Cutthroat

by Nicholas Godec

April 30

            All thanks to last night’s law school gala I didn’t want to attend, I’ve got an interview tomorrow with Drakovitch & Associates. It was an over-the-top Saturday evening—I arrived to find a red carpet that ran from the sidewalk to the two hulking metal doors, which were swung wide open. The uniformed security detail checked to confirm everyone on the list, adding to the air of thick exclusivity. The air was thick indeed. NYU Law spared no expense. And no shame. I’ve just made my last tuition payment, have $200K in student loans, and have already received a letter in the mail requesting a charitable donation for the future class. Unbelievable. All that money and not a job to show for it. Well, we’ll see what Drakovitch wants from me.

            Inside, the space was massive, with a looming ceiling and walls that seemed miles away. The room was packed, full pandemonium well underway. It was only eight thirty p.m. when I entered, and already most people were either drunk or well on their way there. I had done a few lines before entering, just to stay on my toes.

            Flood lights painted the room in NYU’s deep purple. Ornate chandeliers refracted purple on the pool of fresh bodies. Many round dining tables made a circle around the dance floor. Waiters buzzed around taking drink orders, and there was a long line of takers for a photobooth well equipped with jumbo cowboy and top hats, oversized plastic glasses, and clip on bowties.

            Everyone, in their tuxes and gowns, looked happy, sexy, and successful. I felt like a phony. Probably the only one without a job in the room. I saw Matt and my friends clustered in a corner with some of the girls from our class. They were doing shots and high fiving while grabbing the pigs in blankets that floated by. Matt saw me and signaled me over. I joined them, putting on a cheerful mask as best I could.

            Stuck at the edge of the group watching everyone partying, I headed to the bathroom for another bump.

            I had a slight, energetic buzz when I rejoined the guys. Matt was laughing and moving closer to a dark-haired woman who looked a few years older than the rest of the class.

“John, meet Natasha,” Matt said. “She’s very interested in speaking with you.”

            “Natasha,” I said. Red lips contrasting with her pale face. A black, form-hugging dress. A petite and precise frame.

            “Hello, John,” she said with perfect enunciation, but an accent that sounded Eastern European. She had a reserved smile as if she were keeping a secret. “I was just hearing about you. I’m Natasha Vondra, senior associate at Drakovitch & Associates. Pleasure.”

            Her grip was firm, her hand cool to the touch.

            “Drakovitch … hmm, I can’t say I’ve heard of them. What brings you here? Are you an alum?”

            “No, no. I schooled in Vienna. I’m here hunting for new blood on behalf of the firm. We need a new junior associate, as one of our old ones has moved on. And I’m here because Drakovitch wants the best.” Her hand gestured expansively to the room.

            “I told her you were the smartest guy I know,” Matt chimed in.

            “Yeah, a real tortured genius,” Derrick added, causing Matt to subtly elbow his ribs.

            Natasha smiled. “Smartest at NYU Law, liked by your peers.” She stepped closer. “Lucky for us, and lucky for you, maybe.”

            She extended a card held between thin fingers.

            “Call me on Monday. We’ll see if an interview makes sense.”

            I took the card and looked at it. Park Avenue. Midtown.

            “Okay, will do,” I said looking up, but she was gone. I couldn’t see her anywhere in the packed room.

            I didn’t stay much longer.

            This morning, I called Natasha after a couple of iced coffees and a bacon, egg and cheese. I told her about my background growing up in Hudson, New York. How I worked summers as a caddy at the local golf club. I left out how my mom took off in ninth grade, how I felt embarrassed by my dad, who managed a pharmaceutical assembly line. I caddied for Mr. Heint and his lawyer Mr. Gasi. Both drove the same type of Benz.

            After asking where I interned, Natasha asked why I didn’t get an offer from Carson & Fielding. I told her that the group they were hiring into, their environmental desk, wasn’t up my alley. The truth was the associate couldn’t stand me. Anyway, I’m not sure she bought the environmental bit, but she still wants me there tomorrow at nine to speak with Victor Renfield, the hiring manager.

            She went on to explain their practice. They focused on trust and estate matters. Their clientele, a limited number of Europeans, were, by the sound of it, obscenely wealthy. They all had extensive assets in the United States.

