The Agency

Murdoch plucked the glass eye from its socket and rubbed it across the sleeve of his tweed jacket. He closely examined the artificial eyeball for lint before popping it back into his head. "The Agency sent me here to kill you, Mr. Spencer."

Standing with his back to Murdoch, Frank Spencer stared out the window as the storm festered in the night sky. Rain pelted against the window pane and globs of water drooled down the glass, obscuring the outside world. Frank turned and glared at the frail man who was sitting on the shabby sofa in his living room. He nodded his head, "I know why you are here, Murdoch." He looked over at the clock hanging on the wall. "Why so late?"

"I had a prior engagement." Murdoch twisted around and grabbed the white cotton macassar from the back of the couch. He turned back around, looked at Frank and held the linen in the air. "May I?"

Frank stared at the circle of cloth dangling from Murdoch’s fingertips, and a look of perplexity washed across his face. "I suppose."

Murdoch reached inside his coat and pulled out a nickel-plated revolver and slowly began wiping it down. He angled it up to the ceiling light for a thorough inspection. "That should do nicely." He draped the cloth over the pistol and used it to shove the gun back into its holster. He rose from the sofa and replaced the linen.

Murdoch walked across the room dodging the empty whiskey bottles and over-flowing ashtrays littering the floor. He stopped at a shelf cluttered with Hollywood memorabilia and picked up a trophy. "Midnight to Nowhere, I remember that flick; I took my first movie date to see that picture. Nothing would get a girl all hot and bothered like taking her to see a Frank Spencer movie. God, that was so many years ago, but I can still remember it like it was yesterday." Murdoch turned and looked at Frank. "That was your last memorable motion picture before your career hit the skids." He gave Frank a thoughtful look. "Didn't you win an Oscar for that film?"

Frank marched across the room and plucked the trophy from Murdoch's bony fingers. "I was nominated, but I didn't win the Oscar." He set the trophy back on the shelf.

"That's too bad." Murdoch wiggled the fingers on his empty hand. "Nothing like watching your greatest desire as it slips through your fingers." He raised his eyebrows and glanced up with his good eye. "I remember seeing your face plastered on the front page of every tabloid, along with your co-star Margaret Gray. There for awhile, you two were a hot item."

Frank returned to the window and stared out. A bolt of lightning highlighted his deep wrinkles and thinning white hair. "Don't believe everything you hear in Hollywood."

Murdoch glanced over his shoulder at Frank. "What do you mean?"

"Our romance was a cover up. Margaret Gray was a lesbian."

Murdoch blinked. "Gee, I didn't know that."

"That kind of publicity would have ruined a career back then and destroyed the studio's reputation." Frank walked away from the window and sat down in an overstuffed easy chair. He lit a cigarette and expertly sent two rings of smoke, one inside the other, drifting toward the ceiling. "Why don't we just move along and talk about the business at hand." He poured himself a whiskey.

Murdoch's thin lips transformed into an eager smile. "Sure, sounds good to me." He walked over to the sofa and plopped back down onto the sagging cushions. He leaned toward Frank. "You remember how it was, the paparazzi digging into every little detail of your private life. Everyone wanting to be near you, hounding you for photographs and autographs." Murdoch looked Frank squarely in the eye, raised his hand and snapped his fingers. "And just like that, fame loses its luster. One day you wake up and no one knows who Frank Spencer is and no one cares."

Frank fidgeted in his chair. "I still have a few friends in Hollywood."

Murdoch lifted the corners of his lips into a faint smile. "Friends? Don't fool yourself. None of those so-called friends go to bed at night wondering how Frank Spencer is doing. You have to take care of yourself, because no one else will." Murdoch's attention drifted to the awards on the shelf. "There are a few Hollywood idols that stay in the limelight long after their leading-role-looks have faded away." He looked over at Frank, lifted his hand and pointed a finger. "You, on the other hand, go un-noticed in public. The phone has stopped ringing." He shook his head. "You've become used up by Hollywood and they've tossed you out like a scrap of worthless trash, and opportunity has faded away. You've fallen into obscurity, left with nothing but a few memories and an empty bank account."

Frank straightened his spine and pulled his shoulders back. He took a deep breath. "I could still make a come-back."

