PEDDLER'S BARGAIN

  PEDDLER’S BARGAIN

  A Supernatural Thriller

  A Novelette by

  John W. Dennehy

  Copyright 2015 by John W. Dennehy, P.C.

  Macabre Tales Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events or organizations in it are product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Peddler’s Bargain © 2015 by John W. Dennehy, P.C.

  Peddler’s Bargain first appeared in the July issue of Beyond Science Fiction in June 2015, and was released in Beyond Science Fiction, Complete Anthology in July 2016. The author holds all rights to this work and release it here as a standalone Novelette with his permission.

  Macabre Tales Publishing

  127 Main Street, Suite 1

  Nashua, NH 03060

  Written by John W. Dennehy

  Cover Design by Greg Chapman

  Edition: eBook

  ISBN: 978-0-9984721-2-6

  First Printed in the United States of America, 2016.

  One

  Stepping through a fall drizzle, Brad hurried toward a coffee shop downtown. Frigid mist showed no sign of letting up, so he was eager to get inside. Anxiety pulsated through him. Brad was anxious about interviewing for a new position. His life was coming unraveled. He’d been fired again.

  Opening the door, a visage appeared through the glass. A face from the past. Something skittered across a cheek of the young man glancing back. An insect, or a drop of rain, reflecting on the window. Brad walked into the shop, but no one was behind the door. A trick of light from the overcast sky. Beads running down the glass must have altered Brad’s reflection. No young man. Nobody.

  He walked across the hardwood floor, perplexed. Ordering a coffee, Brad momentarily forgot about the phantasm peering through the window, and his interview. He flashed a grin at the young girl behind the counter.

  She had colorful tattoos accentuating her black outfit. The girl smiled flirtatiously. Brad figured if he landed the new position, he’d come back to see her often.

  “Here you go,” she said, sliding the coffee over.

  “Thanks a lot.” He grinned again. “Really appreciate it.”

  She smiled back with a twinkle in her eye.

  Brad ran a hand through his trim graying hair. He paid for the coffee. Reaching for his change, she glanced into his eyes. Smiled. The girl’s tongue ran around her lips, then she delicately slid her fingers over his palm.

  “I’m Sarah,” she said, canting her head. “Hope that you come back again soon.”

  “Sure thing,” Brad replied, coolly.

  He nodded, reaching for the coffee. She kept her eyes glued to him. Brad considered asking her out, right there, but thought better of it. The moment passed. She winked and turned to prepare more coffee.

  Brad stepped over to the condiments stand. An older professional woman held the cream dispenser. He lingered, perturbed. She was heavyset and wore strands of pearls that choked her thick neck.

  Waiting, he mulled over his predicament. Despite having been fired, he’d worked his network and secured a number of interviews. There had been a lot of moves in his twenty-year career. Things would turn out all right. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

  The woman handed over the cream.

  Looking at Brad, she stared momentarily, and blushed. He forced a smile.

  She put the lid on her cup nervously. Walking away, she looked over her shoulder. Brad nodded nonchalantly, glad to see her move on.

  Pouring cream into his steaming cup, Brad pondered the situation with his wife. Things had taken a nasty turn; he wondered if it could ever be straightened out. Everything was a mess. He sighed, praying for a change.

  Being late-morning, the place was quiet, so he snagged a chrome café chair by a picture window.

  The spot overlooked Milk Street; both chairs next to him were empty.

  Brad took off his trench coat and draped it over a chair nearby. He took a seat. Then, he sipped coffee and checked messages on his phone.

  Two

  Later, he was stirred from thought by a chair sliding across the wood floor. Engrossed in email, Brad hadn’t noticed anyone enter the coffee shop. He looked over. An old man with a thin, wrinkled face smiled kindly.

  The old man was hunched, wearing a long slicker, dripping water. A bright yellow and black plaid pattern covered the coat. He also wore a rubber bowler hat, a similar pattern winding around it. Brad noticed the raincoat liner was bright yellow.

  “Pardon me,” the old man said, meekly. “May I trouble you?”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  “Merely a place to rest my feet a bit.” The man pointed a boney finger. “Just hoping that I could trouble you to move your coat, is all.”

  “No problem,” Brad replied, confused why the man didn’t use an empty chair. “I didn’t expect anyone to come along.”

  “Sure, totally understand,” the man said. “But the trouble with a sudden storm, drives people inside. Now, I’ll just set your coat over here, if you don’t mind.”

  Brad shrugged. “Go ahead. Mighty kind of you.”

  The old man set his coffee on the counter. He slapped down a pair of yellow gloves beside the cup. “It’s no trouble at all,” the man said, moving Brad’s coat.

  The old man lugged a worn leather suitcase, covered with travel stickers. He hoisted the suitcase out of the way, and then took off his slicker, draping it on the back of the chair.

  The codger sat down. He took a sip of coffee and looked Brad over. Grinned. A beak of a nose rose up and down, as the man nodded, knowingly. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt. There was a pink carnation pinned to a lapel.

  The old man flashed an odd smirk.

