Daily Prompt Entry - Oct. 14th, 2008

Word count: 848



Agents wanted: Do you dream of a life of adventure and romance?  Apply to Lionel Smith, to become a registered Pinkerton agent.





         Lionel Smith hung his hat on the rack by the door, and then bent down to pick up the mail that had been pushed through the mail slot on Saturday.  There were several envelopes, which were clearly bills, a few letters marked ‘personal’, and a small package—badly wrapped and addressed to him crudely in a childish scrawl. 

He tossed the bills over on Mr. Jones’ desk as he passed on his way into his office.  In his five years as a registered Pinkerton operative running this office, he had never known John Jones to get to work on time on a Monday.  He let out a heavy sigh and decided he was going to have to speak to John—again.  Allan Pinkerton, their founder, was extremely firm about agencies operating under his franchise be run in a professional manner.

He had plopped down in his chair and was just reaching for a penknife when he heard a low squeak, as the outer office door was opened slowly.  He opened his right hand desk drawer, reassuring himself that his revolver was still where’d left it on Friday.  Then he closed the drawer halfway, and waited to see what would happen. 

A moment later John stuck his head into the office.  “I’m sorry I was late…I had a bit of an accident this weekend, and I’m afraid…”

Lionel looked up, and could see that something was wrong.  While John was habitually late, he was a most robust young man.  But this morning he was decidedly pale, and appeared to be sweating, even though is was a cool morning. 

“What’s wrong, John?”

“I’m sorry, but I will need to be late for the next few weeks.  As I was trying to explain, I had an accident yesterday, and I’ll need to get medical treatment each morning for the next two weeks.”  He looked ill, and added, “Would it be all right if I sat down, sir?”

Lionel nodded and waited.  He was sure there was more.

“It’s most embarrassing and unpleasant.”  John blurted out, “But I was bitten by a squirrel yesterday in the park…and, luckily—I suppose—my nephew shot it with his slingshot—because it turned out to be rabid.  So, if he hadn’t killed it, we would never have noticed the foam around it’s mouth…and consequently discovered that it was diseased.”

Lionel looked at him with a beady eye.  This was a pretty wild story, even for John.  But, as if John read his mind, he suddenly jumped up, and lifted his shirt.  There, on his stomach, were two red points, obviously from hypodermic injections. 

“Will you be all right?”

“Yes, the doctors assure me that as long as I finish the course of daily injections, I’ll be fine.  Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to work.  While they insist these shot will save my life—they aren’t exactly sure as to how I’ll react, day to day.  I might not be able to work the entire day.”

“Well, just make sure that you pay any bills that are due.  And update be before you leave.”  Lionel felt he should say something—but what did you say to someone who’d been bitten by a rabid squirrel?  In the end, he just went back to opening his mail.

A businessman wanted an appointment to arrange to have his accountant’s background checked.  Another man wanted his wife followed.  An unnamed politician was being blackmailed.  He smirked at the last, wondering how someone who didn’t realize that he’d have to reveal his identity for Smith to help him, could get elected to any office.  But then, he got at least one case like that every time elections came around.

He remembered how excited he had been when he’d first completed his training, and allowed to open up his agency.  He was going to make a difference.  But week after week, it was the same petty issues—or as he had come to feel—non-issues. 

He flipped through a file card box, pulling out agents for the various assignments, before he finished opening the mail.  He picked up everything and walked out to find John slumped across his desk.

“Are you all right?”  He asked, but continued without waiting for an answer.  “I’ve clipped a card onto each request.  Call and brief the agents accordingly.”  He gave a disgusted sigh, “And our serial murderer has sent us another souvenir…call and see if the police want it.  If not, just add it to the other severed fingers he’s sent.  And my ex-wife has sent me another letter written in blood…so file that as well.  Then you can go home for the day.”

Then he stomped back to his office.  No, this wasn’t the business he’d expected.  There was no romance, or excitement, no life or death scenarios.  In the end, it was just another job and this was just another day at the office.