May 01

            It was a quiet Tuesday morning when I arrived for my interview. The building was gray art deco, its lines severe and shadowy. I entered. There was an elevator bank to upstairs offices on the left and a frosted-glass door, with an intercom, to Drakovitch & Associates on my right. I hit the button.

            Natasha answered, her voice resonant. She buzzed me in.

            The door buzzed and I entered and walked down a hallway that led to a waiting room. A large wooden door on the opposite side of the room appeared to lead further into the building. I tried the door, but it was locked. I took a seat on an aged leather couch and waited.

            Moments later the door clicked, and there was Natasha, wearing a well-tailored black pantsuit.

            “John, come this way,” she said. She wasn’t smiling at me. I assumed she was an all-business-at-the-office type. I followed her through the door and down another hallway. The walls were made of stone masonry, more like a medieval castle than a Park Avenue building, and the floor was a seamless maroon carpet. I walked past old paintings. I’m not the most well versed in art, but old masters came to mind. Everything was cast in dim light from gilded wall sconces.

            “The building design is unique,” I said to fill the quiet as we walked.

            “Yes,” Natasha said.

            Must’ve cost a fortune, I thought.

            The passageway was narrow. I had no choice but to trail Natasha. We walked past frosted-glass doors; each door had a keycard panel to open it.

            “Mr. Renfield’s office is just at the end of the hall.”

            When stopped in front of a door, she knocked. “May we come in?”

            The door clicked, and we entered.

            A gaunt older man in a gray pinstripe suit stood in the middle of the room. I had a good sense, judging by his face and neck, of what his skeleton looked like. His suit sagged limply on his bony frame. He had thin white hair.

            His grin revealed a single gold front tooth.

            “Thank you, Natasha,” he said. She left the room.

            “And you must be John,” he said hoarsely, extending a brittle hand that felt filled with air when I took it. “I’m Vic Renfield. I’m pleased to meet you. Please take a seat.”

            He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I took a seat opposite him. He asked about where I grew up, my classes, my ambitions. I wondered if he sensed my hunger. Then he quizzed me on international, corporate, and estate law.

            “Close enough,” he’d said, when I explained my understanding of the tax treatment of estates held by foreign entities headquartered within and without the EU. I was relieved that it sounded like I knew something.

            He explained that they expected to hire two junior associates, me and someone named Colby, though they expected only one would remain after a three-month trial.

            At the end of our conversation Mr. Renfield reclined in his chair and stared blankly toward the frosted-glass door. “I’ve been here a long time. A long, long time. I’ve served Alex and Drakovitch & Associates for decades. Many years ago I was at a crossroads. My career, my life—I had to decide. You’re there now. What you decide will soon define you, so you better be able to live with your decision.” His mouth broadened to a wide grin.

            He moved to stand, again extending his nothing hand. “You’ve got the job, if you want it. Only accept if you will do whatever it takes. Commitment, loyalty, and most of all, discretion. That’s all we require.”

            I asked about comp. They agreed to pay me what a typical third year associate makes. I accepted immediately.

            “I’m all in,” I replied.

August 21

            Today was my first day. I got home thirty minutes ago. It’s ten to eight and I’m splayed on the couch. I feel dead. It was a strange day.

            I got to the office shortly before eight. Mr. Renfield was waiting for me at his desk. He looked exactly as he did during my interview.

            The first few hours of the day I signed the most elaborate NDAs I’ve ever seen. Nothing like these showed up in the classroom or at my internship. If I spoke of firm matters to anyone outside, I’d be in hot water.

            I was given a keycard to an office next door to Mr. Renfield’s. My keycard only opened three doors, the one to Drakovitch & Associates from the building lobby, the one from the reception room to the offices, and the one to my office. Before leading me into my new office, Mr. Renfield stopped me.

            “Just remember, yours is the office opposite the painting of Saturn devouring his children.”

            I looked at the painting, in which a wide-eyed figure, grotesque and bloody-mouthed, held the decapitated body of an infant.

            “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme,” I said.

            “Saturn got it right,” Mr. Renfield said, staring at the painting wistfully. “Stay alive at all costs.”

            An immense office. A large dark-oak desk. A couch opposite the desk and two worn leather-backed chairs that seemed to match the couch in the reception area.

            “I love the desk,” I said.

            “Yeah, they don’t give those out to juniors at the bulge brackets, do they?”