  Brad glanced back, uncomprehending. The old man’s amusement seemed bizarre. The stranger continued to stare. Brad finally smiled. With time to kill, Brad played along with the peculiar old man.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” Brad said after a moment.

  “Well, I’m sort of a traveling salesman.”

  The comment sounded odd. Brad couldn’t understand how he could be sort of anything. He was either a traveling salesman, or not. “So, do you sell trendy foul weather business attire?” Brad finally asked.

  “Oh, heavens no,” the man answered. “Why I could not possibly be so presumptuous… as to pretend that I have any grasp on the current trends.”

  “Well, I was just asking because of your colorful, matching ensemble.”

  The old man canted his head, looking over his things. “Oh, these…” he said, “were just something that I took a fancy to and picked up the whole kit-and-caboodle. Nothing here is of importance.” He stared at Brad for a moment. “May I ask what you do?”

  “I’m an attorney,” Brad boasted.

  “An attorney,” the old man said, scratching his chin. “That’s sort of like being a lawyer, only you charge more, right?”

  Brad laughed at the comment. “Wish that were true.”

  “Should’ve guessed you for a lawyer. Judging from that suit.”

  Looking over his blue pinstriped suit, Brad was pleased by the comment. Wasn’t all that expensive, but he figured it looked higher-end from tailoring and his runner’s build. Brad was about to thank him for the compliment.

  “Do you have something troubling you?” the old man inquired. His blue eyes were sharp, and his tone revealed wisdom, insight.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Now, there you go,” the old man chided, shaking hi
s head, “sounding like a lawyer. Responding to a question with a question.” He looked Brad over circumspectly. “So, what is troubling you?”

  Brad peered into the man’s knowing eyes. “Got some work issues,” he finally admitted. “That’s all.”

  “Employment?”

  “Yeah,” Brad replied. “I guess you could say that.”

  The old man slowly shook his head. “Always troubling… employment issues.”

  “You could say that again.”

  “But this isn’t your first bout with such a problem.” The old man added matter-of-factly, waving a finger. “Employment issues…”

  Brad was taken aback. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  “Just met for the first time, right now.” The old man smiled again, but the kindly twinkle dissipated. He waited expectantly, as though the response mattered somehow. The old man seemed to enjoy teasing out Brad’s problems, like a sadistic psychologist.

  “No, just a minor employment hang-up. Nothing that won’t get worked out.”

  “I’m sure,” the old man agreed. But he didn’t sound convinced. “You’ve gotten around these issues in the past. What about the wife? How’s that going?”

  The question squeezed air from Brad’s lungs. He had trouble breathing for a moment. A tinge of anxiety. Gathering himself, Brad pointed a finger at him. “Listen, I don’t know you, but leave my wife out of this.”

  “Sure, sure thing,” the old man acquiesced. “Shall we talk about the girls down in Washington, DC instead?”

  A wave of panic swept over Brad. He found it extremely difficult to breathe. Turning, he glanced out the window, trying to settle down. The sky grew ominously darker. People scurried along the cragged sidewalks, as though a deluge would break any moment.

  Panic and fear turned to anger, hatred. “What kind of salesman did you say you were, anyway?”

  “The kind of Peddler that can fix things,” the old man replied, unequivocally.

  “What sort of things do you fix?” Brad asked, puzzled by the comment.

  “Lots of things,” the Peddler said. “But everything has to be done for a bargain. There isn’t a free ride here.”

  “Bargain?” Brad repeated. “You mean for a good price?”

  The Peddler shook his head dismissively. “As in the older sense of the term,” he said. “More like a barter, an exchange.”

  “An exchange for money?” Brad questioned.

  “The exchange doesn’t have to be for money,” the Peddler said, smirking. “Most aren’t for money. There can be a barter for a purpose, or a result, say.”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t quite follow.” Brad turned away, glancing out the window again. He lost himself in thought, ignoring the peddler.

  Three

  The storm had picked up. Rain poured hard, and gusts of wind swept through the narrow streets, driving the deluge into old brick and limestone buildings. Pedestrians hurried to get inside. Some of them held umbrellas, bandied about in the wind, while others were soaked to the bone.

  Brad wanted to get up and leave, walk away from the old man, and his nonsense, but felt it better to wait out the storm. He didn’t want to show up at the interview looking drenched.

  Glancing out the window, he considered the old man’s comments. The Peddler couldn’t possibly know his situation. A face glanced through the window from outside. For a moment, Brad thought it was the same reflection he’d seen at the door; a familiar mug from days long past, seemed to jeer at him. Dark spots peppered both cheeks and forehead.

  The reflection was merely a fleeting phantasm, shifting away, with the slightest change in the light.

  The old man’s questions lingered. Brad decided not to respond. Instead, he watched the people outside, and sipped coffee. As soon as the rain let up, he’d move along and forget the discussion with the meddling old man.

  “Given all of your troubles,” the Peddler continued. “Don’t you have anything that you want fixed? Something in your life that should be corrected?”

