Right on Time

Simeon stared in disbelief at the briefcase on the cramped cubicle desk before him, an unbidden lump forming in his throat. He distinctly remembered starting his morning following his usual routine…

He’d taken a quick shower and a quicker breakfast of black coffee and honey on toast. He had gathered the paperwork he’d been tasked with completing over the weekend (unpaid, of course) and shoveled it into his briefcase. Mister Withers would be expecting him this morning to deliver his report on their department’s figures for last quarter. Simeon knew Withers would be unhappy with what he’d found: some rather glaring discrepancies to the tune of twenty thousand dollars! He wasn’t looking forward to that meeting…

Then he had buttoned an off-the-rack shirt, synched up a hand-me-down tie, put on his coat, walked out of his apartment, and taken the subway to work. Clocking in at 7:01, he’d walked to his cubicle and sat down to start his day. But the briefcase in front of him didn’t contain last quarter’s budget analysis. No, this case’s contents were quite different: several stacks of crisp, green bills rubber-banded together, a pistol, and a small black notebook.

Simeon’s first thought was how much trouble he would be in not delivering Mister Withers’ report on time. Withers wasn’t a patient man and insisted on punctuality. He’d probably get fired! Simeon was just barely able to make rent as it was! He’d be ruined if he had to return to the unemployment office again…

He shook himself and quickly closed the case, his head swiveling in all directions like a radar dish. Had anyone seen what was in the case? The company had a strict policy against firearms in the workplace, and he really didn’t want to explain why a low-level number-cruncher had thousands of dollars in his briefcase. But it wasn’t his briefcase! And if not his, then whose? Had he accidentally picked up someone else’s luggage on the train by mistake?

Carefully, so no prying eyes would see, Simeon reopened the case and withdrew the notebook. Maybe this would reveal the identity of the case’s owner. Perhaps a contact number? Maybe they could meet, return each other’s belongings, have a good laugh, and Simeon could be back in time to deliver his report to Mister Withers before he was any the wiser. He opened it to the first page.

“Simeon, your survival depends on you following my instructions to the letter. Your life is in danger. They’re going to kill you.”

He couldn’t believe what he was reading! By some coincidence, the stranger whose briefcase he’d picked up by mistake had a notebook with his name in it. Or was it more than coincidence? But his life being in danger? That was absurd! He had no enemies. Hell, he hardly had any friends! Who would want him dead? He turned the page.

“The money you’ve discovered missing is being embezzled. They will kill to keep you quiet. You must run. This money will afford you a new life somewhere far from here.”

Simeon swallowed hard. Someone was stealing money from the company? That would certainly explain the discrepancies he’d spent his weekend agonizing over. And someone would kill to keep that secret? Over twenty thousand dollars? He could feel sweat gathering on his brow. This economy was tough… he wondered what he’d be willing to do for twenty thousand? How money like that would change his life? And right now, right here, in the case before him was more money than he’d ever seen. He flipped to the next page.

“Get your coat. Put the gun in your pocket. Head to the elevator at 7:08 sharp. Stay calm. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Simeon stole a glance at the large clock on the far wall of the office. 7:06. Two minutes to decide what to do. He could go to the police. They’d take the money, likely put him in some sort of protective custody, and investigate the embezzlement. Simeon would have to turn over the money and would doubtlessly soon be back at his low-paying job for Mister Withers. A degrading, thankless job to fund a drab existence in a two-room apartment. Or he could ignore this warning, go to his meeting with Mister Withers, possibly get fired, and possibly get dead. He wasn’t sure how real the threat on his life was, but he wasn’t eager to gamble with his life. Best not to take chances. No, Simeon didn’t need two minutes to decide. He was going to risk doing what the book said. It seemed like not only his best shot at surviving, but at living, really living, for the first time in his life.

He gathered his hat and coat, staring at the hands of the giant clock as they moved laboriously toward 7:08. What was it about office clocks that made them tick more slowly than other clocks? He stealthily slipped the little gun from the briefcase to his coat pocket. Simeon knew nothing about guns. He’d never fired one. It was heavier than it looked.

7:08. He rose from his chair and pulled the coat sleeves over his arms. Tucking the briefcase under his arm, Simeon lowered his gaze and walked quickly toward the elevator, his heart pounding in his ears. He’d never felt so naked in all his life. He felt as though everyone around him could see right through his coat to the gun in his pocket, or through the case to the concealed cash.

He made it to the elevator. Now that work had begun, there was much less traffic, and one of the carriages arrived promptly. He slid in. Only one other person in the carriage with him. Good. He walked to the back of the elevator. He’d never been so thankful for the intrinsic awkwardness of elevator rides. His coworker was ignoring him. He breathed a sigh of relief and peeked at the next page of the notebook.