            No breakroom at the place. I met Colby, the other junior associate, in passing in the hallway, a gangly redhead who didn’t bother making small talk.

            “You’ll start on the Varga account,” Mr. Renfield said. “Mr. Varga is purchasing a majority interest in an elder care operation with a presence across California. He’s to be a silent owner behind his trust, or trusts, I should say. There’s much to draft, much to file.”

            Mr. Renfield dropped a stack of papers on my desk, old legal agreements covering Mr. Varga’s interests. I had to draft new contracts to arrange the purchasing entities. The account needed multiple NDAs, purchase agreements; each one I had to write from scratch.

            I’m nowhere near done. But I’m finally working in the real world. And I can smell my paycheck on the way.

September 12

            I’m finally home. I worked really hard today constantly trying to stay half a step ahead of Mr. Renfield’s deadlines. I’ve been learning a ton. Renfield and I usually came in around the same time in the morning, and then stayed until late. Often he dropped assignments on my desk as late as nine p.m., and some nights I didn’t eat dinner until midnight.

            At noon I walked out of my office to go to lunch. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to walk beyond Mr. Renfield’s office, deeper into the building. I took a turn to the left. In the long hallway, there were two doors: one of frosted glass to my right, and another facing me at the very end, an imposing door with a thick iron ring.

            I set my hand on it and pulled. It wouldn’t budge.

            I jumped after I heard a loud thud in the office adjacent to the iron door. It pounded again. Then again, this time with the shadow of what looked like a hand pressed against the frosted glass.

            “Hello? Is someone in there?” I shouted. I tried my keycard. Access denied. I pulled on the handle. Nothing. I yelled over my shoulder, “Somebody help! I need help over here! Someone!—”

            A hard yank on my forearm pulled me away. I turned to see Natasha scowling at me.  

            “Natasha, quick! Whoever is in there is in trouble.”

            “No one is in there.” She grabbed my wrist. “You shouldn’t be back here.”

            “But—ouch!”

            She pulled me away, back toward my office. She was freakishly strong.

            “Natasha, please! I’m telling you—”

            “Shut up! Do you want to get fired? Because that’s what Alex will do,” she said, “if he learns you wandered farther than you should. I’ve got a master key. I’ll look. You just get back to work.”

            We were at my office where she left me. Back at my desk, I unbuttoned my sleeve to find red marks where her fingers had grasped. I look at them now and they still sting when I touch them.

September 13

            “Hey. Turns out you were right.” Natasha said to me from the reception room when I arrived this morning. A janitor somehow got in and the door wouldn’t unlock. He’s fine. Was just a bit startled.”

            She was dressed, as usual, in black. I thought of the handprint pressing against the glass like a plea for help.

            “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

            But why didn’t he say anything?

            Mr. Renfield came into my office this afternoon.

            “How’s the purchase agreement progressing?” he asked.

            “It’s good. There are a ton of provisions, but I’m almost done.”

            “Good, because the Vargas, along with a few other of the firm’s clients, are forming a consortium to buy as many elder care facilities as they can get ahold of in the Mid- and Southwest. We need to execute their buys quietly via a number of shell companies to maintain their anonymity. We’re going to be exceptionally busy for a while, until these deals are done.”

            Mr. Renfield’s thin white hair was tightly gelled back but frayed in places like a worn rope.

            “Here,” Mr. Renfield said dropping a large file box on my desk. “This should get you started. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

            I felt a pit in my stomach and was suddenly lightheaded. “I’m on it, Mr. Renfield.”

            “Good. By the end of week, please.”

            I loaded up on Red Bulls and got to work. I didn’t leave my desk for several hours. I ran out to pick up Chinese for dinner when I became aware of how hungry I was. I brought it back to my desk and kept at it. I was barely making a dent. I had no idea how I’d finish by end of week. I dreaded the thought of being rewarded with more of the same. This was the job. At that moment, I hated it.

            Deep into redlining a draft agreement, I heard some shuffling from the hallway. I got up and opened the door to see Natasha, along with three men who appeared ragged, each wearing layers of dirty clothes. Two had unkempt beards. Their faces looked weathered, their eyes absent.

            “This way gentlemen,” Natasha said with a smile, that same smile she wore when I first met her at the gala. “We’ll take care of you.”

