CAREER CHANGES

by John M. Floyd

By two a.m. Joe Burris had mopped all the floors, emptied the trash, and cleaned the windows. Finally he collapsed into a swivel chair and propped his feet on top of the fancy desk in the middle of the lobby. He deserved a break, he decided. After all, this was his birthday.

Joe had unwrapped a package of Hostess Twinkies and was taking a bite when the phone rang.

After five rings he gave in and picked up the receiver. “Front desk,” he said, since that was where his feet were propped.

“Front desk?” A female voice. It sounded uncertain.

“That's right. Who were you trying to reach?”

A short pause. “You'll do,” the voice said. “I need you to let me in.”

“The building, you mean?”

“Yes, the building.”

Joe studied the empty lobby. He couldn't remember ever seeing anyone arrive or leave after midnight. “Won't your ID badge open the door?” he asked, still chewing.

“I don't have a badge.”

“Well, I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm with the cleaning service. I'm not allowed to admit anyone, after hours.”

“Damn,” she said. “Is there someone else there I can talk to?”

“I'm the only one here.”

“Well, I really do need to get in.”

“Where are you now?” Joe asked.

“Down the street.”

“Couldn't you just wait till morning, after seven?”

“No.”

Joe heard her sigh, and something that sounded like fingernails tapping.

“I have an idea,” she said. “How about you go get something for me? I could meet you outside and pick it up.”

“Get what for you?”

“A package. It's in one of the rooms off the front hallway.”

“One of the offices?”

“That's right.”

“I can't,” he said. “Not in one of the offices.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not allowed anywhere except the lobby, the halls, and the restrooms. The other crew cleans the offices.”

She stayed quiet a moment. “They're not locked, are they?”

“The offices? No, they're not locked. The building itself is a secure area. But there's confidential stuff about, and I'm not allowed—”

“What's your name?” the voice asked. “I didn't catch your name.”

“Joe Burris.”

“You're on the cleaning crew, you said?”

“I am the cleaning crew, tonight.”

“Just one worker? That seems odd.”

“I'm a hell of a worker,” he said, with a chuckle that trailed off when he realized how stupid that sounded. He cleared his throat. “My partner's been out sick.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then: “How much do you make in a year, Joe Burris?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, what's your salary?”

Joe frowned. “I don't think that's any of your—”

“Let me confess something to you, Joe. I'm about to make a career change.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was recently involved in a very profitable venture. A few days ago, I left a package— hid a package, actually—in the office of one of my business associates, in that building. No one knows it's there, not even him, and ever since I hid it, I've been trying to find a way to get back in there and get it. So far, well . . . circumstances have prevented that from happening.”

“What circumstances?” Joe asked.

“I don't think you want to know.”

Joe thought about that awhile, then said, “How about your . . .”

“Associate?”

“Yeah. How about him?”

“He's . . . unavailable, right now.”

Joe swallowed. He decided he might not want to know about that, either.

“Let's just say I've had to be cautious,” she added.

“What you're doing now doesn't seem too cautious.”

“I'm running out of options,” she said. “Besides, they think I've already left town. I have to act fast, while they're not watching me.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

When she made no reply, Joe figured he knew the answer to that one. ‘They' probably wore guns and uniforms and badges made out of metal instead of plastic.

Joe's feet were off the desk now, his unfinished Twinkie forgotten in his hand. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

“I'm telling you this so you'll know I'm serious. I have to have that package, and I have to have it tonight. And . . .”

“And what?”

“I'm prepared to make you an offer.”

Joe blinked. “What kind of offer?”

A long pause.

“The package contains eight hundred thousand dollars in wrapped twenties and fifties. Unmarked. If you get it for me, I'll let you keep”—he heard her breathing into the phone—“I'll let you keep a fourth of it.”

Joe felt his mouth go dry. “A fourth?”

“You heard me. Twenty-five percent.”

He leaned forward in his chair, gazing out through the dark windows. “Keep it how?”

“Take your share, and drop the rest off outside, at someplace we agree on.”

Good God, he thought. A fourth of eight hundred grand . . .

“What's to keep me from turning you in?” he asked. He couldn't seem to control the squeak in his voice.

