Blunt Darts

a crack, and I could hear Christmas carols carrying from some store’s outside stereo speakers. He handed me an investigation report and told me to sign it. I read the report, which substantiated a five-figure jewel-theft claim from an affluent bedroom community just west of Boston, and looked up at him. “This may win this year’s award for best short fiction, but I’m not going to sign it.”
    “Sign it.”
    “No.”
    “John, please—just sign it.”
    “Phil, nobody from this office ever investigated this claim.”
    “John, I’ve been told to tell you to sign it.”
    “Phil, you’ve also just been told that I’m not going to.”
    Phil took the report back and left my office.
    The next day the head of claims investigation and the head of the claims division, both from home office, were outside my office with Phil when I arrived. It was a cold December day, but at 8:15 A.M., Phil already had patches of sweat in the armpits of his button-down shirt.
    “Sign it,” said Head of Claims.
    “The investigation was never done,” I replied.
    “It was done by an independent outfit without your knowledge,” said Head of Investigation.
    “Fine. Let me talk to him, her, or it.”
    “That’s not feasible,” said Head of Claims.
    “Then let him, her, or it sign the report.”
    Phil picked up the report and shook it at me. “Christ, John, will you please sign the goddamned thing?” He was squealing.
    “No.”
    “Well,” said Head of Claims as he plucked the report from Phil’s hand and tamped it into his inside pocket, “that’s certainly clear enough.” Head of Claims walked out the door followed by Phil, who said, “ ‘Bye, John.”
    “ ‘Bye, John,” mimicked Head of Investigation as he followed them out and closed the door.
    Fifteen minutes later I called Tommy Kramer. He was a college classmate of mine and the best lawyer I knew who had no connection with the company. I explained what had happened. He said to wait and see what developed. I didn’t have long to wait.
    Two days later, Head of Boston Office called me into his office. His window was closed, but I imagine we were too high up to hear Christmas carols anyway.
    He was in his early sixties and Ivy League. He came from a Pilgrim-tracing North Shore family, though by the time his generation arrived, the bloodline had run a bit thin. After a few minutes of uncomfortable small talk, he allowed as how my senior investigator, Mullen, was due for a promotion. He also allowed as how I’d gone about as far as I could with the company and should consider seeking “lateral-level” employment elsewhere, toward which I’d receive only the highest references. He had never heard of any five-figure claim or investigation report. When he added, jokingly, that I could, of course, be terminated in such a way as to qualify for unemployment compensation, I took him up on it. He was shocked and tried to talk me out of it, but I insisted. He reluctantly agreed to get the in-house attorney started on it.
    When I got back to my office, I called Tommy Kramer again. I told him what I’d just done, and he advised me that if I stuck to my present course, I could kiss goodbye to any lawsuit against Empire for wrongful termination.
    I said that was fine with me, and asked him to send me a bill, which, knowing about Beth, he never did. Aside from his kindness, I had a lousy Christmas.
     
    I came to be only four people away from the cashier in the line at the unemployment office. The lady in front of me shuffled forward. She was dragging a shopping bag along the floor. I glanced into the bag. It looked like a condensed version of somebody’s attic.
     
    There was a while there after I left Empire when I thought I might be in trouble. While Beth was sick, I’d started running in the early mornings to try to work off my anxiety. After she died, I stopped jogging and started drinking. After I left Empire, I really started hitting it, leaving unopened most of the packed boxes in the new apartment. Then one January night, driving home from a bar, I missed a kid on a bike by about half a Scotch.
    When I got to the apartment, I threw up twelve or fifteen times and tried to drown myself in the shower. I climbed out and looked at myself in the mirror. I began taking stock. Thirty-plus, six feet two-plus. Unemployed and rapidly approaching unemployable. I’d spent most—hell, all—of my adult life in investigation work for Uncle Sugar or Empire. Six years