            “Hey, Natasha,” I said, pulling her focus away. “What’s going on?”

            “Hey, John,” she said warmly, her face glowing from the wall sconces. “Meet some of our newest clients.” She took a step toward me, her mouth at my ear. “Pro bono.”

            Her cool, sweet aroma cut through the stench the three men carried.

            “Right this way,” she said to the men. “You best get back to it, John,” she said with a wink, and continued down the hall.

            I went back to my desk. 11:07 p.m. What was Natasha even doing here? Did she work this late often? I knew the bulge brackets overloaded their associates, but this was insane.

            I wondered about those ragged men. What were they doing here? Pro bono … must be for some sort of tax break. I sank back into the latest agreement I’d been reviewing, consoled by the paycheck I knew was accruing as I worked.

             I cracked a Red Bull, probably my thousandth of the day. I worked and worked, and my back ached, but I was locked in. Hours passed.

            A rap at my door, then a click and it opened. Natasha. She swayed slightly and was smiling. A genuine smile like I’d never seen her wear. Her face was flushed as if she’d been drinking.

            “Hey, John,” she said, leaning on the wall.

            “Hey. Still here?” I looked at the clock—2:39 a.m. What the fuck was I doing? I decided I’d pack it up.

            “Yes of course. The work never stops. I think you’re starting to see that.”

            She walked toward me. “Why don’t you relax a little bit.” She ruffled my hair. “I’m leaving. I suggest you leave soon too.”

            “I will soon. I’ve just got to finish this up,” I said.

            “I do like a man who works hard,” she said, then kissed me on the mouth. Her hands were on my face. Then her lips trailed down and landed on my neck. She kissed again, even nibbled.

            Her nibbles tickled. She pulled my hair and I flinched, but that didn’t stop me from reaching down and running my hands over her dress to her calves, then back up again, teasing the dress up, bit by bit. I turned toward her and pulled her on top of me.

            “Naughty Johnny,” she said. I kissed her mouth hard and plunged my hand between her legs. She purred and dug her nails into me, cutting through my shirt and, I was sure, drawing blood.

            She wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. I unzipped. Then I was inside her and exploded.

            “I’m sorry. I—”

            “It’s okay. I can’t get pregnant.”

            “That’s not what I meant. You were … I couldn’t help myself.”

            She stared at me.

            I felt a chill run down my spine. She got off my lap and fixed her dress.

            “This never happened,” she said, then left without a goodbye.

September 20

            The last couple of days have been a blur. I eventually finished working through the box of documents. Mr. Renfield was ecstatic when I dropped it on his desk.

            “Good work. Now let’s see if we can speed it up a bit.” Renfield looked more tired than usual.

            He handed me another box. I looked at the overstuffed files, bigger than the last one, and felt my guts twist. The last box hurt. Not just mentally, but physically. My back and neck ached. I felt the lightheaded dizziness from excessive caffeine.

            I opened the box and pulled out the first document. Started working on it. Slow and painful.

            Part of me was hoping for a return visit from Natasha.

September 27

            The agreements … the multitudinous corporate entities … shadow entities within shell companies wrapped in shadows. Elite obfuscation. Law school never taught this. But it was coming together in cryptographic beauty.

            The Vargas family, as of earlier this afternoon, owns shares in a consortium quietly worth more than many public companies. They’re smart to focus on elder care. It’s a profitable, booming industry with strong expected growth.

            I was starting to like it here, even with the grueling hours. I often stayed close to midnight, while Colby checked out every day at seven p.m. on the nose.

October 07

            Natasha breezed into my office. I hadn’t seen her since what “didn’t happen” happened. “Come. Mr. Drakovitch wants to see you.”

            We walked down the hall deeper into the building. We took a left, then another left. Then we were at the terrific iron door I’d seen before, which now lay open, revealing a spiral stone staircase that led down to, I assumed, a basement level. To my surprise, the stairs were lit by actual torchlight. I asked myself if I was dreaming. I hadn’t slept much. But I felt the temperature drop (I don’t think you can feel temperature in dreams), the chill raising goosebumps on my flesh.

            Down the staircase, a hallway led to a large open office. There was an imposing, ornate, dark mahogany desk surrounded by shelves of books on the walls. Beside the desk, a globe rotated on a gilded column. Mr. Drakovitch stood behind the desk, towering over Mr. Renfield, who stood close by.

