How To Massage a Deal
by T. J. Young
It was afternoon of a very wet, rainy day in December. Charles Denton, attorney at law, was sitting in his shabby office, staring out the window at the brick wall of the adjacent building. Although his face appeared calm, he was mentally carrying on a heated argument with his ex-wife, Delores. She had recently demanded that Charles pay for some ridiculously expensive therapy she had started with a thickly-muscled man who claimed to be a professional masseur but who Charles suspected was actually an ex-convict. Charles was silently explaining to her that her masseur was a quack when the phone on his desk rang, interrupting his thoughts.
“Damn,” he muttered, swiveling around in his chair and picking up the receiver. “Hello,” he said, temporarily suppressing his mental image of Dolores.
There was a strange sound on the other end, a crackling noise, like static but not static. It went on for some time, droning in his ear. He was about to hang up when a voice finally came through, very faint and far away. “Mr. Denton?” it said.
“Yes, what is it?”
“The attorney, Denton?”
“Yes, I’m an attorney.” Or at least, he advertised as one. Due mainly to the fact that he had — through no fault of his own, he was sure — lost a big case a few years previously, he didn’t get much business. Another one of Delores’s grievances against him.
“We would like to make an appointment. Is that the right word — appointment?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” he said. “Just a moment.” He reached across his desk and grabbed his calendar. He still used one, though only God knew why; he had so few appointments.
“When did you have in mind?” he asked, flipping through the pages.
“Well, today,” the voice said. “Now, in fact.” The voice had an accent, a damp, nasal sound, like someone with a stuffy nose. Not unusual in Seattle.
Denton sighed. There went his afternoon. But he couldn’t be picky. “Okay, sure,” he said, tossing the calendar aside. “I’ll be here till 5 o’clock. Come by anytime.”
“Very good, thank you.” The line went dead.
Denton hung up and went back to his argument. Where was he? Oh yeah, he was pointing out that her masseur had about as much in the way of medical credentials as her beloved Pekinese, Buffy. “At least Buffy is licensed,” he was saying, “your guy can’t even drive.”
He was interrupted again — this time by a buzzing sound in the hall just outside his office, like an alarm going off, followed by a small bang. A faint smell of ozone drifted in the air.
Curious, he went to the door and opened it.
To his surprise, a man was standing there, his hand raised to knock. He was very nattily dressed in a three-piece suit, heavy overcoat, and carrying a gold-tipped cane. He was wearing tiny, round, wire-rimmed glasses. He stepped back and smiled when Denton appeared. “Mr. Denton, I presume?” he said. He had the same nasally voice Denton had heard over the phone.
“Did you call just now?” Denton asked. He looked past him down the hall but there was no one else there, just a faint wisp of what might have been smoke hanging above the tattered linoleum.
“Yes,” the man said, “we had an appointment.” He produced a business card and handed it over with a flourish. In old-fashioned, ornate script, the card read “Aloysius P. Frome, Vice-President, Biological Personnel, Inc., Outer Reach.” There was no address or phone number.
Denton took the card. “Outer Reach?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “What’s that, an island?”
The man waved his cane. “Oh, just shorthand. That’s our main office, but we have branches all over. We’re widespread throughout the whole area. In fact, that’s what I’m here to discuss. Shall we go in?” He seemed eager to get out of the hall.
“Sure,” Denton said. They went in. Frome removed his overcoat and hung it on the coat tree next to the door. Denton slid in behind his desk and Frome took the chair opposite. With his coat off, Frome seemed a much smaller man: harmless, bureaucratic, weaselly, even.
Denton spoke first. “How can I help you?”
Frome leaned forward. “Right, let’s get straight to the point. I’m here to offer you an opportunity,” he said, his eyes bright, “the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Denton looked skeptical.
“I represent a conglomerate,” Frome continued, “a very large conglomerate, and we’re in need of new staff at the moment. We’re an aggressive company, you see, always growing, always expanding, always finding new opportunities. But we have difficulty hiring and retaining qualified people — people such as yourself — for the kind of work that we do. We’re chronically short-staffed. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see,” Denton said.
“In a nutshell, we want to hire you. To work for us.”
“Okay, great,” Denton said. “What do you want me to do?” He reached for a legal pad and, after a moment of searching, found a pen on his desk.
Frome shifted slightly in his seat. “I can’t give you all the details now,” he said, “not at this preliminary stage. But I can assure you the work is very rewarding. Some travel is required, of course — extensive travel, actually — but only in the greatest comfort. You will be very well taken care of. And you will be highly paid. The work is very lucrative for those who take the plunge.”
“I like the sound of that,” Denton said. He was thinking of Delores and her many demands. A lucrative payday would certainly be helpful. “So if you can’t give me the details, give me the general idea. What business is it? What do you do?”
