Repossession

by Beverly Forehand

Table of Contents
Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

He smiles seeing an opening for himself. He leans away from the table and gestures broadly giving me another chance to admire his ensemble. One thing about these Upper-Level, Lower-Level Guys is that they are always well-dressed. “I think you know your first mistake,” he says.

I shrug. He smiles again, the barest lifting of his perfect lips and rests a manicured hand on the table. “Well, since we are agreed on that point, let me just point out that as mistakes go, it did show a bit of style. And that — especially in someone so apparently lacking in all other style — is appreciated.”

“A bit of an irony, then,” I say.

He smirks again,” You could say that, I suppose.”

So, I sit there and wait. Because I know he wants me to wait. He has the expectant look, like a dog sniffing the air right before a storm. So, I lean back just a little — just enough to look like maybe, just maybe, I don’t give a damn what’s he’s about to say, when really, I have to tell you, I am on pins and needles.

So, he leans back a bit too, but not enough to wrinkle his suit, and then, suddenly he leans forward and says in the most confidential way, “Chuck, if I may call you Chuck?” he says and when I nod he continues. “Well, Chuck, I’ve come to offer you a promotion.” Then, he leans back in his chair and folds his hands and smiles again moltenly and waits. “Of course,” he adds, “We will need that Soul back.”

And for a moment, for one exquisite moment, he almost had me. But almost, like they say, is only good for horseshoes and hand grenades. Almost — just before I see that one perfect bead of sweat on his forehead — he had me. So, I smile back at his smile. A smile that seems a little bit too perfect and tight at this moment. And then I say, “We?”

He smiles again, and I see him swallow, “Of course, we need the Soul back before any advancement can be discussed.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette case full of those little black cigarettes that people with more money than sense smoke and then says, “The Soul’s return is, of course, non-negotiable.”

“And I’d return it to you?” I ask trying to look eager. And he smiles flicks his lighter and says, “Of course.” And he has time to smile just one more time before I reach across and snap the cigarette in half.

“I really don’t think you know who you’re playing with — or, in fact, what you’re playing at,” I say. He leans back against the chair just as far as he can this time and I know that his perfect suit is going to need a trip to the dry-cleaners now — and probably for more than just a good pressing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says edgily looking around the room, looking for an escape hatch.

“Free agent,” I say and I drop his crappy black cigarello and lean back myself, “You’re here on your own, aren’t you?”

He gulps and straightens his lapel. “So what if I am?” he asks.

I smile, “I’m not giving it to you.”

For a moment there, he forgets what he is and just how big I am. But, just for a moment. Then, he decides to be tactful. He takes his voice down a notch the way only accountants and lawyers can and he says, “You know you can’t keep it. They haven’t noticed yet, but when they do... I mean, did you actually think, actually, that you could get away with this?”

I say nothing which, I can tell, makes him even more nervous. “I could’ve told, couldn’t I? But, I didn’t, did I?” he says.

“People go missing all the time,” I say, “and, well, you know, Hell is a big place. If you didn’t come back, I guess someone might think that you’d run off someplace — or really, really pissed someone off, wouldn’t they?” I say. I reach into my coat pocket and he flinches. But, I just pull out a cigarette, a real one, and light up. The girl over at the counter gives me a look, but she doesn’t say anything. Counter girls don’t usually say anything to guys like me.

He just sits there ruining his suit some more. I can actually see the sweat puddling.

“Look,” I say, “I’m not going to do anything to you.”

He nods. Then he tries one more time — you have to give him credit for that. “I could hide it,” he says, “It’s not safe here. There’s no place they won’t look for it if it’s missing from the numbers,” he says. And then he looks up and says with the tiniest of voices, “Others might notice too.”

And it’s at that exact moment that I realize that he’s right. There is nothing for me to do with it — the Soul. There’s no place I can hide it. There’s no place I can hide me. They are going to know and they’re going to get it back.

I get up all of the sudden and start to snub the cigarette out on the table, but think better of it and pinch it and put it in my pocket. After all, I’m in here a lot and I don’t want the coffee to start tasting sour.

“Where are you going?” he asks all sheepish, “I mean, what do you plan to do?” I just walk out the door and I can feel his eyes boring into the back of me as I walk to my crappy car and turn over the engine.

I take the Soul out of my pocket and look down at the it. It twines around my fingers in a way that I’ve started to think means it’s happy — like a little cat. It’s started to lose that sad, grayish-green look over the past few weeks. It is, I think, definitely on the mend. And suddenly it just doesn’t seem fair to it — or to me. But, then, what in life ever is. I guess that just about sums it up too. The poor little thing would probably be better off if I just gave it a good chuck off the side of a building. But, then, again, it’s a big ole world out there and you just never know what is going to happen. I guess that’s why I like it sometimes. So, I turn the car out of the parking lot and I slide the Soul back in my pocket. And for once I know exactly where I’m going.

