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With a belch of noxious exhaust, the bus trundled away from the parts of the city I knew well, far from the 5th Avenue stores and Broadway’s marquees. A poster for East of Eden slipped by on a billboard, and I hoped it would still be in the theaters when I had the money to see it. I’d read the book by Steinbeck and wondered how they could distill the sweeping saga down to a single film.
With misgivings, I got off the bus at the stop closest to the address the Dragon Lady had given me. Sandwiched in between a shoe repair business and a pawnshop, the location in one of the rougher parts of town and the dinginess of the building itself were discouraging. Nothing on the door indicated I had the right place. Perhaps I’d made a mistake. I checked my directions again.
To my dismay, contact with the greasy napkin wrapping the ham sandwiches in my purse had caused the ink to blur the address, but I thought I could still make it out. I held the slip of paper by the corners to avoid ruining my gloves with oil. The note contained a street address with no company name, but since most of the surrounding businesses were shops, I had to be at the right place.
A spit of sleety wind rattled in behind me as I entered the building, chasing around my skirt to billow into the corridor. I closed the door in haste, shutting out most of the natural light. The hallway was narrow and dark, bordered on one side by a set of stairs—the treads worn smooth in the middle—leading to the second floor. The hallway wasn’t much warmer than outside, but at least there wasn’t any wind. The wall facing the door bore a small directory. Down the corridor, I could make out a door not listed on the panel. The washroom, no doubt.
According to the directory, the second floor housed offices for a lawyer and an insurance agent. The stillness in the building suggested business wasn’t brisk. My directions said the organization I wanted was on the first floor. Only one firm was listed at ground level.
Redclaw Security.
Odd name. A brokerage firm, perhaps? Or maybe a different kind of security. It seemed unlikely anyone in this neighborhood would hire private protection, or that someone from my old way of life would hire guards from this part of town. Though if I were perfectly frank, I wouldn’t care to do business with a broker in this seedy location, either.
I hesitated in front of the office. Should I knock? Or just walk in? Nothing on the outer door confirmed I had the right agency, and yet, Redclaw was the sole firm on this floor. Had Dragon Lady sent me on a wild goose chase? The idea my personal nemesis might crack an evil smile over my presumed despair stiffened my spine. That and the fact it was so bloody cold. Even if I’d been wearing my coat instead of carrying it, I wouldn’t have been warm enough. I dearly regretted hocking the mink coat Father had given me for my last birthday. However I’d felt about wearing the pelts of dead animals, fur would have been welcome just then. At the very least, I could go inside the office and warm up a bit, even if the trip proved fruitless.
Pressing my ear to the door’s paneling, I heard the indistinct murmur of voices. Chiding myself for my unusual indecision, I took hold of the handle with determination and opened the door.
A middle-aged woman seated at a desk looked up upon my entrance. A mass of faded red hair spilled out from an untidy bun, forming a messy halo around her head as she held the telephone to one ear and took notes on a legal pad. She acknowledged my presence with a narrow-eyed glance though horn-rimmed spectacles and continued writing. “Yes. I understand. Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it. Go on, I’m listening.”
For a place of employment, the room was disappointing. Along a windowless wall, two chairs covered in drab olive fabric bordered the sides of a small table littered with old magazines. Besides the receptionist’s desk, there were two filing cabinets and a second desk, empty save for a covered typewriter.
As though she’d read my thoughts, the woman on the phone glanced up, her pencil pausing in mid-air over her pad. Our gazes met, and then she returned her focus to the phone call. “Very good, sir.” She scribbled a final note. “I’ll see that it gets done.”
She replaced the heavy black receiver in its cradle, set the pencil down precisely in the middle of the pad, and dropped her chin to peer at me over the bridge of her glasses. It had the effect of making her gaze down her nose at me, even though I stood above her. A look of keen assessment lurked in those mild grey eyes. I was certain she took in the expensive-but-outdated suit and pegged me as unfit for the job.
“Hello.” I’d hoped to sound calm and efficient, but I’m afraid the cold lent a slight chatter to my speech. “I’m Miss Henrietta Bishop. I’m here to see Mr. Jameson.”
“There’s no Mr. Jameson here.”
“There isn’t?” I peered at the smeared, handwritten note. “Oh, dear. I can’t quite make this out. Perhaps I read that wrong.”
“Do you mean Mr. Jessop?”
I masked the relief flooding through me. “Yes. That must be it.”