“Our work is highly varied. We have a large number of subsidiaries engaged in just about every business you can imagine,” Frome replied. “We do everything under the sun and even some things well beyond that.” He chuckled. “There’s personnel matters, naturally. As I said, we are chronically short of staff. There’s also contracting, international law, sales, trade agreements, legal disputes of all kinds. Our clientele is very diverse and widespread. We cover a huge territory.”
He spoke with an air of genuine pride, but he also sounded as if he had given the same spiel many times before. There was something cagey about him, Denton thought, something slightly underhanded; his eyes kept darting about the room apprehensively. Denton wondered who he was exactly.
“That all sounds good,” he said, “but it still doesn’t tell me what you want me to do.”
“To join our team, Mr. Denton. It’s that simple. You would be part of a first-rate team of specialists just like yourself. We only employ the best people. Onboard our ships, we have every luxury, every opportunity for advancement. You’ll see things you’ve never seen before, I can guarantee it.” He smiled broadly.
Denton frowned. “Ships? What kind of ships?”
“Here, let me show you.” With a flourish, Frome unscrewed the cap on the end of his cane, which apparently was hollow. He reached in and pulled out a roll of papers, handing them over the top of the desk to Denton. “This is our standard contract,” he said. “The interested party signs here” — he tapped one of the sheets — “then we onboard them and, after that, the adventure begins!”
Denton took the papers, which were written in the same ornate script as the business card. The print was so small, however, it was difficult to read. He flipped through the pages. On one page, he saw with surprise reference to a salary of $200,000 per year. On another, he saw the phrase “scrupulously perform all duties once onboard.” But what were the duties?
He flipped through more pages, but couldn’t immediately find anything identifying the specific duties. He looked up at Frome. “I’ll have to study this later,” he said.
“Oh, no,” Frome said. “I’m sorry. That’s my only copy. You can’t keep it.”
“Well, give me a minute, then,” Denton said. He tried reading it again. But for some reason, he found it difficult to concentrate. Frome kept tapping the floor with his cane, distracting him. Also, the contract contained a lot of dependent clauses. By the time he got to the end of one sentence, he couldn’t remember what the beginning had said. He saw references to “interstellar shipping” and, oddly, “time lag,” but he couldn’t fit it all together. His brow furrowed.
“Of course,” Frome said, interrupting him, “it’s mostly just boilerplate. No need to read it all. Just skip to the end. The signature line’s on the last page.”
Denton looked up. “You want me to sign this?”
“Yes, of course. As I say, it’s our standard contract. Then you’ll be part of the team.” He looked at Denton happily, as if this prospect was the most enjoyable thing he could imagine.
“And the salary is $200,000 per year?”
“Yes, that’s right. Just sign on the last page there.” He pointed.
Denton hesitated. His training told him not to sign a contract without knowing what was in it. On the other hand, he desperately needed the money. The large paycheck was so enticing he almost didn’t care what he had to do to get it. With a payoff that big, he thought, he could hire an attorney of his own — someone nasty, a real junkyard dog, someone Delores would hate. He was smiling at the thought when Frome interrupted him again.
“Do you smell something?” he asked. His nose was wrinkled and his eyes were watering.
“No,” Denton said truthfully, although he did have the sense that something in the air of the room had changed. There was a tension, almost a crackling, like an electric charge. He got up and opened the window, letting in the cool, rainy air from outside.
“Is that better?”
Frome was fanning his face with his hand. “Yes, I think so,” he said.
Denton went back to the contract. But he still couldn’t concentrate. There was definitely something odd in the air. It seemed, weirdly, to be coming in through the window. He shook his head. Heck with it, he thought, turning to the last page. He searched for his pen, found it, and prepared to sign. Frome leaned forward eagerly.
Just then, he heard the same buzzing sound out in the hall that he had heard earlier, but this time it was followed by a much louder bang. He and Frome both started in surprise.
Frome’s bland, slightly weaselly countenance morphed into an attitude of naked fear. He sprang up. “I’ve, uh, got to go... sorry—” he started to say, reaching out to take the contract from Denton. There was a brief tug of war, and then Denton let go. Frome frantically tried to shove the contract into his pocket, but only made it about halfway. Then he grabbed his coat.
Before he could put it on, however, the door flew open and a woman barged in. She was wearing some sort of uniform and carrying what looked like a TV remote. She was also soaking wet, her hair plastered down on her head, dripping. She took in the room at a glance, then pointed the remote at Frome, who froze.
“So this is where you’ve got to,” she said, her face set in a hard, steely expression. “Still at it I see. Recruiting.” She spat the word out like it was an insult.
Frome’s eyes shot back and forth behind his glasses. “Oh, no, no,” he said, waving the cane, “we were just chatting, just talking. All very preliminary. Not recruiting. No, ma’am.”
The woman ignored him. She looked at Denton. She had the most extraordinary blue eyes, very sharp, clear and bright.
