The Agency, Chapter 4

An Agent's Song
Madame Superior was at her wit’s end. If she was in fact witty and if there could potentially be an end to such a wit, there she was before its presence. McCallum was on the loose with Jack’s diary or perhaps he was dead in an alley and the diary was in The Others’ hands or perhaps there was worse, though she couldn’t think of anything that could be worse.

Agent Brown entered her office, licking his hands and quickly swabbing his hair down, “Madame Superior, a word?”

“It better be good word,” she said as she paced about her office, glasses hanging from the corner of her mouth as she bit into the frame.

“Madame,” Agent Brown closed the door behind him, “Word about the office is that Ms. Vivian has been in contact with McCallum.”

Madame Superior stopped pacing, removed glasses from her mouth and looked sternly at Agent Brown, “Really? I pay you to seek out office rumors?”

“Shall I bring Ms. Vivian in, Madame?”

“Yes,” she sighed, “It’s the only lead we have.”

When Agent Brown asked Ms. Vivian to enter Madame Superior’s office, she knew she was in for a ride.


McCallum had been having very little luck with the wretched diary. He couldn’t piece anything together. He began to wonder if there was any relevance to it at all, that perhaps everyone thought he’d been keeping a diary but old Jack was just bluffing. Perhaps the diary was a decoy from the real diary. He could tell it was going to be quite tedious to decide any thing of its relevance.

McCallum’s phone rang and he answered it, “Yes?”

Vivian spoke quickly and in a matter of fact type manner, “I punched Madame Superior, breaking her nose. Agent Brown did nothing, having been struck with either masculinity or having been previously emasculated, we may never know which. I just greased out of the agency and I was wondering, Mr. McCallum, do you have a car?”

“You can drive it, Ms. Vivian.”

“I’d prefer you picked me up on the eastern corner of 300th,” she replied.

“As you wish, Ms. Vivian.”

After they hung up, Vivian left the phone booth and hit the sidewalks again, making her way to 300th. McCallum grabbed his suitcase and bolted out of his motel room.

Outside, McCallum quickly retired his suitcase to the trunk and hopped in the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition and something caught his eye. He looked into the mirror and saw two Beatle wannabes standing next to each other, leaning against the fence that surrounded the motel’s pool. They both wore black suits and thin black ties with white shirts and sunglasses. Their dark hair dangled about their ears. They were on the opposite side of the parking lot from McCallum, possibly one hundred yards away. McCallum looked to the key he gripped in his hand and that was ready to ignite, he smirked and removed his hand from the key, moving it to the door’s handle.

One of the Beatle wannabes looked a bit frustrated and so removed himself from the fence, pulling something out his pocket. It was black and silver. He pulled a silver antenna from it and McCallum recognized it as being a transmitter and thus remarked to himself, “A persnickety bunch indeed.”

McCallum flung his car door open and ran from the car, the Beatle pushed down on his button and the car blew up; the force of the explosion flung McCallum spiraling through the air. He rolled about ten feet across the harsh pavement of the parking lot, but instantly followed through with the momentum and hit the ground running, as it were, the Beatles pursuing.

As McCallum rounded his first corner, he saw two more Beatle wannabes. One dropped an ice cream cone, the other flung a newspaper and they joined the two previous Beatles. The Fabulous Four chased McCallum persistently through the streets, weaving in and out of the cars.

McCallum shot straight through the center of the road, between two lanes. The Beatles in hot pursuit, he ran directly into the center of an intersection and stopped. The cars whizzed just past McCallum on either side, honking horns as they passed and cursing a smidge. The Beatles stopped at the edge of the intersection; McCallum faced them and took the diary from his old, yellow and white high school jacket. Holding it in the air, he asked, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

The John Lennon look-alike spoke up, “Just toss it here and it’s over for you.”

McCallum could hear a small car approaching from his right, “Do you work for Madame Superior?”

Ringo responded, “No.”

“Thanks chaps,” McCallum smirked and placed the diary back into his jacket, “That’s all I wanted to know.”

He turned to his left and took off into a sprint just as the car from his right reached him. Running beside it he leapt at it, shoving his left arm through the back window and gripping the frame of the door. He latched onto the trunk and car door with his feet. He placed his right arm on the roof trying to grab some sort of grip. The lady driving began to slow down, McCallum looked back and saw the Beatles coming up behind the car so he turned and looked to the lady looking back at him, “Don’t stop, lady! PUSH OFF!”

The lady frantically turned around and began to pick up speed; McCallum looked back to the pursuing Beatles and they slowly came to a stop, some leaning over to catch breath.


Vivian scurried up to the eastern corner of 300th in her heels, as planned, and looked about—McCallum was nowhere to be found. She was nervous; she looked to her left fist and saw Madame Superior’s blood on her knuckles. She reached into her purse, looking for a tissue. As she looked down towards her purse, she heard a car drive by and saw McCallum roll up to her feet. He looked at her feet for a second, than back up to her,

“Get out of those heels, darling.”

“Why, Mr. McCallum, how dare you look up my skirt?” she remarked, pulling a tissue from her purse.

McCallum jumped to his feet and grabbed Vivian by the arm and rushed them towards the corner of the bank behind them, “Trust me, Ms. Vivian; your underpants are the last thing on my mind.”

“Do you mind?!” she shouted, dropping her tissue behind them.

A bullet hit the corner of the bank near Vivian’s head, than they retreated around the corner. As they ran, McCallum looked to Vivian and her eyes were very white now.

“Vivian,” McCallum spoke, as they frantically ran through the streets and down the sidewalks, “If I were a carpenter—”

“And I were a lady, Mr. McCallum?” she interrupted.



“But if music be the food for love, Ms. Vivian?”

“Than by all means,” she started as they retreated onto a bus, “Someone brutally murder the fat one.”