“I’m Miss Climpson.” She spoke with a primness that made me picture her at church, holding a hymnal and singing in a mournful way along with the rest of a tone-deaf congregation. “Mr. Jessop is in a meeting at the moment. You may put your hat and coat on the rack by the door. Please take a seat. He’ll be with you shortly.”
She pointed toward a row of utilitarian chairs by the outside wall. They looked as though they came straight from the bus station. I removed my hat and placed it on the small stand next to the entrance, but there was no way I could hang the coat without the rolls falling out. Besides, it was too chilly to set aside my coat. Not inclined to sit with my back to the cold brick, I took a seat closer to the door bearing the word “Private” in small gilt lettering near the radiator. I settled myself into the hard chair and removed my gloves, placing them and my coat on my lap.
Miss Climpson used the intercom to inform someone I was waiting for my interview. I couldn’t decipher the response.
Behind her, on the other side of the filing cabinets, stood a second, smaller door. No doubt a storage closet. The additional desk stood in the middle of the room with a general air of abandonment. I remembered the Dragon Lady saying this was a short-term contract and I could see why. It didn’t appear to be a thriving establishment.
Miss Climpson made several phone calls, but her conversations were so cryptic I couldn’t determine their full nature. I got the impression she was directing people to locate certain things. Perhaps Redclaw was a private investigation firm, maybe even for insurance fraud. The thought cheered me up a bit, as the work might prove interesting.
After she finished her calls, Miss Climpson removed a large stack of reports from a basket on her desk and arranged them so she could view them as she typed, her fingers flying across the keyboard with a speed I’d never possess. She paused long enough to turn the pages of the reports. The clacking of the keys, combined with the musical sound made when she hit the return bar and the whirr of the rollers when she whipped out a completed page, was familiar and soothing, soporific, even. I shouldn’t have eaten such a large meal before an important interview. As the heat from the radiator seeped into my bones, thawing out my hands and feet, I dozed off.
I jolted awake when the door to the private office opened, and the most extraordinary individual burst out. He stormed into the reception area, his trench coat billowing like a cape on a movie villain. He had hair like black silk, streaked with a single dash of silver at his forelock, and the beginnings of an early five o’clock shadow marked his jaw. His eyes glittered with a kind of repressed fury and were such a pale brown they seemed yellow. If I were a fanciful sort of person, I’d have described them as topaz.
I started to full alertness, my coat almost slipping off my lap.
Something in my blinking stare must have revealed my slight alarm, for he halted to glare at me, as if I meant to address him without permission.
I couldn’t help it; I stiffened and leaned back when he swooped in closer. Without a word, he dropped to one knee, and scooped up the glove I hadn’t realized had fallen.
He proffered it as though he were presenting me with a ring. “I believe this is yours.”
It must have been a trick of light that made his pupils seem more like the vertical slits of a cat or a snake rather than round. Yet, when he lifted his head to smile at me, that impression vanished.
“Thank you.” For reasons I couldn’t explain, my fingers trembled as I accepted the glove, and I hoped he hadn’t noticed. “I didn’t know I’d dropped it.”
I have no idea why, but I found him disturbing.
“You must keep your wits about you around here.” His words were followed by a sardonic smile that sent an inexplicable shiver through me. “Otherwise, they’ll eat you alive.”
Rising with the exquisite grace of a dancer, he gave his coat tails a flick and left the office.
“Who was that?” I breathed, my heart thudding in my chest like a trapped sparrow.
Miss Climpson made a disapproving snort. “None of your concern.”
She went back to her typing.
Miss Climpson’s attitude was discouraging, but with any luck, she’d have no input into the hiring decisions.
Time passed. I didn’t have to sneak glances at my wristwatch; the slow march of the hands on the clock behind Miss Climpson’s desk gave me the hour. Another fifteen minutes had passed after the exit of the mysterious gentlemen when the outer door opened and a dark-skinned woman peered with trepidation into the room.
“Come in.” Miss Climpson was much more welcoming to the newcomer than she had been to me. “Mr. Jessop has been expecting you.”
The woman shot me a nervous glance before smoothing the hair under her hat and then hurried toward the private office. She waited, shifting from foot to foot as Miss Climpson announced her on the intercom and buzzed her through.
Annoyance grated like a tiny pebble in my shoe. My appointment had been scheduled for half an hour earlier, and yet Mr. Jessop continued to see other people before me. Business must be brisker than I’d thought, and I decided to take that as a good sign, despite becoming bored. Wishing I’d thought to bring a book, I poked through the back issues of Life and the Saturday Evening Post. Selecting a copy of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, the edges of the pages yellowed and curling, I retired back to my chair.