Murdoch stood up and lifted his hands in the air, condemning the collection of yellowed Hollywood photographs hanging on the walls. "Look around you Frank, there is no come-back. All you have are a few dusty trophies and some old photographs crammed in a dump on the bad side of town."

"My career is not over. A lot of people still recognize the name Frank Spencer."

Murdoch smirked. "Yeah, maybe a few old blue-haired ladies in nursing homes would remember who Frank Spencer is." Murdoch edged in a little closer. "Tell me, Frank, when was the last time anyone offered you a role in anything?" Silence hung thick in the air. "That's what I thought. As far as Hollywood and the fans are concerned, Frank Spencer died a long time ago."

Frank snuffed out his smoke and slumped back in his easy chair. He stared at the awards. "I'm not dead yet, there's still a chance...."

Murdoch howled, "A chance?" And then he laughed. His laugh trailed off as his face grew serious and his glass eye betrayed a condescending stare. "We should have collected a long time ago, Frank. We gave you a chance to pull yourself out of the bottle, but you destroyed yourself and your career."

Frank deflated and slumped forward.

Murdoch sat. His thin frame folded in on itself as he reached down and lifted his briefcase from the floor. He flopped it on the coffee table. "You didn't keep your side of the bargain." He unlocked the gold clasp and flipped the top open. He removed a stack of papers and tossed them in front of Frank onto the table that was marred by burns from forgotten cigarettes, placed on the edge, during late-night drinking marathons. He reached over and flipped through the document and folded back to the last page and pointed. "That's your signature. You do remember signing it, don't you?"

Frank stared blankly at the contract and then looked up at Murdoch, "I'm not sure." He massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers, as if warding off an oncoming headache. "It's been too long ago."

Murdoch reached inside the briefcase and retrieved a clear vial with a small brown object sealed inside. He shook it in Frank's face. "The Agency wouldn't take a chance of spoiling those good looks of yours, but hardly anyone would miss this. It was our way to keep you from reneging on our contract. Remember now?"

Frank glanced down at his slippers, feeling the empty space in his left shoe where a little toe had once existed. "Yes, I remember."

Murdoch shoved the vial back into the briefcase. He reached across the table and placed a re-assuring hand on Frank's shoulder. "We will honor our part of the agreement. After your death, there will be Frank Spencer marathons on TCM. Your picture will be on the cover of People Magazine and Hallmark will do a movie of your life."

Frank pulled away from Murdoch's hand and reached inside the breast pocket of his silk, monogrammed smoking-jacket. He grabbed a pair of cheap reading glasses and placed them over his eyes before retrieving the contract from the table. He lifted the legal papers up to eye level and pulled them in for a closer inspection.

"The contract is standard," said Murdoch." The Agency receives one-hundred percent of the income generated by memorabilia sales and royalties following your death."

Frank dropped the contract. "I'm an old man and my heart is bad." He looked up at Murdoch with pleading eyes. "Can't you wait a few years? I'll be dead by then anyway."

Murdoch returned a contemplative stare, "True." He shrugged. "But the public is not interested in some old washed-up Hollywood has-been dying alone in his apartment." Murdoch's lips twisted into a macabre smile. "But, if that same old has-been movie-star dies a mysterious and tragic death, then it has everyone talking." His smile broadened. "And that, is good for business."

A flash of lightning brightened the dim room and a peal of thunder followed. The lights flickered and then brightened. "I'm not ready." Frank stated.

Murdoch cocked his head. "You're not ready? Will you ever be ready, Frank?" Murdoch straightened up and settled back in the sofa. "I'll let you in on a little secret, you're not the only one who wasn't ready. The Agency has helped more than one faded star escape the tragedy of a Hollywood wash-out over the years. Look at it this way; we are probably doing you a great favor. Think about it. You're looking at a triple bypass and a pace maker. In reality, The Agency is saving you a year, maybe two, of pain and suffering."

Frank gazed longingly at the awards shelf again. "One last chance for an Oscar. Then I swear...."

Murdoch rubbed his chin. "You've had your chance. This is the end of the line and the contract has come due. You owe us."

Frank lurched forward. "The Agency promised."

"The Agency promised you what, Frank?" Murdoch calmly inquired.