            Mr. Drakovitch wore a blue pinstripe suit, the bluest I’d ever seen. His smile was disarming. He winked and took my hand and called me sport.

            I noticed that Natasha’s face melted in adoration.

            “Our man of the hour,” Mr. Drakovitch said with a soft Eastern European accent. “Renfield. Leave us.”

            “Yes sir, Mr. Drakovitch. Right away. And thank you, sir.”

            “Settling in, sport?” He asked, extending his hand. He shook my hand, slowly tightening his grip. His blue-gray eyes dazzled despite the dim lighting. He continued to hold that first smile, a crooked smile, as if he were scoffing at the world, as if he knew a joke no one else was in on.

            “Yes, sir. So far, it’s been great. I’m learning a ton from Mr. Renfield, and Natasha has made sure I have, uh, everything I need.”

            Mr. Drakovitch looked me over. He nodded to Natasha, who stood quietly by the entrance.

            “Terrific. I thought you’d fit in. Please, John, sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

            I sat and sank into the plush leather. Drakovitch remained standing, leaning at a tilt on the bookshelf behind his desk, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes never left me.

            “I’ve heard good things about you,” Drakovitch said, his voice low and melodic. Natasha speaks highly of your … dedication.” He continued to study me. “And I know Renfield doesn’t offer praise lightly. In addition to delivering good work, he says you have adjusted to our odd schedule here. You dig into the work with vigor. I have just arrived from Paris, and had to meet our new star.”

            I shifted in my seat under the weight of Mr. Drakovitch’s gaze. I was charmed, but underneath I felt a slight unease. “Thank you, Mr. Drakovitch. I try to give everything I have.”

            “We appreciate it. I appreciate it.” He straightened and walked around his desk. He was close and smelled like smoke and wine. “You know, John”—his voice dropped almost to a whisper—“the world … it’s filled with unbelievable possibility. Leaning in here can take you far.”

            Behind the thrill of his praise, I felt a knot of fear in my stomach. “Thank you, Mr. Drakovitch. I’m really loving it so far. I’m excited to keep digging in.”

            Mr. Drakovitch chuckled. “I’m sure you are. You remind me of myself as a young chap just starting out. I had nothing but an insatiable hunger. Eventually it brought me here, to this country.”

            Mr. Drakovitch walked toward me and rested his hand on my shoulder. I looked up into those smoky blue eyes, eyes that looked aged beyond his chiseled face, eyes that seemed to see me for what I was, that accepted me as I was. “I’m all in, Mr. Drakovitch.”

            Mr. Drakovitch squeezed my shoulder.

            “Good boy.” He straightened, adjusted the cuffs of his suit. He stepped back and pointed to the door. “Now, go and make us proud. Natasha will see you out.”

October 13

            I ran into Natasha this morning as I was entering the office. She was sitting in reception, waiting. “Hey, what’s up?” I said.

            She looked at me flatly. “Hi.”

            “I’ve been thinking of you lately,” I said. It was the truth. “Want to grab a coffee later?”

“            No, no. I have to work,” she said. She looked down into the notebook in her lap, letting me know our brief chat was over.

            Mr. Renfield popped into my office that afternoon.

            “Hey John. I’ll only be but a minute. I wanted to do a quick performance check-in.” Mr. Renfield sat in the chair opposite me at my desk.

            Performance check-in? I felt a shiver run up my spine.

            “Look, you’ve been doing swell. We still on track with the purchase agreements?”

            “Yes sir, Mr. Renfield. On track and going strong.”

            “Ha, I figured.” He reclined in the chair. “How are you settling in?”

            I felt myself sit a bit straighter. “Great, Mr. Renfield. It’s hard work, but I’m enjoying it.”

            “We work pretty late here. How’s that going for you?”

            “Good. I mean, I’m a legal associate, I’d expect to work late anywhere.”

            There was a pause. He eyed me closely. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Just like anywhere. Good. You’re doing alright. Keep your head down and stay the course.” With that he left.

            That evening, I walked to the bathroom and heard low voices. I quietly inched forward without rounding the corner.

            “Look, I’m sorry you’re sick. But that’s not up to me.” Natasha’s voice.

            “I understand that,” I heard Mr. Renfield reply. “But I’m saying it’s time. You all need to keep your promise and not let me perish into obscurity.”