I read EQ cover to cover as the hands on the clock moved another three quarters of an hour. During that time, the rabbity woman had left the private office in a rush, tossing a pained glance at Miss Climpson as she hurried out of the rooms.
Still, I waited.
Miss Climpson cleared her throat to catch my attention. “Mr. Jessop is likely to be some time. If you’d like to tell me the nature of your business with him...?”
Oh, no. Maybe she didn’t know about the temp job. Maybe her job was up for grabs. She wouldn’t get rid of me so easily. I thought of the long, chilly ride home with no one to greet me, where the evening hours with nothing to do stretched into eternity. The idea of leaving Redclaw without knowing if I had the job made my heart drop in a sickening free fall to my stomach. I went back to the reading table and picked up a copy of Life, leafing through it as I returned to my seat.
“That’s quite all right.” Maybe if I didn’t make eye contact, Miss Climpson wouldn’t tell me outright to go home. “I can wait.”
Miss Climpson gave a loud sniff. I couldn’t tell if the harsh sound indicated approval or disdain. Reassuring myself that her opinion didn’t matter, I continued to flick through the magazine. I would stay until my interview or until the office closed. If Mr. Jessop left without seeing me, I would come back in the morning. Although the neighborhood was questionable, tucked in my purse alongside the ham sandwiches was a 0.25 caliber Baby Browning, and I am an excellent shot.
I read on.
The intercom buzzed, and Miss Climpson pressed a switch. “Yes, Mr. Jessop?”
This time, I heard his voice, sounding as if he were speaking through a tin can underwater. “Could you please step in here a moment, Miss Climpson?”
She hesitated, fixing me with a rather jaundiced eye. “There’s still someone waiting to speak with you in the anteroom, sir. A young woman.”
“There is? Does she have an appointment?” There was a pause before he continued. “Never mind. Send her in.”
The fact he didn’t remember he had an interview lined up didn’t bode well for his management style, but I could deal with that. I’d worked in worse conditions.
“Very good, sir.” Miss Climpson released the intercom switch and said, as if I were deaf, “Mr. Jessop will see you now.” She held the buzzer as though blowing a raspberry at me as I entered the private room.
After the long delay and the hints from the mysterious client, I half expected to see an autocratic tyrant sitting on the other side of the desk. I’d envisioned an American version of Winston Churchill, gruff and jowly, with a fat cigar in his mouth. Mr. Jessop was more pug-like than a bulldog. He was stout, to be sure, but there was no piercing glare, no belligerence about him. Instead, his forehead furrowed with concern as he stood.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Miss, ah...?” He waved at the chair in front of the desk, another relic no doubt obtained from a Salvation Army meeting room. “Please, be seated.”
The inner wall held more filing cabinets, several with drawers bursting at the seams with protruding papers. A large map hung from a roller on the wall between the filing cabinets, the type teachers pulled down before a geography lesson. Colored pins dotted the map’s surface, connected in many instances with narrow black twine and looking somewhat like a web created by a drunken spider. Small, handwritten notes festooned the entire display.
A sideboard stood along the outer wall stacked with several bottles of alcohol, a set of tumblers, and a humidor. A large bookcase loomed behind the desk, with books and papers crammed in every available space. Folders balanced precariously on the corner of Mr. Jessop’s desk, topped by what appeared to be a Slinky, of all things, though I’d never seen a gold-colored one before. My fingers itched to put the room in some kind of order, but instead I closed my hands around my purse and rested them on my folded coat in my lap.
The overhead light shone off Mr. Jessop’s bald pate. A narrow rim of dull brown hair remained on his head. Had he been wearing robes instead of a crumpled suit, he could have passed for a Benedictine monk. He settled a pair of pince-nez on his nose and steepled his fingers together, resting his hands on his desk. “How may I help you?”
I handed him my resume, along with the sealed envelope from the Dragon Lady containing my references, hoping both had been spared contact with the ham sandwiches.
He extracted the folded paper from the envelope, frowning as he perused the page. With a furrow still creasing his forehead, he laid it on the desk before him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
My pulse thrummed in my ears as doubt struck me again. Had I come to the wrong place after all? “I’m here about the temp job.”
His brow cleared, and he leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. We’re not hiring at this time. And if we were....” He shrugged. “We have our own resources for employment.”