Frank glanced at the contract on the table. "They promised me that I would get everything that I wanted."

"The Agency has kept its end of the bargain," Murdoch replied. "You were a leading man for over twenty-five years. You were associated with the most beautiful women in Hollywood. You had fame and you had fortune."

Frank looked up and scowled. "It was my good looks and my talent that propelled me to the top. The Agency didn't give me that."

"You were just another good looking face in the crowd," Murdoch retorted. "You might have landed a commercial or two, maybe even a bit part in a movie. But it was The Agency that got your foot in the door. It was the Agency that put your face in front of the right people."

Lightning flickered and the lights went out, followed by a rumble of thunder that shook the room.

Murdoch spoke from the darkness. "Must have shorted a transformer. Have any candles?"

"No," Frank growled.

Removing a Zippo from his pocket, Murdoch flicked the lighter. "This should do the trick." He set the lit Zippo on the coffee table.

Frank stared into the flame. "How are you going to do it?" He turned his head to Murdoch. "You know, kill me."

Murdoch returned a solemn look. "Maybe we should let that be a surprise. But, I can assure you that you will not be disappointed." He looked at Frank and smiled. "Have you heard about Robert Grayson?"

Curiosity scattered the apprehension on Frank's face. "What about him?"

"Oh, I don't guess you've heard; being out of the loop does have its drawbacks. The studio is shooting a re-make of Midnight to Nowhere and he has a part in it. They're shooting the last scene tonight. At this moment, Robert Grayson is playing the part of Big Tony." He hiked an eyebrow. "I believe he received an Oscar for best actor the same year you tumbled from Hollywood's grace," Murdoch taunted. "And you didn't get anything."

Frank's eyes narrowed and he reciprocated with a sneer. "I know who Grayson really is. He's a two-bit, no talent character actor. He's going to ruin the movie. Why are you telling me this?"

Murdoch picked up the lighter and removed the contract from the table. He placed the document back into the briefcase and closed the lid. "Just making conversation," he said as he locked the clasp. Murdoch placed the make-shift candle back on top of the briefcase. "I can't remember the actor's name that played Big Tony in the original film."

Frank's face brightened. "I remember! That character was played by Jensen Isles."

Murdoch snapped his fingers, "That's right." He shook a finger at Frank. "And if I'm correct, Mr. Isles won an Oscar that year for best supporting role. Maybe Richard Grayson will receive another Oscar for his work in the re-make." The lights in the apartment flickered and came back on. "Ah, we have light." He flipped the lid on the lighter closed and stuffed it back into his coat pocket. "It's time, Mr. Spencer."

"Time for what?"

"Let's not play games." Murdoch checked the time on his wristwatch. "I have another appointment tonight."

Frank picked up his glass of whiskey. He took a sip and then settled back in his chair with the glass, cradled in both hands, resting across his chest. He looked up at Murdoch, "I'm not going anywhere."

Murdoch reached down and grabbed the lapel of his coat and pulled it open exposing the revolver nesting in its holster. "Let's not forget who has the advantage here."

Frank stared at the pistol. He took a deep breath and sighed. "Okay, Murdoch, you win. It's over. I am too old and too tired to be chasing rainbows." Frank looked down at his smoking jacket. "At least, let me change into something more appropriate."

Murdoch released his hold on the tweed jacket and the lapel fell gently back into place, concealing his weapon. He looked at Frank and nodded his head.

Frank downed the rest of the whiskey and popped up from the recliner. "I'll only be a moment." He hurried toward the bedroom. At the doorway, he turned around and extended his hand. He curled his fingers into a tight upturned fist. "I had it. The Oscar was within my reach. Then I lost it." Frank's head sagged to his chest as he stepped into the room and in lieu of a door, pulled a curtain closed.

Within a few minutes, Frank emerged wearing an obsolete three piece suit. He stopped in the middle of the room, smoothed the material with his hands and pinned a white artificial carnation to the lapel. "I wore this suit in the original Midnight to Nowhere. The wardrobe mistress presented it to me after we wrapped the shoot. I've kept it hanging in my closet all these years." He pointed to the door. "Please, Mr. Murdoch. I would really like to get this over with." He hurried across the room and opened the door leading out of the apartment. He looked back over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

"Sure." Murdoch followed Frank out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Murdoch cranked the engine of his black 1946 Super Ford Deluxe, threw the column shifter in reverse, and backed out of the parking space. He drove out of the parking garage with Frank sitting on the passenger side of the full-sized front seat.

