Little Black Book

Parcel deliveries weren’t common on Sundays, but that’s when the little black book was delivered to Sam’s house.

He straightened his black rimmed glasses on his nose and took a look at it, turning it over in his hand. He did not recall ordering this, although it was something he would have used for his career, but not something he recalled ordering.

Perhaps it’s a birthday gift, he thought to himself, even though his birthday was five months previous.

Heading back into his living room, he removed the elastic black band attached to the book to help keep it closed, opened the black book and searched through it, looking for a sign of a birthday note, or a note of any kind to tell him who it was from.

The book was like many others he had seen.

Finally, his fingers landed on something. A card taped on the inside of the back cover.

Percy Maxwell – Estate Solicitor

189-555-0909

[email protected]

Sam studied the card. “Percy Maxwell” he said aloud. “What is that? Who is that?”

He turned the card over and found a hand written note on the back ‘please call my office when you get this. ASAP.’

This sounded important, but Sam didn’t know a Percy Maxwell, the area code was different, and he began to believe there was a big mistake and that this had been delivered to the wrong address. Taking the envelope the book arrived in, he saw his name and his address on the label.

Being Sunday, Sam figured Percy Maxwell wouldn’t be in his office, but he called the number provided anyhow. He would leave a message, let Mr. Maxwell know there had been a mistake. Wrong person, wrong address.

As expected, the number went straight to voicemail. Sam left his message and then readied himself to head into the kitchen to get himself a drink and maybe something to eat.

However, no sooner had he even moved his foot to stand up from his couch, his phone rang.

It was from the number he had just called.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tweedle” a tenor with a British accent greeted him.

It took a moment for Sam to realize the man had used his name.

“Hi” Sam said, “I got your black book with your business card. But I feel there is a mistake. I don’t know you and I am not in need of an Estate Solicitor.

“I assure you, Mr. Tweedle, there is no mistake” the man replied.

The package was sent to the correct person. I have something here that I need to deliver to you. But before I can do that, I need to have you sign some documents.”

Sam frowned, this was getting weird.

“Documents?” Sam echoed, “what kind of documents.”

Mr. Maxwell went quiet for a moment, “documents you need to sign, Mr. Tweedle. When you have completed that, you will be a slightly richer man.”

“What? What did you say?” Sam asked, his heart beginning to pound in his chest.

“I said, you will be a slightly rich man, Mr. Tweedle.”

Silence on both ends of the phone. Finally, Percy Maxwell spoke “I will have a car sent to pick you up from your address in an hour. Be ready.”

Before Sam could object, or even ask any more questions, the call was ended.

This had to be someone’s idea of a joke! What solicitor did business on a Sunday? And he didn’t play the lottery.

“Very funny” Sam said to his black cat, Tibbs, who was curled into a ball beside him. “Just some joke to try and get me to send money. Yeah right, total scam!”

Tossing the black book aside, Sam decided he was hungry after all and would make some lunch.

When he was finished his meal, he settled back to his couch to watch a Sunday Afternoon movie.

He was beginning to drift off for a nap when it happened. The doorbell rang.

Sam lay there for a moment. Did he hear that? Was there someone at his door or had he been dreaming?

Ding! Dong!

He looked at his phone and realized that it had indeed been about an hour since he had spoken to Percy Maxwell.

His head running in circles, Sam made his way to the door and opened it slowly, opening it just enough to allow him to peek through to see who was there.

“Mr. Tweedle,” said a heavy-set man, dark hair under a bowlers cap and wearing a light grey tailored three-piece suit, “I have been instructed to collect you at this address,”

The voice did not belong to Percy Maxwell, but the man had the same British accent.

“Collect me…?”

“Yes, Mr. Tweedle. My car is parked out front. We promise not to keep you long.”

Sam wasn’t convinced.

“I think you have the wrong person,” Sam reiterated, “I don’t know a Percy Maxwell, and you should know, I rent and do not own. I have no need for an estate Solicitor. Please leave my property.”

Sam made to close the door when the mysterious gentleman spoke again.

“Even when you have Twenty Thousand Dollars waiting for you, Mr. Tweedle? the man let the last words hang in the air.

Sam froze in his spot. “Pardon Me?”

The heavy-set man with the British Accent made a sign in the air that mimicked signing a document.

“All you have to do is sign some documents. Please come with me, sir, we will explain everything there.”

“You know this is all very weird” Sam answered. “I get a Little Black Notebook delivered to me on a Sunday with a business card inside telling me to call some guy I do not know ASAP. Then an hour later I have another stranger at my door telling me to come with him to sign some documents! Why do I need to come with you? Can’t these documents be signed here in my own home?”

