6229-D

"Where does that door lead, Hank?"

I'm having lunch with Hank. It was inevitable. It's Thursday, and we're both alive and employed. I did not like Hank at first. I mean, not at all--it wasn't just the kind of polite, vapid indifference that you need to get by in a crowded office in a pretty dubious workplace. I was actively hostile to the idea of doing anything with Hank. Shooting the breeze while we waited for coffee was an agonizing charade. Had I been capable of summoning the required energy, I would have hurt him.

He turned it around, though. I heard him patiently taking a torrent of abuse from a customer. It was about six weeks ago, I guess. Hank hadn't done anything wrong, mind you. I came out of a meeting that was tedious and absurd--it was a meeting, after all--and heard this customer just laying into Hank.

Stupid this and incompetent that and did he know how much money this customer had paid for this service and did Hank have any idea how complex and challenging it was to be this customer and this and that and it just did not stop. It was loud, too. There were gestures.

Big, dramatic gestures. I think two or three were obscene.

Now, if I'd been Hank, I'd have talked the customer down. I would probably have been pretty condescending and hostile about it too, with just the right patina of professional decorum and sunny service.

You know: "I feel awful for you under these difficult circumstances. You are facing a lot of serious challenges. No, it's clear to me: you really seem to be struggling. It's quite an ordeal, being you, just now. We value your time and resources. We are happy to assist you as best we can, and we apologize if you have had a disappointing experience. How can we make things right?"

Not Hank, though. Stoic and unflappable as a statue of himself. Sitting there and blithely absorbing all of that bitter, bilious bile. What a champ. I felt it, like a suspicious lump you find in the shower and wish you hadn't. I couldn't believe it.

I had respect for Hank.

It was a thirty minute tirade at the very least. I couldn't believe it. I stood there as my latte grew cold and my craving for nicotine subsided. Back to the wall in the hall outside Hank's office door, wincing every time he extended his silent chin for another haymaker. I think the wall actually trembled at one point, which made me think Hank might be dead.

He lived to tell the tale, though. Sorted the customer out just fine. Then came our first, fondly remembered lunch. The stuff of story and song.

Here we are now. Six weeks later. He's got ham and cheese and a brownie. Again. He just keeps taking punches and staying, well, seated. He's a fine sitter, though, our Hank. Top shelf.

Top, sturdy, load-bearing shelf.

"No idea," says Hank, reminding me of his scintillating intelligence and mischievous wit once again. "Nobody goes down there anymore. I mean, the number doesn't even make sense, now that they've changed the whole system.

I think it's like my marriage: a forgotten room in your house that you just don't bother with anymore. It's still there, mind you, but it's of no use to anybody."

Grinning, spinning Hank. A good laugh and a warm smile after a dreary shift.

"Have you ever had a look in there, Hank? Just out of curiosity? What would little Hank have done, when he was in short pants and full of dreams? Would he have had a look around in the weird, abandoned room, just so he could brag to his friends, and tell a tall tale about his daring do?"

Hank belches. Immovable as a sesame seed between your teeth is he, but the steady diet of pig and dairy sometimes plays havoc with his tum tum, poor soldier.

"Sorry? I don't like thinking about being a child. I'm a little amazed I've gotten to this point, if you want the truth. My wife can't believe it. Like, it's no miracle. She's frustrated."

He won't budge. That's my Hank. Once he's lowered himself into position, it would take a group of masked thugs in an unmarked van to make him look up from his phone. His greatest strength is also his greatest weakness. Isn't that always the way, with heroes?

I steal a little nibble of the brownie, and I'm off. Down the hallway I go, without Hank. I know right where I left him, and I know I can count on him not to so much as stretch out his legs--no small undertaking, that--until I get back. Even if the lights fail and darkness covers Hank, I'll just follow his belches to safety.

I might love Hank just a little, if I'm honest. He's like a faithful dog. A faithful, immovable dog.

6-229D. There it is, in all of its neglected, enigmatic glory. Grey and shabby, but with a vague menace that makes me want to look inside. You know what? I'll do it for Hank, damn it. If he can just sit there and take it, so can this door and whatever lies behind it.

I have a look back at Hank before I head through.

That brownie didn't stand a chance.

"For Hank!"

I didn't shout it, mind you. I said it though. I said it to myself, half a prayer and half a song.

"Mr. Begirale. Isn't this nice. You're early!"

It's a pretty hip room, which may explain why its tractor beam couldn't lock on to Hank. Sleek. Postmodern, or whatever you think is too chic to really get your head around. Black and red and weird all over, but in a tasteful, clean way. Looks like there's an elevator behind her, too.

VIP? Champagne room? Rooftop helipad? Secret society? Celebrity blackmail? I like the vibe.

"Sorry, I seem to have misplaced my reason for being here. Have you seen it, by chance? Have you met Hank?"

She's just there, behind a serious desk. I have got to requisition that model just as soon as I get back and collect my salty, drowsy buddha of a buddy. Black metal and shiny as that ring I'd seen on Hank's wife, the only time she'd held her nose and turned up to scold him in person.

She made Hank who he is today. She did it without a trace of shame.

"Oh, we'll be seeing Mr. Edwards soon enough, I expect. No need to worry about him. As for you, you're here, and I couldn't be more pleased to serve you."

I can't believe Hank is missing this. What was in that brownie? Maybe Hank can't get up.

"Oh, of course. You're pleased to see and serve. What sort of service do you provide, I wonder?"

