Blood of Eden

He replaced the telephone receiver back on its cradle.

“Justine, can you fetch me the underwriting memo for New Republic?”

I got up from my typewriter and went to the filing cabinet beside his desk. As he stood, I handed him the manila binder.

“Here it is, Mr. Anderson.”

“Thank you.” He slid it into his briefcase. “Now, I must get home. Mary will be worried. Have the proposal written up by morning. It needs to go upstairs for signing.”

He turned in the doorway. “First thing tomorrow.”

“Of course.” My words bounced off the closed door.

*

“The paperwork is back from New Republic Aviation. They have agreed to the terms.”

He was keeping me late again. This client would be the big one. For him.

“Be a sweetheart, Justine. Drop over to Phillies and get me a coffee.”

Down fifteen floors in the elevator, walk around the block, just for a coffee. “Sure, Duncan.”

“Now, I’ve told you before. In the office, it’s Mr. Anderson.” He held his gaze on me for a fraction of a second too long.

I shivered. “Yes, Mr. Anderson.” As I stood to do his bidding, I could see blood pooling on that new green carpet.

Twenty minutes later, I set down the scolding dixie cup on his desk, to my hand’s relief.

“Mr. Banks was here. He said we should go ahead and finalize the schedule.”

The reek of cigar smoke that hung in the air bore testimony to the General Manager’s visit.

“He hinted I was in line for a fat bonus once we put this one to bed.”

“That’s great news.” I kept my voice even.

“Can you get started on it? I have to meet with Stevens now.”

I paused before feeding a fresh sheet into the machine. Silencing any qualms, I knew what I would do.

The harsh ratchet of the carriage return punctuated his departure.

*

Friday night. With the blinds open, I caught my reflection in the window. I saw the darkness. That blue dress was sure to distract him, give me opportunity. I had rehearsed everything in my mind. My blade, sharpened, lay ready.

“Justine, I need the actuarial tables,” he asked, slicking back his blond hair.

I walked over to the filing cabinet. It stood right beside him. But it should be me that gets it?

“Now, after we’ve prepared the final schedule, we can finish for the night.”

What he meant by ‘we’ was clear. Grasping the crucifix he had given me, I felt the hilt of a dagger in my fist.

He handed me the files and his notes. I took them back to my desk.

“I’m just nipping out for a sec. You have everything you need?”

Oh yes, I do.

No longer would I be his workhorse, would I let him take the credit for my hard work. I had landed this client. I had chased the loss adjusters, the underwriters. Those interminable meetings over on Long Island. While the men talked baseball, we assistants had taken care of the details and drafted the proposal.

And all for what? To fetch his coffee?

I wasted no time. Tallying the numbers, I made the final calculations and typed up the schedule. I was done well before he got back from his goldbricking.

The raucous cry of a bird outside the window announced his return.

“The offer is ready.” He took the finished binder from me.

My pulse racing, I watched over his shoulder as he flicked through the pages.

“Excellent. Arrange a courier to take this to their offices. They are on Jamaica Avenue.”

Really?

“Goodnight. See you on Monday.”

I tidied my desk, returning the pencil and eraser to the drawer.

*

A week had passed. Although early afternoon, the lights were on. The sky gloomed, foul weather brewing, the walls fitfully lit by a defeated sun. Through the open window, filthy air mingled with the earthy vanguard of the coming storm.

“What is this?” Anderson loosened his collar.

Turning from my filing, I saw him reading the letter the mail boy had delivered earlier. Its envelope lay discarded on the carpet.

“Did you know about it?”

“What—”

“The schedule. There was a mistake on the premiums. A zero missing. How?”

He looked up from studying the page under the desk light, his pallid skin flushing red.

“This is your doing!”

“I typed out exactly what you gave me.” I felt a gap opening up between us.

From the file, I produced his penciled workings. “Look.”

Outside, distant thunder rolled.

He took the sheet and studied it, frowning. “I do not understand. The contract has been signed, the schedule agreed.”

“I’m sure we can clear it up.” I knew that I could resolve it, anyway.

The phone on his desk rang.

“Yes. Yes. No, that’s not it.” He listened in silence. “Yes, sir. At once.” He let the receiver drop upon its rest.

“That was Banks. He wants me in his office. Immediately.”

He stood, pushed past me and through the door without looking back.

I heard the rain start. Wet droplets spattered the corner of the worn desktop.

*

The door opened at the first tap.

“Go on through. He is expecting you.” Shirley stood to one side.

The General Manager’s office looked out over the wet city. Mr. Banks turned from the rain-dappled window and seated himself, balancing his cheroot on the ashtray.

“Ah, good afternoon, Miss O’Connor. Please, take a seat.”

He removed his glasses and polished them. “A bad business, that. It’s hard to understand how he could have been so careless.”

The noxious haze of his cigar smoke filled the room.

“There were a lot of figures.” I coughed. “I guess he just slipped up.”

“We cannot afford such mishaps. But, thanks to your quick thinking, no harm was done.”

“They knew me over there, trusted me. I could explain the problem.”

“And that is why I would like you to assume the Commercial Agent role. In particular, the NRA contract.”

“Why, I would be happy to, Mr. Banks.” I studied my nails.

“Call me Peter.”

*

Anderson had been in earlier and removed his effects. Taken them down to the field agent’s office on the fourth floor.

“Good morning, Miss O’Connor.” Mrs. Gabrielli greeted me from my old place.

“Morning, Betty. Please, it’s Justine.”

I sank into the chair. Yes, this position is much more agreeable. I felt sorry for my assistant, stuck behind the Remington. I hadn’t done it for the creature comforts, though.

The handwritten note was still where he had let it fall. I had to admit, my work was flawless. He’d failed to spot the alterations.

My keen knife had found its mark.

Betty had arranged today’s mail on the blotter.

“This company,” I read from the top letter, “International Business Machines, has asked us to prepare a quote.”

“Never heard of them. What do they do?”

“I’m not sure, something with electricity.” I replaced the page. “We should pay them a visit. They are on Madison Avenue, I believe.”

I gazed out the window. The day was fair.

Maybe there is blood on my hands, but I am happy that we ended not as we began.

* * *