The days that followed my involuntary unemployment were a bit rougher than I’d expected. I had a modest savings, but that was bound to run out eventually, and I was too proud to apply for unemployment. I’d assumed that Treadwell had spread the word to his associates regarding my less than mature departure so I didn’t bother looking for a job in the legal field, not that I had any aspirations there anyway. After a while I shut myself out from the world. I suppose that’s how I missed the news story about what happened to Treadwell, until I got the letter.
The plain cream-colored envelope didn’t come with my usual assortment of bills and junk mail from the postman. It was delivered directly to my doorstep, in my secure building, without anyone seeing who brought it, trust me, I asked around. Inside the envelope was a newspaper clipping from the day after I lost my job. The headline stated:
Prominent Legal Figure Suffers Fatal Heart Attack: Faulty Pacemaker to Blame
In my initial shock, I nearly missed the hand written note behind the clipping. Black ink on thick expensive-looking cardstock read:
My condolences on the recent loss of your esteemed employer Mr. Treadwell. However, can’t say he wasn’t warned now, can we? As it would appear that you are now in need of employment and I in need of an employee I see it as imperative that we meet. I could definitely use someone of your mental acumen in my service as well as provide much guidance and direction, if you’re willing and receptive. I’m confident that both the position and the compensation shall fit your needs nicely. Meet me in my quarters in two week’s time if you’re interested. I doubt you’ll get a better offer.
Very Truly Yours,
M. Fathom
p.s. I will arrange transport to pick you up. Be ready.
I assumed the note to be a joke, a prank being played on me by a former co-worker or friend from school. I was placated by this thought for a while, however, the magnitude of the coincidence and something in the wording of the note nagged at me.
I tried to ignore the note, my job loss, Mr. Treadwell, my dwindling finances and most everything else, resorting to several bottles of Irish whiskey to help me in doing so. The following days were a bit of a blur, but I do remember a significant amount of Jameson’s and an equal amount of self-pity being involved.
The morning of the meeting I woke up feeling like my head was on strike from the rest of my body and had the distinct impression that a small mammal had used my tongue for a bathroom. Despite the hangover, I cleaned myself up the best I could, and headed out to catch a cab and get some coffee, I hadn’t thought about the invitation until the white, Rolls-Royce limousine pulled up to my curb. The driver’s side door to the limo opened and a woman stepped out in an impeccably tailored chauffeur uniform. The uniform was cut close enough to her body to be feminine but stopped short of being provocative. She didn’t say anything to me other than,
“Mr. Fathom is expecting you. We’re late.”
