DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 10: “Someone In Your Circumstances”
He was a little man, behind a little desk, from which he ruled a little empire. Harold Moxley forced himself not to fidget, not to dog-ear the pages of the printed curriculum vitae clutched in both hands. The little man — his name was Fletcher — peered back at him from behind the desk. Moxley pictured Fletcher standing in his bathroom at home, practicing expressions of utter incredulity in the mirror.
“I simply don’t understand, Mister Moxley,” said Fletcher. “Your qualifications—”
“Mister Fletcher,” Moxley began, trying to be calm, trying to sound confident. He stopped, opened his mouth again, closed it. Finally he said, “Look, I need this job. I’m a hard worker. I have management experience, yes, but I don’t mind working my way up. Start me at the bottom. Let me prove myself.”
Fletcher looked back to his terminal and clucked over the display. “I just… It’s our policy, Mister Moxley, not to hire personnel whom we believe will take the training we give them and then move on to something more lucrative.”
“It’s minimum-wage shift work,” said Moxley. “There’s literally no other job that isn’t more lucrative.”
Fletcher frowned. Moxley cursed himself. That had escaped. He shouldn’t have said that. “You see,” he said. “That is exactly the attitude I’m talking about. Mister Moxley, I think you would be better suited returning to the employment agency and asking them to match you to something better suited to your skillset.”
“I can’t do that,” said Moxley.
Fletcher worried at the hem of his shirt with soft fingers. “You can’t, or you won’t, Mister Moxley?”
“Look, I’ll level with you,” said Moxley. “I got a dishonorable with a suspended sentence from the Army. It isn’t… it isn’t what you think. Politics, mostly. But—”
“I think I’ve heard enough,” said Fletcher. “Mister Moxley, I’m afraid my hands are tied. Company policy says that we have to consider veterans in good standing before we can offer a position to someone in your… Well. Someone in your circumstances.”
“My circumstances are that I can’t get a holing job,” said Moxley. “My circumstances are that it’s been five years since the war ended and my public benefits are expiring. My circumstances are that my girlfriend just had a miscarriage and she can’t qualify for healthcare with me living under her roof unless I’m gainfully employed. I need this job. I can do this job. You’re screwing with my life here, Fletcher.”
“I’m quite certain you think that’s so,” said Fletcher. “But you’re still a young man, Mister Moxley. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m sure you’ll find something suitable. I simply can’t help you at this time. I’ll keep your CV on file.”
“But—”
“Good day, Mister, Moxley.”
* * *
“Harold.”
Mox turned, his hand still on the door to his building. Behind him, parked at the curb, was Aldo Shebeiskowski. Sheb was leaning against his For Official Use vehicle and looked carefully neutral. Moxley checked left and right for a setup. He didn’t want to spend any more time in handcuffs if he could help it. His shoulder still ached and having his arms held behind his back would make it worse.
“Sheb,” said Moxley at last. He put his hand on the butt of his gun under his coat. “You maybe want to try to put hands on me again? Won’t be so easy. I’m looking at you now.”
“That was a mistake,” said Shebeiskowski. “I was upset.”
“But you’re not upset now.”
“I’m not upset now,” Sheb echoed. “Let me make it up to you, Moxley. I’ve had time to think about what you said. You were right.”
“Funny thing,” said Moxley. “I had a nice long talk with Subdirector Draeger. He seemed to think you were awfully aggrieved. Are you aggrieved, Sheb?”
“I’m not aggrieved.”
“So this is a genuine change of heart?” said Moxley? “You’ve seen the light, and now you’re ready to make amends by helping me investigate the untimely death of my only friend?”
“Yes,” said Shebeiskowski. “I’ve seen the light, and I would like to make amends.”
Moxley sighed. “You don’t have to be such a sarcastic ‘lamp about it,” he said. “You drive. I’m not legal at the moment.”
“I’ll drive,” said Shebeiskowski.
Mox climbed into the passenger seat. The door shut automatically. The seat also adjusted without prompting, balancing his weight and shifting to maximize leg room. Moxley had forgotten that such modern conveniences existed. His Dayliner had none of them.
“Must be nice,” said Mox.
“It’s nice,” said Shebeiskowski. The car pulled away.
“Where are we going, anyway?” asked Moxley.
“I’m taking you back to my office,” said Shebeiskowski. “We’ll access my files on Raymond Neiring’s death. Now would probably be a good time to review everything we’ve talked about concerning Raymond. I want to refresh my memory. Don’t leave anything out, Harold.
Moxley, despite the fog that was his buzz wearing off, shot Shebeiskowski a look. “You, uh, feeling okay, Sheb? They clear you at the hospital and everything?”
“I feel fine,” said Shebeiskowski. “I wasn’t injured in the explosion today.”
“Yeah, about that,” said Moxley. “You gotta know, Sheb, I acted on instinct. Wasn’t trying to leave you to burn.”
“You wasn’t trying to leave me to burn,” Shebeiskowski nodded. The car acceleratored as it picked up Transitstrasse that cut north on an elevated track through the city. Moxley had time to look out the window and wonder where they hell they were going. His brain, slowed by alcohol and fatigue, finally rolled over Sheb’s last words.
“Wait,” said Moxley. “Sheb, either you’re messing with me or you’re drunker than I am.”
“I’m not messing with you,” said Shebeiskowski.
“Your office is in the other direction,” said Moxley. “You keep going across the Transitstrasse and we’re going to end up on the Gulf Bridge.”
“I’m not messing with you,” said Sheb again.
Moxley considered the vehicles they were passing. Sheb had his foot on the floor. The government car was accelerating at an alarming rate.
“All right, Sheb,” said Moxley. “I’ve had about enough. Stop the car.”
Shebeiskowski kept driving. “I won’t stop the car,” he said.
Moxley pulled the revolver from his waistband and stuck it into Sheb’s ribs. “You slow this car down or I swear to God I’ll blow your spleen out the other side of your body.”
“The spleen is located on the left side of the human body and considerably higher,” said Shebeiskowski.
Moxley pulled the trigger. The explosive round was deafening inside the sealed car. Mox looked down at his gun as if he’d never seen it before. He could hardly believe he’d done it.
Shebeiskowski, unperturbed, turned to look at him. “Please don’t do that again,” he said, “or I’ll be forced to kill you sooner than I had planned.”