“I'm trusting you not to. I have no other choice.”

He hesitated, then said, “What if I decide to keep more than a fourth? What if I decide to keep it all?”

The voice turned cold. “Don't even think about that.”

“Why not?”

“Remember, I know your name,” she said.

Joe felt a shiver ripple up his spine.

“What if I get caught?” he asked, as the thought occurred to him.

“Who's going to catch you?”

“Well . . .”

“Think about it, Joe. Is this line being recorded?”

“No.”

“Is anyone else in the building?”

“No. I told you th—”

“You see anybody in the lot outside?”

“No.”

“Any security cameras, where you are?”

“No . . .”

“Then why should you get caught?”

Joe mulled that over for a full thirty seconds. He also considered something else: two hundred thousand, tax free. What could he do with that much money?

But he knew the answer to that: He could make a career move of his own.

Joe found that he had sweated all the way through his uniform shirt. But he also found himself smiling. Smiling like a fool, at the deserted lobby.

He drew a long breath, let it out, and said, “Where do I find it?”

Her directions were quick but clear. Apparently the money was in a box underneath a stack of printouts somewhere in a closet in the third office on the left, counting from the front of the building. She would hold the line, she told him, while he went to fetch it.

“Okay,” he said.

Eighteen minutes later Joe picked up the phone again, his hair mussed and his chest heaving. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. “I haven't found it yet. And I ran into a problem.”

“What happened?”

“My boss stopped by with a new employee. They caught me in the office rummaging through the closet. He started shouting at me”—Joe stopped, and swallowed hard—“and I had to hit him over the head with a paperweight. The other guy took off up the hall.”

“My God. Where is he now?”

“The second guy? He's unconscious too. He ran straight into the statue in the lobby and knocked himself out.” Joe stopped again, to catch his breath. “I'm going back in now to keep looking for the package, okay?”

A pause. “The statue in the lobby?”

“Yeah. You know—the iron statue of the soldier, by the fountain.”

“The fountain.”

“Yeah.”

A longer pause.

“Joe?” she said.

“What.”

“Is this 354-8200 . . . ?”

He almost dropped the phone. Spots swam before his eyes.

“Just kidding,” she said, chuckling. “Couldn't resist.”

Joe Burris took a long, shaky breath. “Look, whoever you are, this isn't funny. I'm in a bad way, here, because of you. What should I do—go back and keep trying to find the money?”

“You could, I guess, but you know what? I have some sad news.” She stopped for a beat, then said, her voice solemn, “The money's not there.”

“It's what?”

“There's no money. No package. I'm afraid I was kidding about that too.”

Joe sagged into the chair he'd been sitting in when all this started. “But . . .”

“I knew about your boss coming, Joe. He's there because I called him, on a throwaway cell phone, while you were looking through closets. I just didn't know he was bringing someone else along too.”

Joe didn't respond. His head was spinning.

“This has actually gone quite well,” she said, as if to herself. “Better even than I'd hoped.”

“What . . . what are you saying?”

“I'm saying I'm not down the street, I'm across the street, in a phone booth, watching you through those big lobby windows.” Her voice dropped lower then, and hardened. “Jeanette Bowers was my friend, Joe. She's the girl you got drunk at the Tiki Tavern awhile back, the one who got away from you and then wrecked her car on the way home that night.”

“Who? Jeanette . . . ?”

“Don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to try to remember her. You're going to jail, Joe Burris. The cops should be there any minute.”

“The cops?” He looked at the front door, and the black night beyond the glass. “How—”

“Because I called them, too,” she said. And hung up.

Joe sat there a moment, listening to the dial tone and staring at the desktop and his half-eaten snack and the mop he'd propped against the wall and the inert body lying sprawled on the floor beside the statue.

This can't be real, he thought. It can't be happening.

It's my birthday.

He took out his key-card for the front door and looked at it. His employer's van was parked fifty feet from the lobby entrance; he wondered how fast it would go. Should I try?

Then he heard the siren, and the screech of tires in the lot, and saw the blinking lights. After a deep sigh, Joe Burris hung up the phone, finished eating his Twinkie, and walked to the door to let them in.