No! I’d sat here for ages waiting for this meeting. If I was at the wrong address, I’d missed my interview long ago. Even if I could figure out where I should be, the fact I hadn’t shown up on time was enough to strike me off as a potential employee. And the Dragon Lady had made it clear she wouldn’t give me another chance. “Are you sure you’re not hiring? Your office seems busy for just one receptionist.”
Mr. Jessop’s smile was sympathetic, but firm. “I’m sure.”
As he shifted in preparation to rise and see me out, I spoke rapidly. “I can type forty words a minute.”
“You realize that is somewhat below average, yes?” He wore the pained expression of a man attempting to be kind without being crushing. Now that there seemed to be no hope of employment, he appeared to be the perfect boss.
“Yes, sir, but if you’ll check my resume, you’ll see I’ve worked for many of the top firms in the city.”
He picked up the single sheet of paper and peered at it a moment before lowering it again. “But you didn’t stay at any of these jobs. Why is that, may I ask?”
I gave him my stock answer. “Many of the positions were temporary. In some cases, I felt my skills could be better utilized elsewhere.”
He lifted a disbelieving eyebrow and tapped the Dragon Lady’s letter. “Mr. Billingsley of Haversham’s Insurance claims you broke his hand.”
Damn the Dragon Lady. I should have read her letter before deciding to share it. “Unfortunately, Mr. Billingsley’s hand was where it shouldn’t have been at the time.”
Mr. Jessop’s lips twitched. “And Mr. Steinbrenner’s foot?”
The instep is a very sensitive part of the body. A well-placed high heel can disable a man. And if you open your eyes wide and apologize profusely, it’s possible to make it look as though your actions were merely clumsy instead of intentional. Even if your intent was self-protection. “That was an accident, sir.”
He placed my resume on top of the letter from the Dragon Lady and pushed both across the desk toward me. The action threatened the stability of the stacked files on the corner. The Slinky shimmied, but though I sucked in my breath, nothing toppled.
“Miss Bishop, I’ll be frank. Your shorthand is described as passable, though not always accurate. Nearly every company that hired you states you have excellent organizational abilities, and you are both efficient and thorough with your assignments. But your reasons for leaving some places of employment aside, most of your previous employers spoke of an unseemly forwardness and a general inability to know your place.”
My face burned.
He continued without seeming to notice. “You’re right. We’re quite busy here at Redclaw, more so than we expected when opening the firm. It’s more than one person can do to answer the phone, collate information, type up reports, and so on. At some point we’ll need someone to deal with the routine paperwork, thus freeing up Miss Climpson to handle the more critical assignments.”
I leaned forward at his slight encouragement. “Yes, sir.”
“When we’re ready to hire, however, we’ll need someone with a specific skill set. One you don’t seem to have. Our work here is of a sensitive nature. I’m afraid we can’t help you, Miss Bishop.”
I thought of the time Em had stayed out past curfew, and then had the nerve to sneak Tigh Brannaugh into our rooms overnight, or when Professor Helmsley made a pass at me in the chemistry labs and it was his word against mine, or the most embarrassing moment of them all: Tommy’s drunken proposal. I knew when to keep my mouth shut and when to speak up. “I’m very discreet. Ask Mr. Steinbrenner.”
Mr. Jessop offered a gentle smile. “That may be. It’s not personal, mind you. We have our own pool of candidates from which to choose. I appreciate your time, Miss Bishop. Good day.”
Desperation made me persist. “I have skills that aren’t on any resume. I’ve faced down a lion’s charge in Africa. I shot a rattlesnake at point blank range while it was attacking my boot. I ran a coffee plantation in Kenya. I managed a racing stable in Maryland.” I told the truth on all points, though the last two were somewhat subject to interpretation. As in, I’d been more of an observer than an actual manager. After all, I’d been a mere teenager at the time. Still, I knew I could do the job, though, if given the chance.
If nothing else, I now had his attention. His brows beetled together as though he suspected me of embellishing my history more than I already was. He flicked a quick glance at the map behind him on the wall before reaching for my resume again. “Have you ever been in Nevada?”
What an odd question during a job interview. “No. But my mother’s family is from Wyoming.” I couldn’t see how that could help my cause, but I tossed it out there, anyway.
Mr. Jessop eyed me for a long moment before shaking his head. “You appear to be a remarkable young woman. I’m sure you’ll be an admirable addition to the right agency. But you aren’t what we are looking for here at Redclaw.”
“I can fly an airplane.”