What to do with a Soul? That is the question on everyone’s mind. You can’t keep it — not if you’re me — and you can’t give it away. I know that the only slim chance that ferret-faced little accountant back in the coffee shop has of saving grace now is ratting me out. Because if he doesn’t they’ll know that he knew and he’ll know that they know that he knew. And that always always ends up badly. In the real world, someone would end up in a body-bag, but in the Netherworld, well, there are worse things than dead. Much worse. So I do the only thing I can do now, and I do it quick because I know that he has to be on his way back just as fast as his little perfectly-clad legs can carry him.

What’s the thing that they always say on lawyer-shows — habeas corpus? No body. No crime. They can’t take the Soul and I can’t keep it. And in the end, that makes it simple.

So, I drive my car with its smoking exhaust and chipped paint up to the Executive Suite Plaza. It’s one of those glass buildings — you know, the ones with that perfect golden glow to them. You can almost see your reflection when you walk up, but only almost. After all, most of these guys don’t really want to look themselves in the eye. You don’t get to work in this building by doing things that make you want to give yourself the old square in the baby-blues each morning. And you certainly don’t get to the top floor by being an Angel — or even a Demon.

Most of these guys would do the Nether-Regions proud any day of the week. Hey, they make most Demons look like Boy Scouts by comparison. What’s that old line, you don’t have to convince anyone that there isn’t a God, just convince them they have lots of time... they’ll hang themselves for sure, sure enough. But, these guys, they aren’t your average workaday Joes sinning for spite or laziness. If you want to be on top, sometimes you have to claw your way up, and this building had claw and stab marks all over it. All the way to the top. And I figured, that just about the last thing any of these guys would want would be the encumbrance of a Soul. So, I take the elevator right to the top.

The secretary/assistant/whatever you’re supposed to call the guy by the phone these days tries to stop me, but I can be pretty unstoppable when I want. I just barge right in and he’s sitting there in his leather executive-deluxe chair talking with his phone on conference. I hate that. When they put you on speaker-phone. I really do. He looks up, kind of surprised, like he doesn’t remember me for a minute and then I see it all slide into place and he gets this white spot right between his eyes just like I hit him with a sledgehammer — which is just about what I plan to do.

I have it in my hand. I had it nursed back to health a little, which makes me kind of sad, because it surely was in a sorry state when he gave it up. I figure he’ll be trying to barter it away by the time the clock strikes noon, but I have news for him. He’s already done his deal. This time, it’s his for keeps now. He looks up at me and I almost, almost feel sorry for him. And then I think about his Soul, the Soul that I wanted, that the Guy with the cat smile was willing to risk the wrath of Hell for, the Soul that this fellow here just threw away.

I smile. I pull out a cigarette from my pocket and then I ask him if he has a light. He smiles and I see the sweat beads on his forehead. That $2,000 suit will need dry-cleaning for sure after today. Hell, maybe he just throws them away when they get dirty.

“Was there something missing from our contract negotiations?” he asks, trying to sound smooth, but coming off with a crack in his voice. Another bead of sweat falls down his nose and he wipes it away and then leans forward with the lighter. It’s gold and perfect. I think it has an inscription. It probably says to the best something or other, or to my love, or whatever it is that people have written on lighters.

I nod and I smile. And then I lunge and cram the Soul down his throat. He shudders just for a minute and I almost think that he’s going to cough it up like a hairball. But, then he settles down and I can see it slide down his throat.

“This isn’t what I bargained for,” he says, but his voice is small and distant. I know that Soul has set to work. Its tallying all the things he’s done in the past two weeks while it was on vacation with me. And it’s reminding him of all he’s done and all that he’s planning to do. It isn’t pleased and it’s going to make sure that he’s never quite pleased again.

I smile. I reach down and pick up the lighter and flip on the flame. It says, “Merry Christmas, Daddy! Love Jeannie.” I set it back on the edge of the desk and then I turn for the door. I hear him yelling after me, but kind of half-hearted. He just doesn’t have it in him anymore. I take the elevator down and I drive away. Just like that. Just like it never happened. And maybe it never did. That’s the way things work sometimes.

You get what you want, you lose it, or maybe you don’t. Or maybe you discover it was something you never wanted or all you’ve ever dreamed of. It’s all the same in the end. In a hundred years, a thousand maybe, it won’t matter if the hero won or the villain or even who was which. I tell myself that. But, I know it isn’t true. It does matter sometimes. It matters to the winner who wins, and to the loser. And even if no one else in the world gives a damn, it matters to those two. I don’t quite know who’s which in this one, but I think it matters. I light a cigarette and turn the key. The engine starts up. And I just drive.

Chuck the Demon first appeared in “Fine Print” in issue 142. For that and the other stories, see the Table of Contents.