“Head to the lobby. Sit on the bench by the fountain. Wait til 7:11. Speak to no one. Can’t afford delays.”

Simeon reached forward to press the “L” on the elevator console, but it was already lit. Apparently his travelling companion was also headed all the way down. He looked up, seeing their face for the first time. It was her! That woman from the marketing department. What was her name? Darla? He’d always been too afraid to ask, admiring her from afar. She was exactly the kind of woman he knew he’d never have a chance with: well-educated, designer labels, killer curves, high heels a little too high, short skirts a little too short, and a smile that made his heart skip two beats at a time. Not that one of those smiles had ever been directed his way... She didn’t even know he existed. He held the case tight to his chest. He knew he wasn’t the kind of man she deserved. She’d have no reason to even talk to a guy like him.

Actually, he could think of several reasons she might like to talk to him now. Several thousand reasons, in fact, all here in this little briefcase. “Let’s run away together” was always a cheesy line in the movies because the unlucky schmuck never actually had the means to make it happen, but he did. He reckoned Darla was an enterprising girl. Maybe she’d be impressed by a bankroll like this? Enough to disappear with him? Even if it didn’t last, a few nights with Darla would be the best nights of his life!

But what was he thinking? One look at a long pair of legs in fishnets and he’d forgotten his life was in danger! The book had told him explicitly to talk to no one. If he was late, he might ruin his getaway. He couldn’t take that risk. Not even for a dame like Darla.

The doors opened and he passed the front desk to the bench by the fountain. He checked his watch. 7:10. Good thing he hadn’t spoken to Darla after all. Watching the second hand move, he turned the page in the notebook.

“A taxi will arrive in the courtyard at 7:12. Shoot the cameras outside. Be in that cab by 7:13, or you’re as good as dead. I’ll handle the rest. Godspeed.”

Simeon sighed in relief. He’d hoped that shooting someone wasn’t going to be asked of him. He wasn’t sure he could do that, even if his own life were on the line. But blasting security equipment? That he could handle, even if he wasn’t sure why he was doing it. He looked out the glass doors, waiting for a yellow cab to pull into the courtyard.

Right on cue, a cab arrived at 7:12. Simeon rose and strode boldly to the doors. This was it. Now or never. Shoving the little book into his coat, he produced the gun just as he left the building. Simeon’s ears rang as he squeezed off several bullets to shatter the small security cameras. Guns were far louder than they seemed on television, and harder to aim. The screams and shouts of fleeing people were distracting. After his fifth shot, he’d destroyed both cameras. Sprinting for all he was worth, he raced toward the cab. Its back door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out. Simeon stopped running at the crack of another gunshot. He hadn’t fired. His chest hurt. He felt cold. His knees went weak. He dropped the case and fell to ground.

Stepping out of the cab, Mister Withers ran up and knelt next to his bleeding employee, lifting Simeon’s lapel to inspect the wound. He winced at the sight. The officer’s aim had been good. Right through the heart. He couldn’t imagine the lad surviving with a hole like that in his chest. “Everything is going to be alright, son,” he said, emptily.

Looking up, Withers met the gaze of the officer who was quickly approaching. He too was a young man, fairly new to the force. He’d rounded the corner of the building on his regular patrol at 7:12, like clockwork, hearing the sound of gunfire and seeing a fleeing gunman. He’d responded with bullets of his own. His face was pale, his hands shaking. Probably the first time he’d fired his gun at a living person.

Mister Withers had a genuine talent for taking charge of people who lacked direction. “Head to the front desk and call an ambulance! There may be time to save him! Then come back and keep people away from here until one of your detectives arrives!” he barked. The shaken officer hesitated only a moment before hurrying to comply.

“Everything is going to be alright,” Withers repeated, turning again to the dying man bleeding out on the courtyard cobbles. He slid his hand into Simeon’s coat pocket and retrieved his little black notebook, returning it to the breast pocket of his own overcoat where it belonged. He smiled to himself, knowing that no cameras had recorded that motion.

The police investigators would soon arrive and find Simeon with only a fraction of the hundreds of thousands Withers had been embezzling over the past few years. They’d assume that the money was stolen by the underpaid, desperate accountant. They’d search his home and find no sign of the rest of the money. They’d assume he’d stashed it somewhere secret. With their suspect dead, they won’t be able to question him as to where it’s hidden. Let them bark up that tree until they tired of looking. He would be somewhere Mediterranean by the time they’d finished searching Simeon’s apartment. He’d arranged the cruise weeks ago, his tickets nestled neatly next to the notebook in his overcoat pocket. He would be aboard the Adriana by 6:00.

After all, Withers wasn’t a patient man and insisted on punctuality.