A name and how it is used, can tell you a lot about a person. Mine happens to be Nicholas Clayton. The guys down at the bar, the ones I shoot pool with, call me Nicky. To them I am the reliable friend; the guy they can call on anytime with a problem. The men who served with me in the war over in Europe, they call me Captain. And no, that was not my rank. I once made it as far as lieutenant before getting busted back down to sergeant. But new recruits and veterans alike knew they could count on me to get them through whatever insanity the higher-ups would rain down on us. Before the war I was known as just Clayton.
You see, before the war, I worked for a man named Johnny Watkins, “Boss” Johnny Watkins to be exact. More than anyone else, he ran the city. He was no elected official, but he owned quite a few of them. It was because of my association with him that I found myself pounding pavement and checking out Help Wanted ads after the war. When I worked for Johnny, it was before prohibition. He was a criminal then, but they still called him a businessman. He owned some legitimate businesses, even financed a few charities, but most of his money came from illegal gambling, protection rackets, and prostitution. Once prohibition began, the illegal liquor trade became his main business.
By the time I got home from Europe and other parts, Johnny had gone from businessman to gangster in the public eye. Not only was the perception different, but life on the ground was as well. The killing of rival gang members, innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire, the worst of what I had seen in the trenches, brought home to the streets of the US. Despite a generous offer from Johnny, I didn’t go back to the old job. However, my name was still attached to his by people in the city. I couldn’t even get appointments for job interviews. When my name appeared on the list, I was usually told by a nervous secretary that Mr. so and so was out for the day and he would call to reschedule. The calls never came.
I was down to the change in my pocket and feeling pretty desperate as I scanned the want ads. Even the most menial jobs were getting circled with the nub of a pencil I had left. One caught my eye. It was interviewing that very day (my paper was a day old and scrounged from a garbage can). It was a simple non-descript ad.
Wanted for new business: Personal Assistant. Must be comfortable with travel and all associated rigors and challenges, including non-traditional contacts. Open mind a must. Interviews to be held on Wednesday only. Noon to 3pm.
And an address, about 5 blocks away followed. I checked the clock on the diner wall, it was 2:37. I would have to sprint to make it there so I grabbed my hat and tossed the last of my change on the table for the coffee and pie I had ordered. I made it to the building in about 9 minutes, dodging pedestrians the whole way. The office I wanted was on the 18th floor and the building had just 2 elevators, both of which were up around floor 20 or 22. I figured there was no way to make the appointment waiting for the elevators, so I bolted for the stairwell. Eighteen floors was not going to be easy, even for someone in good condition like myself. But you would be amazed at what desperation can do to stamina.
I reached the office door with about 4 minutes to spare, made a quick survey of my reflection, straightened my tie and smoothed back my hair. I used my handkerchief to mop my face and flapped the sides of my jacket to try and cool myself down before entering. Inside was a small reception area with just one other door leading to an inner office. The receptionist sat behind a simple desk and three other people sat on the available chairs.
“Excuse me, is this where they are holding the interviews for the personal assistant position.”
Without even looking, the girl behind the desk handed me a form. “Fill this out and take a seat. Mr Balldridge will be interviewing until 3pm. If you do not get called in today, you will not be asked back.”
I looked at the three people in front of me. All were clean-cut, fresh from college types. Their suits were crisp with sharp creases making all of them appear like bent buildings. No threads poked from sleeves like worms looking for apples. I looked down at my own, well-worn, off-the-rack special. I then checked the time, 2:57. Just three minutes to get through 4 people. Not much chance unless I could change the odds in my favor.
While in the military, one of the many things that I learned, was that the lieutenant who sat outside the officer’s door was there to run interference. He kept the next guy up the line from having to deal with those below him. Unless your presence was requested, there was no way to get in to see him. My only chance was to make my presence requested.
I leaned over the desk, putting the paper the receptionist had given me over a large envelope that had rested on the edge. I slid my fingers over it so that when I rose, it would come up with me like I had been holding it all along. I also glanced quickly at the appointment book that rested open in front of her.
“Miss?” I dragged out the “s” so that she knew I was looking for her name.
She lifted her eyes to mine. They were a deep brown color and sultry, like Bette Davis. If she had used them on me at a nightclub, I’d have been rushing to buy her a drink. But right now, she just stared at me icily.