  Brad heard the question and couldn’t help contemplating. There were a number of things he’d done wrong. Matters that could stand correcting. At times, he went through bouts of depression, nightmares and binge drinking, which pierced and dulled his regrets. Lost employment opportunities, marriage difficulties and a tragic past.

  He sensed the Peddler staring fervently. Rather than answering, Brad continued to gaze out the window, ignoring the old man. Rain beat against the glass. Beads of water cascaded down the window in streams.

  “Nothing that could stand correcting?” the Peddler repeated.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Brad finally admitted.

  The Peddler perked up. “Is that so?” he said, enthusiastically. “Why don’t you tell me what should stand corrected? Tell me the thing that needs adjustment most of all.”

  “Are you the type of person who can make such an adjustment?”

  “Perhaps,” the Peddler said. “Perhaps, but it depends upon the request.”

  “What would be owed in return?”

  “That depends…” the Peddler replied. “That certainly depends upon the request.”

  “And once I make the request,” Brad said, “I’m in this, correct?”

  “You’re a quick study,” the Peddler said. “You catch on faster than most. Once you make the request, there will be an assessment period. I’ll see if it can be granted. And once the request is granted, you’ll owe your part of the bargain, whatever that toll shall be.”

  “Understood,” Brad replied. “So, you come upon a man in hard times, and offer a chance for improvement. But… it comes at a price.”

  “It comes at a price,” the Peddler said, nodding. “So, tell me, what it is that you would like to see improved?”

  Brad thought long and hard. There had been many mistakes, often with dire consequences. Maybe the worst was the misfit, Wayne, back in eighth grade. Brad figured the discord with his wife was his biggest problem, currently. If that could be corrected, everything else would follow suit: a new position, finances and long terms goals, like retirement.

  The Peddler sat up, as though sensing that Brad had come to a decision. Edging forward in the café chair, the old man eagerly awaited the request. His eyes cut through Brad like a knife, stabbing into his soul.

  “Well, if there’s one thing needing improvement,” Brad said, looking into the Peddler’s expectant eyes. “It would be an adjustment in my marriage.” Right after making the request, Brad became doubtful.

  The Peddler nodded, slowly rubbing his chin. “I see,” he said, leaning back. “Fixing things with the wife… that would certainly make everything easier on you. Are you sure that’s what you want adjusted, most of all?”

  Brad sensed the old man was disappointed. Most people would consider his request noble. A fair response to the situation. It wasn’t greedy, like seeking fortune, or carnal knowledge. The old man seemed unimpressed, though.

  “Well, is there a better request?” Brad asked.

  The Peddler held up a withered finger, waving it. “That’s not for me to decide,” he admonished. “You’ve plied your way through this life, and cultivated your regrets. Now you have the opportunity to right something, and the decision is all yours.”

  “But, am I making the best decision?” Brad questioned aloud.

  “The decision is only yours to make,” the Peddler responded. “And having been verbalized, the request has been made. I’m not in a position to question it, or consider another. Now, I must see if the request can be granted.”

  “What do I owe if the request is granted?”

  The old man nodded. “That’s a fair question,” the Peddler said. “The toll will be determined by the difficulty of granting your request.”

  “How will I know when the fare is being charged?”

  “Oh, you’ll know when the tax is levied,” the old man scoffed. He turned away, pulling out a notebook and stubby pencil.

  The Peddler’s
snide remark caught him off guard. All this nonsense was being taken too far. Brad peered out the window and noticed the rain letting up. A shimmering reflection peered back at him; the visage of a resentful young man. Brad blinked. The apparition was gone, then he decided to leave for the interview.

  “Well, I have to get going now,” said Brad.

  “Good day to you,” the Peddler replied, without looking up from his scribbling.

  Brad put on his overcoat, and shoved the cell into a pocket. He cinched up his belt and headed for the door, trying to put the old man behind him.

  Desperately, Brad wanted to forget the encounter, and the blurry vision from his past.

  Four

  A light rain dribbled from grey sky, stippling Brad’s face and overcoat. Droplets beaded off as he hurried along the sidewalk. He was getting drenched. Brad wanted to arrive for the interview without appearing disheveled. He grew nervous. Anxious.

  This was his best shot at landing a position. If he couldn’t sell the pitch, it wouldn’t likely work on other firms. Everyone in the office would avoid the harsh weather by parking in the garage below the building. He couldn’t afford that now. Brad took public transportation-the grimy MBTA.

  Picking up his pace, Brad hurried to the interview. He turned onto State Street; the destination lay just ahead. Brad stepped through a revolving door, entering an immense lobby, lined in reddish marble, relieved to be inside.

  After checking with security, Brad went to the elevator bank and headed for the 28th floor. He exited and walked toward a set of double-glass doors. Entering his old law firm, Brad felt dismayed, returning with his tail between both legs.

  Good luck you schmuck. The comment took Brad by surprise. Spinning around, nobody was there. He wasn’t sure if he heard the remark, or imagined it.

  The reception area had been renovated, but the office smelled the same: floor cleaner, polish, and fresh cut flowers. He breathed deep and felt a sense of comfort, reassurance from familiar scents. Finding Betty sitting behind the reception desk helped ease his angst.