            I slunk back to my desk, not wanting to wander into whatever that was. Mr. Renfield, sick? I wondered what promise he was referring to.

October 23

            The late hours and lack of sleep persisted, but I didn’t care. I cruised through setting up the necessary contracts for the other families involved in the consortium. The sums of money going to acquire these companies were staggering. I felt I was on the inside, in the know.

            This afternoon, Mr. Renfield came into my office after reviewing the latest batch of contracts I’d delivered.

            “You’re ready, and I can’t be more thrilled,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, to find someone who could take my place. Mr. Drakovitch made it clear that was necessary for me to get my … um … payout. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

            I wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he retiring? I felt alert, excited. Was I getting promoted? Already?

            “I hope you’re not going anywhere,” I replied.

            “No, no. Not going anywhere. Sticking around. Just moving up. And taking you with me.”

October 31

            Yesterday, I finished the complete legal setup of the consortium, executed the last remaining purchase agreements for the elder care companies, the numerous shell entities, with ultimate legal ownership hidden in the hands of these powerful European families. We finished three weeks ahead of Mr. Renfield’s timeline. Mr. Renfield hummed and walked with extra pep the few times I saw him.

            The rest of the day was light. I was packing up to go home when Natasha came into my office.

            “Great work, John. You’ve exceeded expectations. Tomorrow night we’re having a reception honoring you and Mr. Renfield for securing this deal. It’ll start at eleven p.m. here at the office.”

            She left before I could respond. Exceeded expectations played on repeat in my mind. But a reception at eleven p.m.? I’d come to expect weird practices from the firm, late-night client visits and locked doors. The firm’s conventions were bizarre, but the checks came in and I was becoming a dangerous attorney. I pushed the reception out of my mind.

            I left the office at five, knowing I’d be coming back at night. I went for a run in Central Park, something I hadn’t done in months. It was chilly out, but as I ran, I saw plenty of twentysomething women heading to Halloween parties in skimpy costumes. Plenty of nurses, schoolgirls, devils, police officers. Some of the women were gorgeous. But every beautiful, short-tailed devil made me think of Natasha. Despite her terse and standoffish manner, something about her was so mesmerizing that these other women paled by comparison.

            As I ran, I realized I looked forward to getting back to the office. Drakovitch & Associates had become the place in the world that excited me most. I looked forward to the next monumental task Mr. Renfield would throw at me. I looked forward to Natasha. The sun was retreating, casting long dark shadows underneath a crimson sky.

            Matt from NYU texted me earlier that he was throwing a party in his loft downtown and assured me there’d be plenty of “talent.” I texted him I’d be at the office late. I had no desire to go to his party—it felt frivolous, a waste of time.

            I got back to the office at ten to eleven p.m. Natasha was there, waiting in the reception in the same sexy dress she wore when I first met her at the gala.

            “Good evening, John. Right this way.”

            I followed her until we reached the imposing iron door. We entered and went down the torchlit stone staircase, passed through Mr. Drakovitch’s office and entered a hidden hallway that was revealed behind a bookshelf that hinged from the wall. The hallway was long, damp, and dark, lit only by scattered torches. The hallway opened into a cavernous, circular room with a high stone ceiling.

            I looked around, then made out Mr. Renfield’s limp, bloody body on the floor in the middle of the room. He was bleeding profusely from the neck. Mr. Drakovitch towered over the body as if he were examining a curiosity.

            “Ah, my protégé,” Mr. Renfield said weakly from his pool of blood. “On time, as usual.”

            Mr. Drakovitch looked up and presented me with a warm, bloody smile. “Welcome to the party, old sport. We’re just making Mr. Renfield here into a permanent member of the Drakovitch clan.”

            I was frozen in place. I realized I wasn’t breathing and gasped. My chest pounded. The smell of iron hung in the air.

            “What … what’s happening?!” I finally managed. “Is this some Halloween gag?” But I thought I knew the answer.

            “No. This is no joke, my boy. Mr. Renfield has been a most exceptional servant. He’s sick, his cancer has advanced, so we had to accelerate his promotion. The members of our firm, the valued ones, are like family. Mr. Renfield, with your help, is receiving the gift of eternal life. He’s earned it.”

Mr. Renfield looked up from his puddle of blood. “This future can be yours one day, too,” Renfield said quietly.

