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by Scott Normandin
The door opened and in walked the man
he was waiting for. A slick younger man
with Wall Street looks. Complete with the
Italian pinstriped suit that was worth far
more than the wearer. His hair was slicked
back with some kind of medicinal smelling
hair tonic that reminds you of a barber
shop, only to be combined with the smile
like some vacuum cleaner salesman that always
show up to get you to buy a nine hundred
dollar hunk of junk.
Roger walked toward the door with a folded
piece of paper in his hand and reached past
the young man and called to his secretary,
"Ms Redding! Please take this memo
and circulate it as soon as possible, its
kind of urgent. I don't want this company
to get caught with its pants down again
and make another mistake."
The young man stepped aside in the doorway
to let the secretary reach in and take the
folded memo from Roger's hand. "Yes
Mr. Devvin," she replied sheepishly
and closed the door on the way out.
Roger smiled at the young man as he walked
toward his desk, "Please have a seat
Mr. Jameson."
"That's Jamestone," he corrected
with a sneer, "but you can call me
Tom, considering our history together."
Tom Jamestone sat down in the old chair.
He thought about how uncomfortable it was,
lumpy. He glanced around at the rest of
the office and realized it was probably
the second best chair in the building. He
was used to a much higher class of d�cor,
but he owed most of his wealth to this man,
so he decided to remain quiet and get on
with the meeting.
Tom decided time was money so he began
the conversation, "Mr. Devvin, I think
I know why you called me down here, and
I have to tell you that legally you are
not entitled to any more compensation for
royalties on those photographs. You signed
a release and a cashed a reimbursement check
for a one-time lump sum. I am sorry if you
feel it's not enough but you should have
thought of the implications before signing."
Roger Devvin sat staring at the young
man sitting in the chair from behind his
desk. His expression had turned cold. He
seemed to look through Tom Jamestone.
Roger parted his lips slightly and breathed
a nervous sigh, closed his eyes and started
to speak in a slow solemn tone, "Mr.
Jamestone, what I called you here about
was not for more money, but to ask you to
stop publishing those pictures."
"I am afraid that cannot, I am sorry
will not happen." He replied sternly.
Roger opened up the top drawer of his
desk and pulled out a small black box, about
the size of a deck of cards, with two toggle
switches on the top and what looked like
buttons. Tom panicked and fear swept through
his body, "What is that box for Mr.
Devvin?"
Roger Devvin flipped one of the toggle
switches and one of the buttons lit up.
"I think it's time I leave Mr. Devvin..."
Tom braced himself to raise himself up from
the chair, and Roger stopped him.
"It would not be wise to get up
from that chair, Tom. You see, as soon as
I flipped this switch here, that chair became
a bomb and the only thing stopping it from
detonating is the fact that you are sitting
in it."
Tom's face flushed white with fear. He
was terrified, "What the hell do you
want from me?"
Roger sat back in his chair, actually
a little smug that so far everything was
working for him the way he had planned.
He opened another desk drawer and pulled
out a small mirror, like you would find
in a man's travel grooming kit and reached
across the desk to hand it to Tom. "If
you are not sure whether or not to believe
me, just use this mirror, look under the
chair, and see for yourself."
Tom reached out one trembling hand and
accepted the small mirror, and moving slow
not to set off the bomb, he brought the
mirror down between his legs, and angled
it to see under the chair. There on the
bottom side of the seat, he saw three sticks
of dynamite, some wires, and a battery.
His heart melted inside him and his lips
started to tremble. This was no game.
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