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Fiction Short Story

by Daniel Marshall Wood

Early Departure

"They sent me a key," the old man announced.

I squinted and looked around the dark vaulted Siena marble lobby of a downtown Toledo office building. We were the only ones in the silent tomb-like space and he almost blended into a faded Art Deco mural.

I promised my accountant I'd bring my tax stuff early this year. I lied. Here it was April 14—again. She'd be furious, but she'd file for an extension—again.

"They sent me a key," he said again.

"For what?"

"For the elevator. They're on the eleventh floor. I'm not sure how it works, though."

"Perhaps I can help." The elevator doors opened and the old man, dressed in a clean, but outdated navy pinstripe suit, grey felt hat and dark glasses, shuffled into the gilded cage. He fumbled with a small key on a large brass ring. I guided his gloved hand to the appropriate keyhole on the panel.

"They sent a Lincoln to bring me here," he said. "I always drove Lincolns, until I failed the eye test." He prattled on about a 1962 Lincoln four-door convertible he'd driven across the country. I'd always been more of a Chrysler guy, even sticking by them during the bad days of the 70s.

The slim brass arrow of the floor indicator clicked to six—my floor. After the heavy, carved door slid open, the man touched my shoulder. "Would you mind going up with me? I'm not sure what to expect when I get there," he said.

I sighed and stepped back into the cab. What's a few more minutes to my accountant?

The old man and I exited the elevator on the eleventh floor. An unpolished brass sign on the lone door read, "T. D. W." Smaller letters below said "Receiving Only."

"Oh, Mr. Castigliano, we've been expecting you. Come in and we'll begin the process." The receptionist, a polished woman in her mid-30s, pointed the old man toward a worn green velvet chair. "Please be seated." She reminded me of one of my four ex-wives, long since discarded, and a thousand miles away.

She turned to me and smiled. "Mr. Rumsford, we weren't expecting you for quite some time, but we can take care of your matter early. No problem whatsoever." Her voice rang cool and practiced.

How could she know my name? I'd never been here and didn't know her from Adam. Or Eve.

"Let me see if I have your details correct." She tapped a few keys on her computer. "Rumsfeld. No, that's someone else we're expecting. "Here you are. Keith Rumsford of 17 Larkspur Lane."

The address of a tree-lined lot in a new development at the city's edge entered my brain. I looked at it last week with the thought of building my retirement home on the site—but not for at least five more years. I said nothing to her, however, and glanced away. Mr. Castigliano waved goodbye as a tall, thin man dressed in black led him down a hallway.

I waved back to my new friend. "Sweet old man," I said to the receptionist.

"Not at all what he seems. In his heyday he was quite the devil himself. Mr. Castigliano knows where the bodies are buried. But so do we, of course." She laughed. "Now back to you, Mr. Rumsford."

"I don't know what you mean. I only accompanied the old man because he needed some assistance."

The receptionist continued. "You are here about ten years sooner than we anticipated, but we'll manage. Early arrivals—or departures, whichever word you prefer—are easily arranged. And rather refreshing. Because of your slip-up I'll get a bonus this month for exceeding my quota."

"You must have me confused with someone else. Please excuse me." I turned away.

"Mr. Rumsford, listen to me." Her tone was soft but insistent. "Didn't you see the sign? It says 'receiving only.' Once you're here, you can't leave."

Her forceful words stung my nerves and my heart pounded. I ran to the door, but found no knob. I pushed several times, but the heavy mahogany slab didn't budge.

My energy drained and I turned back to her. "Exactly where am I? What is…what is "T. D. W.?"

"I thought you knew. But, of course, you're early. This is The Devil's Warehouse."

"The Devil's Warehouse?" I repeated.

"Looks like a normal office suite, doesn't it? That's part of the fun, if you ask me." The receptionist smiled. "Unexpected details to spice up the final journey. We've modernized the system. Branch offices expedite shipment to headquarters, or Fire Island, as some of us call it. Helps to have a sense of humor, don't you think?"

"There must be some mistake," I protested. "Please let me leave."

"Not possible."

"Why me? I haven't done anything too wrong."

"Oh, Mr. Rumsford, of course you have, though it's a matter of judgment. Think about it. Thirty thousand of one company's funds here, a hundred thousand from an unsuspecting mark there, and pretty soon that illegal Swiss account really amounts to something. And then there are the tax forms that don't quite—how should I phrase it?—provide enough detail. Shall I continue?"

"What if I pay it back, pretty lady?" I smiled and moved closer to her. "With interest." I spoke softly and winked. "And a cut for you, sweetie."

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Rumsford. You no longer have a choice. If we'd realized you were coming, we'd have sent a car for you, too. A Chrysler, of course. We do so want the sendoff to be special."

I thought for a moment. "Mr. Castigliano. What did he do?" I looked around for a back exit. I had to get out. Never be nice to an old man.

"Mob connections," she confided. "The family, as they call themselves. This branch's largest category, in fact, though lawyers are a close second."

The man in black strode toward me. "Mr. Rumsford."

"No, wait. Please." Desperation crawled through me as he touched my hand. "Isn't there some way out of this?" I pleaded, and lost my battle to withhold tears.

"Keith Rumsford, you're under arrest for embezzlement and fraud. Anything you say can and will be—" Before I could struggle, my hands were cuffed.

The hall door opened and Mr. Castigliano, no longer the old man from the lobby, entered the room and sprinted to my side.

"What's going on?" The receptionist pulled off a wig and glasses, revealing the auburn hair and glowing face of my ex-wife, Katrina. "What the…?"

"Keith, you old bastard, it's an FBI sting. This is Marco Castigliano—he heads the local office. After you ran off with my investments—and my best friend—I was thrilled to cooperate." Katrina's smug smile told me it was payback time.

"Katrina's been a godsend in arranging the theatrics," Mr. Castigliano said. "An ex's revenge is our best secret weapon." He removed his hat and revealed a full head of dark hair. Under the heavy make-up stood a handsome, angular-faced man in his 40s.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"Your accountant. She said you'd show up just before the deadline. I've been hanging around the lobby the past few days. She'll testify against you too."

"What about, uh, Larkspur Lane?" My voice cracked as steel cut into my wrists.

"The real estate agent divulged details about the showing. We've been investigating you for quite some time, Mr. Rumsford. Tapped your phone, intercepted your mail, hacked into your computer. You've been a busy boy."

"And a very bad one," my ex admonished. "I really want to send you to the hell you deserve."

"You have. I'll be in of some kind of hell the rest of my life." Early departure to Fire Island from The Devil's Warehouse might have been the better option.


About the Author
Daniel Marshall Wood leads a double life. He is proprietor of Edgefield bed & breakfast in Sharon Springs, New York, part of the year, and an executive assistant in New York City the other part. His short stories have appeared in Reflections Edge (May 2005) and HandHeld Crime. Daniel also leads a double life as twin to the five-minutes-older David Michael (who never lets him forget it).