“My name is Nicholas Clayton and I’m not here to apply for the job,” I handed her the form back and showed the envelope. “I am here to deliver these personally to Mr. Balldridge, and only Mr. Balldridge, in regards to some of his candidates.”
“Which candidates?” She eyed me suspiciously, holding her appointment book up, presumably to keep me from seeing it. I could feel an itch at the back of my skull. It wasn’t the type that went away with a few passes of a fingernail. It was something deeper. All my life, when something was on the line, I had gotten this itch. When I felt it, all the distractions around me disappeared, I focused solely on the problem in front of me. That itch was one of the reasons I was able to keep so many men alive during the war. When I felt it, I could almost see where the German machine guns and snipers would be set up. I could weave across no man’s land with bullets and explosions all around, but always slightly off the mark.
But this wasn’t war, so I focused solely on my story, on looking the part I had chosen, heck, for those few seconds while we locked eyes, I believed I was the person I claimed.
“Miss, the information on all candidates is confidential.” I nodded my head in the direction of the seated applicants, then leaned in closer and whispered so only she could hear, “Whalens, John Robert and Waters, Steven.”
She did a quick scan of the list. I purposely picked the names furthest from the top, as those were the ones I would have been expected to see with a quick glance. I saw here eyes come to rest toward the bottom of the page. I also did not pick two names right next to one another. There was a Weston and a Weeks between my two choices. She looked up at me, then down at the list. Her expression returned to that of the bored secretary again.
“Mr. Balldridge is just finishing up with an interview, you can bring him the files as soon as the candidate leaves.”
I smiled convivially and stepped back to await my chance to get in.
When the door opened, I moved quickly, directly in front of the pressed-suit guys, giving them no chance to rise from their seats and slip in ahead of me. The young man walking out had to sidestep past me. I entered the room, glancing briefly at the clock on the wall; 2:59. I closed the door with a purposeful swing just as another candidate was about to enter behind me. Whether the door locked or not, the candidate was not brazen enough to enter a closed-door meeting.
The room was only slightly bigger than the reception area, which meant it was only slightly larger than the flophouse room I rented. About three paces away was a chair facing an unremarkable wooden desk. The room was flooded with light from the large window opposite the door. Behind the desk, an unremarkable man sat glancing at a sheet of paper in front of him. With the light behind him and directly in my face, it was hard to fix any real details about the man. He looked to be of about average height and average build, maybe a few years older than me. His hair was dark, not deep enough to be black, but definitely the darkest brown I had ever seen. His suit was clean and crisp but no more expensive than the suits I had seen on the kids in the lobby.
“And you would be Mr…, “ his voice came out somewhat nasally.
“Clayton. Nicholas Clayton.” I extended my hand.
He did not look up from his paper and made no attempt to shake my hand. “You are not on my list.”
“Yes, you see… about that…” I began.
He looked up from his paper, his voice getting a little bit higher. “How did you get in here? What do you want?”
“I saw the advertisement you had in the paper…”
“This is totally unacceptable,” he said reaching for his phone.
I knew my chance was quickly slipping away, so I decided to take the initiative. I stepped forward, fast enough to beat him to the phone, but not fast enough to seem threatening. “Mr. Balldridge, your ad implied you wanted a man able to think quickly and react when necessary. Those clean-cut schoolboys who have lined up in your office might walk right and talk right in polite company, and they all probably have more book learning than me, but not one of them looks up to the task of real trouble.
I am not afraid to get my hands dirty if that is what is necessary for the job. I have been in some of the worst conditions imaginable. I’ve slept up to my knees in water and blood. I’ve stood for hours in the sun with no food or water and still managed to sprint across a hundred yards of broken ground. I have dealt with some of the worst elements of this city and several in Europe. Though I doubt any of them would think twice about shooting me if they had to, I do know how to relate to them and get things done.”
For a moment, the man hesitated, then, he shook is head forcefully. “Preposterous,” he began then picked up the phone.
“That will be enough Mr. Jenkins.”
From beside the window, a second man emerged from the shadows. I was a little taken aback at failing to even notice the man was in the room, but between the light in my eyes and my focus on my subterfuge, it was difficult to catch everything. At least that is what I told myself.
