she waited. Jones felt himself drowning in her eyes, and was grateful when she turned away to pour herself a generous shot of whisky. She downed it in one long swallow, refilled her glass, then sloshed some into his glass.

“Um... yeah.” He took a shot of the whisky and shuddered. “You sure you want to know?”

“Try me. I’m a good listener.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Lilith.”

“Unusual name.”

“I’m an unusual girl.” She waited expectantly. After a moment, she raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, sorry: Jack.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jack.” She placed a warm hand over his. “So... bad day?”

Jones sighed and sipped his drink. “I got a promotion.”

Lilith showed dimples. “Most people would call that a good day.”

“Yeah, but I had to lay off 50 employees to get it. Some were friends. Well, workplace friends anyway. Colleagues, really.”

Lilith shrugged. “Business is business. It’s a dog eat dog world.”

Jones took a larger sip. “I tried explaining that, but you can imagine it didn’t go over well.”

“Still, not your problem, right?”

“Not until the last one.” He took a larger sip. “She didn’t get all weepy like the others. She looked me in the eye, and told me I looked like I was enjoying this.”

“Were you?”

“To be honest... Yeah, I think so.”

Lilith bit her lip, then drained her glass. “Take me home. At once.”

***

“Of course, Mr. Nicholson. What can I do for you?”

“Call me Nick... Jack. All the other managers do.”

Jones felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “This is about the division’s performance, isn’t it?”

“Well... yes.” He smiled a predatory grin. “But not in a bad way. Well, not bad for business, leastwise.”

“But?”

“But I’m being rude, Jack. How’s your wife doing? I understand she’s pregnant with your second child?”

“Yes. Lilith’s doing well. The baby’s expected in a month. Right before Christmas, actually.”

“Delightful. Anyway, to business. I’ll need you to do more layoffs.

Jones hesitated a moment. He’d gotten much better at the layoffs, which was not to say he’d gotten over his guilt about how much he enjoyed it. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Okay, let’s be honest: he outright enjoyed it, guilt-free, particularly when it came to the bastards who thought they might someday take his place.

“Jones?”

“Sorry, Mr. Nicholson. I was woolgathering.”

“Nick.”

“Nick. You said something about layoffs?”

“Well, it will be easier this time. There’s only two.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Not so much as you might hope.” Nicholson stepped into the office and pulled the door shut. “You see, these retirements need to be permanent.”

“Aren’t they always permanent?” Jones belatedly noticed the look in Nicholson’s—Nick’s—eyes. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” He licked his lips, relishing the moment. “We’ll leave the methods to you, but the retirement must be irrevocable. And, obviously, must leave no trail pointing to Mirk. Are you up to the task? There’s a lucrative promotion if you succeed.”

“If?”

“Well,” Nicholson smiled, “it would be unsporting if they didn’t know the game was afoot.”

“You’ve warned them?”

“Of course. It’s only fair. And now you’ve been warned too. May the best man win!”

Jones shivered. “Fair isn’t the first word that springs to mind when I think of you, Nick.”

Nicholson’s smile widened, but his gaze didn’t soften. “Tread cautiously, Mr. Jones. A certain courage is expected of one; outright insolence won’t be tolerated.”

“Understood sir. And who must I retire?”

“Clarkson and Thompson. Will that be a problem?”

Jack swallowed, and thought longingly of the bottle of Jack in his desk. “No sir, no problem at all.”

***

“Best of luck with the retirements, dear!”

“Thanks. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

It was only as he locked the door behind him that he wondered how she’d known. But it was only a momentary distraction. He’d spent the whole trip home, apart from a brief diversion to speak to a couple men he knew, slowly realizing how he would do it. He’d come up with several possibilities, narrowed them down, settled on the most likely. Clarkson first, he’d decided.

About half an hour later, Jones found himself at a biker bar that had been recommended by the helpful police officers he’d met earlier that day. A long line of Harleys stood on their kickstands outside the door. When he entered, he felt the pressure of hostile gazes, and squared his shoulders before approaching the bar. He leaned conspiratorially towards the bartender. “I need to hire someone for confidential work.” He slid the $100 bill he’d palmed across the bar. “Very confidential.” He slid a second bill to join the first.

The bartender made the bills vanish, gestured with his chin. “The guy playing pool by himself.” He went back to polishing glasses.

Jones approached the pool table, careful not to disrupt the man’s shot. The biker wasn’t the biggest man in the room by a long shot, but he was compact, muscular, and had the second-coldest gaze Jones had ever seen. (Nick had the first, by a comfortable margin.) When the balls stopped rolling, the other man looked up. “You’re blocking my light.”

“I can fix that.” He placed a large envelope on the table. “Here’s a downpayment for improving the lighting.”

“That will buy a lot of lighting.”

“But first, I’ll need your help removing an obstacle.”

“Obstacles block the light. I can see that.”

“Precisely. There’s another envelope with the same amount in my pocket. After you’ve improved the lighting, you can redecorate.” Jones slid a piece of paper across the green felt. “This is the guy.” The paper contained Clarkson’s address and photo.

“When do you need it done.”

“Sooner’s better. Tonight’s best.”

