The Job Interview

1,893 words

The Job Interview

         "Mr. Slipp, Mr. Larson will see you now."
         I cleared my throat. "Thank you."
         I put down the magazine I had been pretending to read. My steps made no sound on the carpet as I walked past the secretary and into the hallway. At the end was a door that read "Mr. Timothy Larson".
         I straightened my tie and checked the folder I was carrying. It contained my portfolio. I tucked it under my arm and began walking down the hallway. I straightened my posture and held my chin up.
         I knocked on the door.
         "Come in," came the reply.
         I entered the room, and I came face to face with Mr. Timothy Larson. The back wall of his office was a window. He was sitting behind his desk and reading something, and when I came in he nodded.
         "Mr. Slipp, take a seat."
         As I sat down, I realized he was reading today's newspaper. He seemed very interested.
         After a few awkward seconds, I cleared my throat.
         "Ah," Mr. Larson said, breaking his concentration. "Where are my manners. Interesting news, these days. Very interesting." He lifted the newspaper, folded it, and turned the front page towards me.
         There was a picture of three dead men lying on the concrete, but no visible wounds. The headline read, "Three bodyguards murdered, no visible wounds."
         "A tragedy," I said politely.
         "I'm grateful that the press did not mention that they were my bodyguards."
         "I'm sorry."
         "Thank you. They were good men. I need replacements."
         "I am not here for that."
         "I know, I know," Mr. Larson nodded. He tossed aside the newspaper and took a deep breath. "I doubt the police will find the killer. No visible wounds, no fingerprints, no weapons, nothing. But I believe I know the killer. Or at least who he works for."
         "And that is?"
         "Well," Mr. Larson replied, chuckling. "That is why you are here. You are applying for an uncommon position, in an uncommon business, in a common world. I hope that that is clear. But I know you are familiar with this."
         "I have experience."
         "Indeed, Mr. Slipp, and experience these days is invaluable. We can not afford to train people. Well, we have the money, but we just can't do it. It's not safe."
         "I see."
         "I've heard good things about you, Mr. Slipp. Well, not from the media, but from my sources. You are a professional. A professional with success. I recall names. Brian Adamson. Luke Scold. Samuel Gilbert. Brilliant work."
         "I remember them."
         "Of course you do, you did a good job. Fantastic. The best of your career. You should be proud. And for this assignment, I would ask that you repeat that."
         "So the job is mine?"
         "Do you think anyone else got an interview? Did you see anyone else in the waiting room? No, I rejected everyone else. Why? Because they're not Howard Slipp."
         "You are too kind." I stared at Mr. Larson, and he stared back. He did not smile as he finished his compliment, in face, he seemed very serious.
         Mr. Larson reached into a drawer in his desk, and I became uncomfortable. Fortunately, he withdrew a stapled batch a paper and began reading.
         "Conducted operations objectively with detail orientation. This intrigues me. Makes me wonder. Could you explain this further?"
         "There is not much more to explain. If there is someone, then he or she is the focus. If there is a job, I will do it. If there is a mess, I will clean it up."
         "You are a man shrouded in mystery, Mr. Slipp. I respect that, but if you are to work for me, I should know a bit. Give me an example from the past."
         I thought back. I could make something up. But that would be too easy. If he wanted to hear about my past, then let him hear it.
         "Sure, hmm let me think. Ah, yes, there was this one. I remember it well. It was in London. There was a thunderstorm. Rain was pouring, and it was cold. Very cold. So cold that I refused to leave my hotel room. But luckily for me, there was a park across the street where I could meet him."
         "Who?"
         "Don't you remember? He was all over the news. It was Greg Lesley."
         I could see that Mr. Larson's eyes lit up as I mentioned the name. He blinked, and the light was gone. "Ah yes, of course. Greg Lesley and the park. Go on."
         I continued. "Because Mr. Lesley and I were in confidence, I called him and told him to meet me at the park. He agreed, and in thirty minutes he was sitting on one of the park benches by himself, right where I could see him. He waited, and I waited. He became impatient, checked his watch and twiddled his fingers. The thunderstorm raged on. After twenty minutes, he finally decided to call me. Back at the hotel room, I let my phone ring. I answered it at the last second. Where are you, he asked me. I told him I could not make it. I told him that I was in danger, and that he could not help me. He panicked, but I made sure he remained in the park. Then I told him that the money was buried beside a tree in the park, and that he would have to dig it up himself. He agreed. I told him which tree and to hurry. He hung up and I watched as he ran to the tallest tree in the park, and furiously began digging with his hands. The thunderstorm did not stop."