Emerson P. Balldridge, for this was the man himself, was as notable as his fake counterpart was not. He stood just under 6 feet and I doubt I could have wrapped my arms around his ample girth. Yet, despite his size, he moved with an easy, unburdened gait. His suit was neither too tight around his gut nor too loose about his chest, obviously custom fit, though the material looked like it could have come off-the-rack like my own. He was nearly completely bald, except for a thin strip of hair that ran from one ear, around the back of his head, to the other. On his nose rested a pair of pince nez glasses, which gave his face a perpetually inquisitive look.
“Your services will no longer be required today. You can pick up your check from Miss Esper on your way out.”
The man rose from behind the desk. The papers that he had been looking at remained behind. “As always Mr. Balldridge, it is a pleasure doing business with you. If you should have need….”
“Yes. Yes. I know where to reach you.” Emerson ushered the man to the door, checked to make sure that Miss Esper, she of the Bette Davis eyes, had gotten the rest of the candidates out of the room as it was now after three, then closed the door and sat in the chair recently vacated by Mr. Jenkins. He motioned for me to sit as well. For a moment he said nothing, just stared intently at me.
“You were in the war, in a position of leadership. Not an officer, though. You have also worked for some of the, how should I put this, non-elected leaders of the city. I am familiar with them and most of their associates, but your name is unfamiliar to me. I would postulate then, that you worked for them before your time over in Europe. You are also unable to find work and down to what you have in your pocket, as evidenced by your arrival only a few minutes before my cut-off time and the ink-stains on your hands, which would mean you probably found the ad in a discarded, day-old paper. Am I correct in all my assumptions Mr. Clayton?”
I pushed my hat back on my head just a bit and let out a slow whistle. “Right as rain Mr. Balldridge.”
“Excellent. A man comfortable in himself and his situation, regardless of how others might take it, is a rare find. Pay is $100 a week plus room. You will take the apartment two floors below mine in this building, as I will want to be able to reach you at a moment’s notice. Miss Esper will give you a key to your rooms and an advance of your first week’s pay. I expect you here at 9am tomorrow morning.”
With that, Balldridge rose from the desk and circled to my side, extending his hand to shake mine. As we shook, he escorted me to the door and closed it as I exited before I could even get a word in. As I stood outside the office door, it dawned on me that I still had no idea what was to be expected of me. For a moment I considered going back into the office, trying to get more details. But Miss Esper was watching and I could see the envelope and keys in her hand. Maybe my newly-employed self could break the ice with this brown-eyed beauty.
“Well… It seems Mr. Balldridge has hired me, so you and I will be working together. Perhaps we can get a drink sometime?”
She eyed me, one eyebrow slightly raised. “I don’t think so Mr. Clayton.”
“Please, call me Nick. Mr. Clayton sounds way too formal, like some kind of title or rank and I am not particularly fond of either. And I just want to get the scoop on my job and what I should expect.” I also thought about being able to get more on my employer since I knew nothing of him and his mention of knowing the bosses made me feel that I may end up in a position I was not entirely comfortable with.
“Mr Clayton,” despite her neutral tone, she seemed to enjoy the torment of using the formal moniker, “everything you need to know will be in the envelope. Mr. Balldridge likes his people to be prompt so be sure to pick up an alarm clock. Here are the keys you will need. You are on the 23rd floor. Mr. Balldridge is on the 25th.” She separated one of the three keys from the others, “This is the key to your room.” Then she took the second key. “This is the key to the elevator. You will see that the panel in the elevator only goes to floor 22. Use this key on it and an unnumbered button will light up. Press it and it will take you to the 23rd floor.”
“What’s the third key for?”
“I don’t know. Either that information will be in the envelope or Mr. Balldridge will tell you when you need to know.”
And with that, the discussion was over. She placed the envelope and keys on the edge of her desk and turned away from me to the little typing stand beside her. Apparently, my exit had interrupted her work, as whatever she was working on already filled half of a type-written page. For a moment I considered continuing to keep up the small talk and hoping to get some answers out of her, but I would be working with Miss Esper now and it seemed smarter to stay on her good side. So, with keys and envelope in hand I left the office and decided to celebrate with a decent meal and maybe afterward a drink down at the Golden Pagoda.