I could. Nothing could compare to flying over the soaring beauty of an African veldt. Although, I hadn’t flown since my mother insisted it was time to stop “gallivanting around the world with your father” and demanded I return to the States to take my place in society. Still, once a pilot, always a pilot, I say.
Mr. Jessop raised an eyebrow at that, and his gaze turned in thoughtful consideration again. He then seemed to come to his senses and shake off that appeal. “I’m sorry. I wish you well, Miss Bishop.”
He placed my resume back on the referral letter and eased both toward me again. This time, the stack of papers on his desk shifted, sliding into the other items balanced there. I caught the Slinky as it undulated off the corner of his desk into my hand. The metal felt surprisingly warm. I replaced it with care and looked up to see Mr. Jessop staring at me with his mouth hanging open.
I smiled. “Good reflexes.”
“Indeed.” He gave a little cough, stood up and motioned toward the door with a flourish of his hand.
I had no choice but to stand as well. When I picked up my resume and letter of introduction, I noticed a glob of some pink rubbery substance stuck to the bottom of my papers. I thought it was chewing gum at first, but then I realized it was more like that stuff kids played with. Silly something. I couldn’t remember the name. Frowning, I tried pulling off the offending goo, but it clung like rubber cement. I managed to stretch it into a ridiculous string and had to roll it back up again before I could peel it off. Once freed from my papers, I pressed it into a ball and half-flung it to Mr. Jessop’s desk.
Looking down on the ball of putty, the imprint of the first line of my resume visible on its surface, I had the oddest impression it moved a little toward me. Impossible. I shook off the delusion. Crushed by disappointment, I put my coat on without thinking. The bread rolls I’d hidden up my sleeves shot out and bounced across the floor.
Mortified, I dropped to my knees and chased after them as they rolled away like mice evading a cat. “The bakery was out of bags,” I lied. “I’d folded them in my jacket to protect them from the weather, but forgot they were there.”
Mr. Jessop said nothing, but his brow crinkled in pained compassion. “Is there anything you’d like to share with us, Miss Bishop?”
I shook my head, refusing to dignify the implication I’d stolen bread. Which, of course, was true, but I had no intention of admitting it. What else could he have meant, anyway? I collected the rolls along with my dignity and made to leave. As my hand landed on the doorknob, the intercom buzzed. When I glanced back over my shoulder, I saw a blinking red light on the phone.
Mr. Jessop lifted an index finger to indicate I should wait, and picked up the phone, dialing a single digit. The rotary on the phone whirred as the number connected. He spoke into the receiver. “Yes, sir?”
A long pause ensued, during which time I strained to hear what the caller might say, but to no avail.
“But, sir!” Mr. Jessop shot me a look, only to turn his back and speak into the receiver in a lowered voice. “We know nothing about her.”
Whatever the person on the other end of the phone had to say, it didn’t make Mr. Jessop happy.
“Very good, sir. Right away, sir.” Mr. Jessop hung up the phone with an ill-concealed sigh. “It seems Ryker would like you to start on Monday.”
“Ryker?” That made little sense. Wasn’t Mr. Jessop in charge?
“The head of Redclaw. He’s decided to hire you, at least for now.”
“Thank you, sir.” The realization that Mr. Ryker, whoever he may be, had to have been monitoring the interview dampened my overwhelming relief. “I won’t disappoint you.”
Mr. Jessop raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips. “That remains to be seen.”
He crossed over to a framed print of a 1952 Oldsmobile that hung by the filing cabinets. To my surprise, the painting swung to one side at his touch, revealing a wall safe concealed behind it. After he turned the dial too fast for me to follow, the tumblers clicked into place and he opened the door.
He took out a sheaf of papers and an envelope. Retiring to the desk, he indicated I should take my seat again.
“Ryker would like you to have an advance on your salary. I assume that would be acceptable to you?”
I blinked as he opened the envelope and counted out more bills than I’d ever seen offered for a secretarial position. He set the stack of cash to one side of his blotter.
“Yes, sir.”
“You will, of course, have to sign a non-disclosure form.” He dipped his pen into an inkwell and held it out to me, even as he shoved the papers in my direction.
A single drop of ink threatened to spill from the nib of the pen, like blood from the tip of a knife.
I didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” I said, accepting the pen.
After I signed the form, I ventured to ask a question. “Why did your boss hire me?”
Mr. Jessop’s smile was a cross between a wince and a grimace, and yet I sensed some hidden speculation behind it. Or perhaps I was imagining things. “He thinks you’re plucky. Ryker likes your spirit.”
With that, I would have to be satisfied.