“I can do that.” He pocketed the envelope, racked his cue, and without looking back, headed for the door. At the door, he stopped and looked back. “You’ll be here in an hour when I get back.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Sure.”

Jones waited until the unmuffled Harley’s echoes faded, then got in his car. Before putting it in gear, he made a short phone call. Then he drove to a pleasant suburban street outside a gated community. The man he’d hired had parked his bike by the curb, a short distance from the gate, and either sweet-talked his way past security, or climbed the wall. More likely climbed; he didn’t look much like a pizza deliveryman. Jones took the bolt cutters from his trunk, walked to the Harley, and neatly clipped the brake cables. Then he got back in his car and waited.

A few moments later, his temporary employee jumped down from the wall and climbed onto his bike. As he started the engine, flashing lights appeared down the street, and a patrol car accelerated towards the Harley. The biker gunned his engine and sped off down the block, heading for the highway on-ramp with the police car in hot pursuit. Jones waited for the sound of the crash, then drove sedately past the telephone pole at the corner the Harley had wrapped itself around. Two officers stood by the pole, shaking their heads sadly. One reached down, and pulled a bloodstained envelope from the biker’s leather vest.

Jones drove home without meeting the gaze of either officer.

As he put his key in the lock, he heard someone clearing their throat. He turned to see Thompson, standing behind him with hands spread to show he was unarmed. The man was sweating hard, damp spots on his shirt and his black skin glistening under the porch light.

“What do you want, Thompson?”

“You got the same request from Nick that I got? Yeah, thought so. I want to talk you out of it.”

“So you can kill me instead?”

“Hell, no. I’m a Christian, man. We don’t do that shit.”

“More’s the pity. For you.”

“Look, man. I’m married. I’ve got two kids and another one on the way. It’s Christmas. I’m begging you: don’t do this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Them, on the other hand...”

The squad car turned on its flashers, and two large white officers stepped out, hands on holsters. “Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to keep your hands in the air, and step away from Mr. Jones.”

Thompson looked at Jones, eyes widening. “You didn’t.”

“Sorry. Nothing personal, you understand.”

Thompson turned towards the officers, put his hands on his head, and knelt. “I’m unarmed, officers. There’s no threat here.”

They exchanged glances. “He didn’t step away, did he?” asked the first.

“Not so’s you’d be confident describing it,” replied the second.

“And is that a gun he’s got in his pocket?”

“Could be.”

Thompson began sobbing, and made the mistake of moving his hands in front of him to plead for his life.

“He’s going for his gun!” said the first.

“Bad choice,” replied the second. Thompson’s screams were drowned by the sound of gunshots. Many gunshots.

Jones approached the officers, and handed each a large envelope stuffed with bills. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Think nothing of it, sir. To serve and protect, after all.”

Jones unlocked his door, entered, and locked it behind him. Upstairs, Lilith awaited him in bed.

“Everything went well?”

Jones found himself shaking, and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “Well as can be expected.”

Warm hands descended on his shoulders. “I’m so proud of you! Also, horny AF.”

Jones turned and took her into his arms.

***

Jones entered his office, and found Mr. Nicholson sitting in his chair, across a wide expanse of polished mahogany desk. Past experience suggested the visit was unlikely to be anything good, although Jones nonetheless felt excitement grow. The kids were about to enter a private school, something he’d arranged by hiring his friends on the police force to dig up dirt about the parents of competing children, thereby persuading them to withdraw from the race. But the school was going to be expensive.

“Nick! Nice to see you. It’s been ages since we chatted.” Not that this was a bad thing, Jack reflected. It had, in fact, been several years. He’d been growing impatient waiting for the next promotion.

“You’re a busy man, so I don’t want to waste your time. In short, you’re overdue for promotion.”

“That’s great, sir.” Despite his words, Jones felt ice water trickling down his spine.

“Have you heard the old joke about the lawyer and the devil, Jack?”

“I don’t think so, Nick.”

“You’ll like it. It goes like this: a lawyer desperately needs to win an upcoming lawsuit to ensure his promotion, but he’s not sure he’s going to win. So he calls for the Devil, and the Devil appears. Once the lawyer explains the problem, the Devil guarantees victory. But I’ll need your soul in return. The lawyer thinks about it a moment, and figuring his soul is already mortgaged, he agrees. But the Devil sees how quickly he’s agreed, and figures he can get more. Also, the soul of your wife. The lawyer quickly agrees, as he doesn’t much like his wife, so the Devil continues. And the souls of your children and your dog. The lawyer thinks a moment, then asks: Okay, but what’s the catch?”

Jones forced a chuckle, having long since mastered the art of pretending senior managers were funny. “Good one, Nick. So in this case, I suppose I have to ask: What’s the catch?”

Lilith stepped from the shadows behind Nicholson and produced a scroll, a hungry look in her eyes. Nicholson produced an antique-looking ivory fountain pen with a razorblade for its tip. “No catch, Jack. Just sign here.”

Lilith handed him the pen and helped him roll up his sleeve.

Author's notes

"Old Nick" is, of course, an old name for the Devil. Lilith gets a bad rap; her main crime seems to have been insisting on equality with Adam in an excruciatingly patriarchal age. Here, I've stuck with the archetype because this whole story is about archetypes, both ancient and modern.

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