Frank surveyed the interior of the Ford. "Nice restoration job. Your work must pay well."

"It does have its perks." Murdoch eased out onto the empty street, turned on his wipers and looked up through the windshield at the night sky. "It doesn't look like this storm is going to ease up anytime soon."

Frank slowly reached inside his jacket, pulling a forty-five revolver. He quickly pressed the end of the barrel against Murdoch's temple. "Don't make any sudden moves or I'll blast ya'."

Murdoch stared straight ahead and snickered. "That sounds like a line from one of your old movies."

Frank applied a little pressure to Murdoch's temple. "Maybe it is, but the gun is not a prop. And I assure you, it's loaded."

"Maybe this is your last shot for an Oscar, pardon the pun."

Frank pushed the gun harder against Murdoch's head. "Don't treat me like some senile old fool." He used his free hand to reach cautiously inside Murdoch's jacket, fishing the pistol from its holster. He dropped it to the floor next to his feet.

Murdoch lifted his foot from the accelerator and punched hard on the brakes. The Ford skidded to a stop. For a moment, the only sound was the rain pelting the roof of the car and the wiper blades raking back and forth across the windshield. He turned and the gun's barrel sat square in the middle of his forehead. "You don't make the deals here, Frank."

Frank cocked the pistol as lightning ripped through the heavens. "I'm betting that you're not ready to check out of here just yet." Frank watched the rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror tremble in the aftershock of thunder. "What do you say, Mr. Murdoch?"

Murdoch eased his foot off the brake and faced the road. "Where to?"

"To the set of Midnight to Nowhere."

Murdoch grinned. "Curiosity killed the cat."

With Frank still nuzzling the forty-five against his skull, Murdoch steered the car down Hollywood Boulevard through the pouring rain. Murdoch said, "That thing must be getting unbearably heavy by now."

The ache in Frank's hand had crawled up his arm and into his shoulder. "I'm fine."

Murdoch shifted in the seat. "I love old Hollywood. That is one of the reasons why I took this job." He let out a satisfied sigh. "The actors and actresses had such a flair for delivering their character right into the laps of the audience. They had talent."

Frank suddenly forgot about the spreading pain that was now gnawing into his shoulder blade. He relaxed his tight grip on the pistol and released the hammer. His face softened. "I know what you mean. It's all about economics these days. Get rid of them before you have to shell out the big bucks. They're just a face. Maybe they make a film or two and then they disappear."

"Absolutely," Murdoch agreed. "The new Hollywood just mills them through and disposes of any chance of culturing a true star on the silver screen." He shook his head. "It has certainly turned into a sad little business. But it's all for the best. It helps to keep the bad blood out of Tensil-town."

Frank tightened his grip on the pistol and pressed it back against Murdoch's temple. His relaxed expression was suddenly flushed with anger. "What do you mean?"

Murdoch signaled for a left turn. "I mean, that now there is less time to build up peer rivalry in Hollywood. The way I heard it told, was that you and Grayson had words after the awards ceremony."

Frank scowled, pulled the gun away from Murdoch's head and shook it at him. "Grayson was a sorry SOB then and he still is."

A sly grin rose on Murdoch's lips. "Why, because his career took off and yours plummeted straight to the bottom?"

Frank shoved the pistol back to Murdoch's head. The pressure created a white ring on the skin around the end of the muzzle. "Maybe you should shut up before I scatter your brains all over this pricey car of yours."

Murdoch made a sharp left turn, bringing the car to a sudden stop in front of a guard shack and the rosary swung back and forth like a clock's pendulum. "We're here," Murdoch announced. He turned off the ignition.

Frank strained to see beyond the thick coat of rain running down the windshield. He heard the horn blast from a tugboat. "Where are we?" He pulled the pistol away from Murdoch's head and leaned forward. He used the back of his sleeve to make a small porthole in the sweat that had formed inside on the windshield. He pressed his face close to the glass. "What's going on here?"