         "I know the rest," Mr. Larson interrupted. He did not seem impressed or unimpressed. "And there never was any money, was there?"
          "No," I concurred, "but that's not the point. The desire for money is greater than the enjoyment of money. The thought of having money is more uncontrollable than having money. Using this theory, I was able to take care of Mr. Lesley."
         "Very smart, Mr. Slipp, good anecdote. You are a good man. A mastermind. You seem even more fascinating in person. I like that."
         "Where have you heard of me before, Mr. Larson?" I asked casually, listening to the heartbeat in my chest.
         "Oh, here and there," Mr. Larson said dismissively, breaking eye contact with me and looking through his papers. "I looked you up, but couldn't find anything. So I started asking around. A few people knew. You are held in high regard, Mr. Slipp."
         "Am I."
         Mr. Larson nodded slowly, and leaned back in his chair. He stared at me. There was a pause, but we remained perfectly still. The clock ticked.
         Then the phone on Mr. Larson's desk rang. I was not startled.
         Mr. Larson slowly reached over and picked up the phone. "Hello?" he said.
         I watched Mr. Larson as he listened. He became slightly irritated. He looked back at me and smiled apologetically.
         Thinking that he should deserve some privacy, I rose from my chair and walked over to the window. Outside, the snow was falling delicately. There was no wind today, a perfect day. Far down below, there was some movement on the street. I took a deep breath and checked my watch.
         "He is," Mr. Larson said quietly into his phone, and I pretended not to hear. I continued staring out the window.
         "It's a nice view, isn't it?" Mr. Larson said, hanging up.
I turned around. "Stunning," I agreed, sitting back down. "Everything is ok, Mr. Larson?"
He smiled. "Yes. Just some colleagues wondering if my nephew is getting married. He is."
"Good. Good for him. Well, if that's everything, Mr. Larson, I should get going. You have my number. Reach me through that." I stood up, but Mr. Larson motioned for me to remain sitting.
"Stay," he insisted. His eyes were kind.
I nodded, and sat back down again. I watched as an expression of relief crossed Mr. Larson's face.
After a pause, he pointed at the folder under my arm. "What is that?" he asked. "A portfolio?"
"It is. It outlines my career."
"Would you mind if I took a look?"
"Absolutely. I brought it for you. It features all the clients that I have worked on in the past." This time, I smiled.
"And the present," I added.
Mr. Larson frowned. "The present?"
I reached over and handed the folder to him. He opened it and began reading aloud.
"Luke Scold. Johannesburg. March 4th, 2005. Fraud, extortion, theft. Jeremy Cook. Boston. March 27th 2005. Murder, theft, assault. Horatio Jones. Paris. May 2nd, 2005. Drugs, murder, theft."
Mr. Larson stopped reading. He looked up at me. "There is a lot here," he said. "A lot of names."
"Skip ahead," I suggested.
He flipped through the papers. He stopped to read some of them, and then went on to the next one, until he finally came to the last two papers. He read the first one.
"Mark Jade. Paul Distillo. Fredrick Krupp. February 11th, 2012. New York. Murder, theft, drugs. No visible wounds." Mr. Larson raised his eyes towards me. He did not smile. "That was yesterday."
"Read the last one, Mr. Larson," I suggested calmly.
"I will," Mr. Larson said, but his voice cracked. I could see that he did not break out a sweat.
He broke his stare and turned back to the folder. He flipped to the last page. As he was reading, I could hear soft footsteps outside the door.
The doorknob was about to turn when I aggressively put my back against the door. Mr. Larson stood up quickly, but I withdrew my gun. There was pressure behind the door, four, maybe five men trying to break in. They were shouting.
"Why would they call," I said, pointing my gun at Mr. Larson, "when you assured them yesterday that I would be here? No one is late for their job interview."
"They are clumsy men," Mr. Larson said. "But they work for me."
He did not make any sudden movements, as I knew he wouldn't, given my reputation. He stared back at me, as he'd been doing the whole interview.
"You have no where to run, Mr. Slipp," he said triumphantly. "You are trapped."
I glanced through the window and smiled. I looked back at Mr. Larson. The pressure behind the door was increasing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Larson, but after some thought, the job doesn't interest me. I quit. Thank you for your time."
And that was when I shot Mr. Larson. I ran from the door and crashed through the window, where I began freefalling. No wind, no trouble. Below me, a huge white mattress had been laid on the street.
Back at Mr. Larson's office, the men opened the door. Jenkins, their leader, knew that it was too late. Seeing Mr. Larson dead on the floor and the window shattered, he told the men to rush downstairs and try to catch Howard Slipp. But if the stories of him were true, then they had no chance.
Jenkins walked over to Mr. Larson's desk. The glass cracked under his shoes. He picked up the folder from the desk. The last page was visible.
"Timothy Larson," he read. "February 12th, 2012. New York. Mass murder. Production. Trafficking."