Like moons, Denton thought for some reason, the moons of some distant world.
“Did you sign anything?” she asked sharply.
Denton shook his head. He still felt muzzy, confused, and those eyes pinned him in place like knives.
“Good,” she said. “If you did, you’d be a goner.” She grabbed Frome by the arm and started to drag him out of the office. “C’mon, you,” she barked. Frome resisted, leaning back and attempting to break free of her grip.
“Don’t make me—” she started to say, but Frome suddenly struck her across the face with his cane. She staggered back. He broke free of her grip and, in one continuous motion, turned, took two steps and dived out the open window, his coat flapping.
Denton gasped; his office was on the fifth floor. He and the woman both rushed over to the window and looked out. Denton expected to see the man’s broken body lying on the concrete pavement outside, but there was nothing there, nothing at all. He had disappeared.
“What the hell?” Denton said. He turned to look at the woman, but she ignored him.
“Dammit,” she said under her breath. “That weasel. He must have had an escape hatch activated.”
She pulled another device from her belt and began speaking rapidly into it in a language Denton didn’t know. She had a bright red mark on her face where Frome’s cane had struck her, but otherwise she appeared unfazed. She kept running her hand through her hair, trying to get the water out of it.
Denton took another look out the window, then slumped down in his chair. Weird day, he thought.
The woman finished talking on her device and clipped it back to her belt. She turned to face Denton. “Sir, do you know that man?” She was looking at him very closely with those otherworldly eyes.
“No, ma’am,” he said, “never saw him before.”
“Did he give you anything?”
“Yeah, he gave me a contract, but snatched it back when you showed up.”
She nodded. “Typical.”
“What the hell is going on here? Where did he go?” Denton felt like he could finally talk again. The tension in the room had dissipated.
She gestured impatiently. “He’s a recruiter. Signs people up to work on their ships. Slaves basically. Illegal, of course. He shouldn’t have been here at all. Recruiting on non-federated planets is forbidden.”
“Ships? Planets? What are you talking about?”
She didn’t answer, but just looked at him. Her uniform clung to her body in a mass of wrinkles. She would have looked comical, except for the fierce way she talked and moved. She had some sort of insignia on her chest, but Denton didn’t recognize it. It looked sort of like the symbol used to denote radioactivity.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said finally, “I don’t have time to explain. I have to go.” She dug into one of the pockets in her uniform and pulled out a business card. “Take this,” she said, “if you see that man again, call us. He’s wanted on a number of different worlds.”
Denton took the card without looking at it. He nodded.
She gave him a last look, then swept out the door, slamming it behind her. Denton immediately scrambled from behind his desk and went after her, but the hallway was empty. She was already gone. A trail of water led from his door a few steps into the hall, then stopped, as if she had simply vanished.
Denton slowly made his way back into his office. He looked at the card she had handed to him. “Angeline Dorfmudder, Organic Compliance Specialist, Federated Office of the Outer Reach,” it read in plain script. Like Frome’s card, it had no telephone number or address.
“Well, how am I supposed to call if there’s no number?” he muttered to himself, sitting down again in his chair. “And who uses business cards these days?” He shrugged, throwing the card on his desk.
The card skittered across the desk and fell to the floor near the window. Denton bent over to pick it up and noticed some folded papers on the floor next to it. The papers were partially hidden under the desk. He pulled them out and unfolded them. It was the contract Frome had given him. Evidently, it had fallen out of his pocket when he leaped out the window. Denton smoothed it out on his desk and turned to the last page. His eyes alit on the concluding phrase just above the signature line.
“The undersigned hereby commits to an irrevocable term of five (5) years starting from the above date, per the terms of this contract, measured on board the undersigned’s designated vessel, such term to be renewed or not at the sole discretion of the Company.”
The signature line was blank, but the date — today’s date — had already been filled in.
Denton sat there for a while, staring at the page, a thought beginning to swirl around in his brain. Then he picked up the phone and dialed an all too familiar number.
“Hi, Delores?” he said, “it’s me. About those therapy charges... .”
Her shrill, angry voice interrupted him. “Those are very real expenses, Charles. Johan is fully accredited. He’s got a certificate to prove it. Honestly, you’re such a miser. I’ve half a mind to report you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he broke in. “Just calm down. I’m willing to pay, but I need you to sign some paperwork first, okay? Can you do that? I’ll bring the papers over right now.”
There was some muffled talking on the other end, then Delores came back on, sounding both hurt and smug at the same time.
“Oh, all right, Charles. But get here as soon as you can. I’m busy.” And she hung up.
Denton held the receiver a moment, smiling to himself, then replaced it. He picked up the contract and prepared to leave. He felt no remorse about what he was planning to do. Delores always said she liked to travel.
Copyright © 2025 by T. J. Young
