Page 45 of Letters From Victor

February 1951

Atowering stack of contracts loomed on my desk, demanding my attention. I loosened my tie and leaned back in my leather chair, hoping a different perspective might make them seem less daunting. It was Thursday—easily the worst day in the office since Barbara only worked the first half of the week. Monday felt a lifetime away. She was sharp, meticulous, and would have made quick work of these contracts…if I hadn’t kept her otherwise occupied.

I rubbed my temples and glanced at the clock. Its hands crept toward noon. Time always dragged when you wanted it to race ahead. Was it Monday yet?

My eyes drifted shut, pulling me into vivid recollections. Barbara had been perched on this very desk just yesterday, legs elegantly crossed, feigning professionalism while I let my hands roam—testing the limits of her self-control. Her breath hitched, her composure slipping with every calculated caress.

A soft knock shattered the memory. My eyes snapped open.

“Come in,” I called.

The door swung open, and Mrs. Miller popped her head inside. Her sharp gaze darted around the office, as if making sure I was alone. “There’s a Mr. Frank Evans here to see you,” she said quietly. “He’s most insistent.”

A knot formed in my stomach, and I sat up. “Send him in,” I said, straightening my tie, trying to sound casual.

Mrs. Miller withdrew, and a moment later, Frank Evans strode into my office. He was a tall man—a full head taller than me—in his mid-twenties with the square jaw of a comic book hero. I could see why women might find him attractive. His brown suit was clearly cheap, but he’d dressed it up with a loud tie and pocket square to compensate. He forced a smile, but the tension around his eyes gave him away.

“Victor,” he said, extending a hand. I stood and shook it, noting the rough calluses of a man who had, at some point, done real work with his hands.

“Frank,” I said evenly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He took a seat without being asked. I sank back into my chair, studying him. He pulled a thick envelope from his inner jacket pocket and placed it on the desk between us.

“What’s this?”

“That’s the rest of the money I owe you.”

I let the envelope sit unopened. “You pulled that together quickly.”

Frank shrugged, but his eyes never left mine. “Seemed best to settle up sooner rather than later.”

“Indeed.” I pulled a cigarette from the silver case on my desk, lighting it with deliberate ease. I offered one to Frank, but he waved it off with a curt shake of his head. “So, we’re square now.” I exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Is that all?”

He hesitated, and I knew in my gut that whatever he said next would be the real reason for his visit.

Frank leaned forward, his jaw set like a man bracing for a fight. “I need to talk to you about Barbara.”

A dozen scenarios ran through my mind in the span of a second. Had Barbara confessed? Was he here to threaten me? To beg?

“She’s proving to be quite capable,” I said smoothly. “You should be proud.”

He snorted—a sharp, derisive sound that sent a prickle up the back of my neck. “Proud? Maybe if she were taking care of her family instead of gallivanting around like some…”

I took a long drag on my cigarette, letting the smoke fill my lungs and blur the room for a moment. “Like some what, Frank?”

He hesitated. “Like some career girl.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to slice. I tapped the ash from my cigarette into a crystal tray and eyed the envelope of cash. “It’s the fifties, Frank. Times are changing. Women can have careers these days.”

“Careers,” he muttered, almost spitting the word. “This isn’t a career. It’s a distraction. A dangerous one.”

“So you think it’s dangerous for her to work here?”

He folded his arms tight across his chest. “I think that she’s gotten in over her head.”

I studied Frank for a long moment, letting the silence do its work. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair but held my gaze.

“So, you want me to fire her?” I asked, sparing him the pretense.

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