I gasped again, I was breathing hard and my chest pounded and ants crawled under my skin.

“Finally, I’m glad this life will be over soon.” Mr. Renfield said barely audibly. “I’m ready to feel good again; to live forever. Let’s get on with it. I don’t feel too hot right now.”

“Okay. Moving right along. John, you may recognize Mr. Colby,” Mr. Drakovitch said, retrieving my red-haired peer from the shadows. Mr. Colby’s eyes were bulging. Tears and snot dripped down his face. “It’s not that Mr. Colby underperformed. It’s more that you ate his lunch. Now, Mr. Renfield will need to feed on him to complete his transition.”

I remembered my interview with Mr. Renfield, during which he said only one of us would remain after three months.

“Oh, and you’re getting made permanent, with a significant pay bump. Exciting, right? That is, once you do the honors and earn our trust.”

Still holding Colby, Mr. Drakovitch moved forward and held out a shaving knife, which I took without thought. I stared at the sharp edge of the blade, the handle resting loosely in my hand. I couldn’t clasp it firmly—my hand was shaking.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, but I knew the answer.

“You’re smart. Don’t ask stupid questions,” Mr. Drakovitch replied.

“Go on,” rasped Mr. Renfield, crumpled and bloodied on the floor. “Do your job.”

I couldn’t move. I stared at the knife, balanced in the center of my open palm. My eye reflected to me in the side of the blade.

Did I have a choice? I looked at Colby. Mr. Drakovitch would demand new blood, one way or the other.

Colby kept crying. He tried to scream, was pleading behind his gag.

“John, it’s a bloody world we live in,” Mr. Drakovitch said. “Best act fast, sport. Or Mr. Renfield will die. He’s waited a long time for this.”

I closed my fist around the knife, tried to will my body to move.

“Do it now,” Mr. Drakovitch said. “We’re out of time.”

Renfield appeared unconscious. The pool of blood was now stretching to our feet.

“Do it if you want to remain with Drakovitch & Associates.” Mr. Drakovitch’s eyes narrowed. “Do it if you want to remain. It’s either Colby or you.”

I forced myself to meet Colby’s eyes.

“Sorry man,” I said as I slowly moved toward him.

He writhed as best he could while Mr. Drakovitch held him.

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” Mr. Drakovitch held Colby’s head sideways, exposing Colby’s neck. Colby’s artery was bulging.

I cut his throat. It was surprising; the skin easily gave way. He went limp and crumpled to the ground.

Natasha came forward, grabbed Colby’s arm and dragged the corpse to where Mr. Renfield lay. She licked blood off her fingers.

Mr. Drakovitch came toward me and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Well done,” he said.

“Welcome to the team,” Natasha said, and added, “we’ve got you now.”

            Mr. Renfield woke and began licking Colby’s blood. Renfield’s face grew plump and rosy. It was as if he were sprouting muscle. Thick white hair grew, replacing the thin white wisps. As his strength picked up, Mr. Renfield found Colby’s throat, sunk his teeth in and continued to drink, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

            “Come. Let’s let the man enjoy his first feed in peace,” Drakovitch said. “He’ll be here awhile.”

            “Yes, nothing like it,” Natasha said. “You never forget your first time.”

            There was cheese and charcuterie waiting for us in Mr. Drakovitch’s office. “All for you, I’m afraid, but enjoy,” Mr. Drakovitch said. Natasha and Mr. Drakovitch made small talk around me. I ate what was on the plate in front of me; it felt like the safe thing to do.

            After some time, Mr. Renfield joined us. He was beaming. He saw me, rushed over and hoisted me in the air with a hug.

            “What did I tell you?” Mr. Renfield said, patting me on the back. “Our boy John is a stand-up guy! Officially, welcome to the firm.”

            I’m home now, staring at the white ceiling. I can only see red. Colby and Mr. Renfield’s blood mixed, my hand on the knife, cutting, their splayed bodies, one drinking the other.

BIO

Nick Godec writes poetry and short fiction, with works appearing in a variety of journals, including Sierra Nevada Review, El Portal, Grey Sparrow, and MORIA Literary Magazine. He has a B.A. in history and an MBA from Columbia University and works in finance in New York City. Nick enjoys spending time with his wife, Julia, and their miniature pinscher, Emma.