She grins at that one. A bit vulpine are her aspect and her eye, this one. Good things in store, I'll wager. At least until the brownie wears off.

"Do you know what makes a great hunter, Mr. Begirale?"

"Questions. I'm fonder of statements, if it's all the same to you. Clear, declarative statements."

"Patience, Mr. Begirale. If you can wait patiently for the arrival of your prey, you don't really have to hunt at all. Sooner or later, what you seek will find you, if you become an expert at waiting."

It sounds like Hank was born for the hunt. Who would have thought?

"Pointers. Useful, succinct pointers that I will not forget."

She touches some very flat, discrete buttons on a little panel on the desk. I hear the lock click on the door behind me. A chair rises smoothly from a silently sliding panel in the floor, just in front of her desk. Low, dark, metallic. Pretty stark in its angles and stingy with the cushion. Unfit for Hank. I make myself comfortable.

"So then, Mr. Begirale: do you think you are ready for a promotion?"

This is a shiny little surprise, isn't it? I was just curious, and now I may be able to afford that purring panther of a sports car I've been coveting for as long as I've known Hank. "I think I am prepared to accept additional responsibilities. I enjoy my work, but much of it has become rather routine if salutary, like brushing one's teeth. What do you have in mind?"

She grins. Foxy.

"What we have in mind for you is a very special, unusual task. Would you describe most of your clients as prone to avarice? That is, are they a greedy lot, by and large? You can rely upon my absolute discretion, Mr. Begirale."

This smells like a snare to my sensitive beak. Of course they're a greedy lot. She must know that. In fact, that's the point of everything we do here, isn't it? Parting fools from their money so there's more to pile before our most powerful, influential clientele. This is a test for me. A way to gauge my character or annotate my HR dossier or something of the sort.

"I would never speak ill of a valuable client, you understand, but it is certainly the case that most of our clients have a pragmatic, rational approach to these matters: they understand the value of the filthy lucre (it can be exchanged for goods and services, if the rumors are reliable) and wish to accumulate as much of it as they possibly can."

She nods. "Yes, I understand. What we want to know is, do you suppose you can nurture and cultivate their greed? Can you dial them up to eleven? Can you ensure that they will message you, sweating and gasping, at three in the morning, to insist that you buy a commodity or sell a commodity, just to polish their portfolio ever so slightly, and make it glow just a little more gladly? Do you suppose you are equal to letting their hobbled appetites shake off their constraints and run?"

She's got the gift of the gab, this one. I like her style. I didn't know we have a Pacific Rim branch, but one shouldn't leap to conclusions: she may well have been working here for decades, in the elite offices where rabble like Hank and yours truly fear to tread. She could have been born in Stelton-on-Trent, for all I know. I'm wondering because I'd like to get to know her better, once this little ritual is over.

What is that perfume? My beak can pick out vanilla, and a musky note. Wait, not musk. It's a mineral of some kind, like tiny shavings of an exotic stone might be seen dancing in the lovely bottle with which she spritzed her wrists and throat this morning. Quite intoxicating, if a little forceful.

"That is a challenge that I will happily accept. The key to that sort of thing, I think, is to let them know just how boring everything they have is, and how exciting other, shiny baubles will be, once they get their mitts on them."

That elicited a wide, wonderful smile, not just a cunning, subtle grin. Great teeth she's got, and no mistake. None of that cheap, chemical whitening that shows up like a stain on a hotel sheet under black light, either. Her teeth look like her teeth, but without the smallest defect. I'm envious. I'm not sure Hank has ever met a dentist.

"This is encouraging news, Mr. Begirale. Would you be comfortable with a luxurious suite of offices downstairs, far from the madding crowd? I'm afraid Mr. Edwards is not eligible to join you, as yet. Will that prove to be problematic? An awkward farewell to your trusted friend and colleague?"

That's not a real puzzle, and she must know it. I've developed some grudging respect for Hank's obstinate inertia in an avalanche of abuse and invective. I'm fond of him, as you might be fond of that drumlin you see on your drive to work. Solid, dependable. As I said, it might be love of some kind, but if I never see him eat ham again, I'll be none the worse. Why did she ask?

"Oh, I'm fond of the old sod, but between you and me, he's not the sort of person I'd seek out at a party for a quiet chat, you know?"

She nods. She rises. She's fit, this one. The view just keeps improving.

"Excellent," she says. "Please rise, Mr. Begirale."

I oblige, and it's strange. I stand, and can't help but notice myself still sitting in the hip, minimalist seat. I don't look too good to myself, either. Eyes rolled up, and a little trickle of claret coming from my beak that's sure to spoil my nice shirt if left unchecked.

"That's odd," says I. "I don't seem to be quite myself."

She laughs. It's a bit sinister, her laugh. Deep and throaty and a bit feral.

"Everyone remembers where 6-229D is located sooner or later, Mr. Begirale. You see, you've had the biscuit. Now, instead of being part of our marketing team upstairs in that poche but slightly uncomfortable suit, worrying about gingivitis and receding hair and whether or not the occasional, furtive fag in the parking garage will give you cancer, you can focus on perfecting greed. What you were pretending not to be doing with a knowing wink and an affable nod upstairs, you can now do forever, with singular focus. Downstairs. With us. Sound suitable?"

She turns with a ballerina's grace and pushes a button next to the elevator. I can't help but note that there is only one, luminous arrow above the elevator door, brought to life by her precise poke. It aims down.

I don't think I'll ever see Hank again. I have a feeling his wife will turn up soon enough, though. I follow the fox into the elevator.