“I regret that is not possible, Mr. Tweedle” the man replied, non-chalant.

When Sam made no effort to move from his spot at the door, the stranger sighed, “look Mr. Tweedle, I understand how this appears, and I understand it is all very rushed. However, we only have a small window to get these documents signed so that the funds may be given to the rightful person.”

Now Sam really was not convinced.

“No,” he finally said, “I will not come with you. If these documents are so important to you, you can bring them back and we can go over them here, and on my terms.”

With that Sam shut the door and locked it.

How strange this all was. He suddenly felt like he had become the lead character in a story his friend Mandy would write.

Letting out a big breath of air he had not realized he was holding; he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. What a weird day!

He returned to the couch, his cat Tibbs still curled up in a ball, snoring softly. He tried to concentrate on the movie on TV but his mind kept going over the days events. He looked at the Little Black Notebook that had been delivered only a couple of hours before, still convinced this was all a mistake. These strange men had him mistaken for someone else. What if they were assassins sent by the British Government? What if he had just narrowly escaped death by refusing to accompany this man to sign documents?

Estate Solicitor. Yeah right!

His phone rang, causing Sam to yell out in fright. He picked it up and looked at the number. It was Percy Maxwell. He didn’t answer. Not even a minute later, the same number called again. Sam sank back into the pillows of his couch as though he were trying to escape his ringing phone.

Finally, when the phone rang again for the third time with the same number, Sam answered it “You have the wrong man, Mr. Maxwell,” he yelled into the phone in a panic, “this is a mistake! I am not the Sam Tweedle you are looking for. I am innocent of any crimes. Just please leave me alone!”

When he was done ranting Percy Maxwell’s voice answered him, “come to your front door, Mr. Tweedle. I have a bank cheque made up in your name for Twenty Thousand Dollars. I would like to deliver it to you personally.”

Turning his head slowly, Sam looked out the window and indeed saw the fancy black car parked out front of his house.

“Mr. Tweedle” Maxwell said calmly but firmly in his British Accent. “Come to your front door.”

As though suddenly hypnotised, Sam did just that. There he found the same strange man from earlier, standing beside him, a tall thin man, also in a three-piece tailored suit, his silver hair combed back off his face. He was older than the heavy-set man. Beside them, some ordinary looking dude with a goofy grin, wearing jeans and a stupid looking blue windbreaker, holding a camera and snapping photographs.

“Good Afternoon,” the older man said, his voice being that of Percy Maxwell.”

Sam didn’t answer.

From his pocket, Mr. Maxwell produced a folded envelope. “The bank cheque I promised you” he said handing it to Sam.

Sam took it and opened the envelope, the number $20,000 starred back at him, with his name on the cheque.

“What is this?”

Maxwell smiled and took a step toward Sam, “have you forgotten, Mr. Tweedle?” he asked with a chuckle.

Sam wasn’t laughing “apparently I have” he said dryly.

“You entered a writing contest a couple of months ago. You wrote about a mysterious black book and mysterious strangers with British Accents, one under the guise of an Estate Solicitor.”

Sam’s eyes snapped up to meet Maxwell’s. Snap! Snap! Went the goofy photographer’s camera. “Oh My God!”

Maxwell began to laugh harder, as did the heavy-set man “well, you won!” Percy said, his British Accent

suddenly gone!

All Sam could do was stare at them, he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry or run back inside and never come back out.

Maxwell, or whoever he was, continued, “your story won, and as a means to present you with your winnings, the writing company thought it good humour to present to you the cheque by the characters you created for your winning story.”

Sam suddenly felt like he was going to faint. “You mean, you’re not assassins working for the British Government?”

Snap! Snap! Went the camera. The photographer now uncomfortably close to Sam’s face.

Maxwell shook his head, “no” he said, “I am an actor, as is my friend here” he pointed to the heavy-set man.

Sam looked down at his $20,000 cheque.

“Oh My God,” he said again. “I won!”

“Congratulations” Maxwell said, reaching out to shake Sam’s hand, “and good writing!”

When all the photographs were taken, the two actors turned to leave, and Sam returned to his couch. His heart still pounding in his chest but now full of relief. He was alive! And he had won the writing contest!

$20,000, oh what he could do with that.

Looking over at his vast record collection, he began to make a mental note of records he had wanted to order. This cheque would give him the means to buy those he wanted. It would also help pay his rent for the next year.

And since it was Sunday, his lazy day, he decided ordering Pizza would be a great way to celebrate.

Word Count: 1930 Words