Colored lights of the cityscape from across the river danced on the surface of the water with the rhythm of the falling rain. A few merchant vessels slowly chugged up the river through the churning currents, and the rest of the view was lost to the darkness and the sheets of rain. "What's this all about?" A bolt of lightning flashed and briefly illuminated the sign above the tin building and then the image was quickly disposed back to the shadows. Frank pointed into the darkness. "Why are we at the docks?"

"The studio rented a warehouse on the docks for the last scene. For the sake of realism," Murdoch replied.

Frank pulled the hammer back. It clicked and locked. "What kind of trick are you trying to pull?"

"I'm not pulling anything. You have the gun. You're here of your own free will."

Frank looked at the dark and empty guard shack. "Where's the guard?"

Murdoch shrugged. "I don't know. I just got here myself."

Frank frowned. "Don't get wise with me."

Murdoch pointed to the open gate. "We should just drive in."

Frank hoisted the gun up and pointed the barrel at Murdoch. "Take it slow."

Murdoch started the engine and took the Ford slowly through the gate and made a sharp right out onto the pier. The car rolled along the warped planks. Frank succumbed to the pain screaming in his bicep and placed the pistol in his lap. He looked at Murdoch and said, "Don't get any wise ideas. It's still cocked and I can get to it faster than you can."

Murdoch lifted his hands off the steering wheel and held them in the air. "Come on, I'm not stupid." He let his hands fall back down on the wheel and resumed steering the car down the crumbling wharf.

Frank used the hand-crank to roll down the glass and he craned his head outside the window into the rain. He looked down at the ancient wood bending and creaking under the white-wall tires. He had a vision of the car breaking through the planks and plunging into the cold, dark water below. He pulled his head back inside and with a swipe of his hand, pushed the rain soaked chords of thin, white hair out of his eyes. "I'm not so sure this is safe. We should walk the rest of the way." Frank rolled the window up and clutched his chest. "Ughhhhh."

"Take it easy old timer. We're almost there," Murdoch assured him.

Murdoch piloted the car down the pier through the intermittent shadows and parked next to a forties-style black and white police cruiser. He looked at Frank, who was still clutching his chest with his eyes closed. Murdoch leaned over and gently shook Frank on the shoulder.

Frank's eyes bolted open in a wide-eyed stare as he fumbled for the gun and slid his finger across the trigger, jerking it out of his lap. He poked the pistol in Murdoch's face. "Get back."

Murdoch eased back into the driver's seat. Lifting his hand, he pointed a finger at the vehicle parked outside of Frank's window. "Look."

Frank turned his head and strained to see past the rain at the old-style police cruiser sitting next to a warehouse. "So, you were telling the truth."

Murdoch opened his door. "Come on." He stepped out into the downpour and raced to the front entrance. He motioned for Frank to follow.

Frank bent over and picked up Murdoch's gun from the floorboard; he noticed a rabbit’s foot dangling from the keys in the ignition. He considered his own luck and checked the cylinder for bullets before shoving it in his pocket. He stepped out of the car, clutching his own forty-five pistol. He covered his brow with his hand, shielding his eyes from the falling rain as he stared at the words, Warehouse 13, stenciled on the front door of the building.

"Come on." Murdoch called from the sanctuary of the awning. "Get out of the rain." He opened the door and motioned for Frank to join him, but he remained a motionless gray figure in the distance, so Murdoch slipped inside, leaving him standing alone in the deluge.

Frank stood in the storm contemplating matters as he watched the water stream down the gun barrel and onto the pier. He couldn't help but notice that the water, eddying along the planks, only traveled a short distance, before it was caught by gaps in the boards and fell helplessly through the cracks. He removed Murdoch's pistol from his coat and for a brief moment he considered its lethal capabilities. He cocked his arm and threw the gun high into the air. It remained airborne long enough to clear the dock and then plunge into the deep murky water below. He tucked his prop pistol under his jacket and waded across the slippery planks to the entrance of the warehouse. Frank opened the heavy metal door and poked his head inside. A shiver ran down his spine when he saw there was only one source of illumination.

It was a spotlight beaming down, creating an oasis in the middle of the room. Beyond the circle of light was total darkness. He opened the door far enough to squeeze through and walk over to the light. He stood in its center, dripping water from his clothes down to the concrete floor. He pulled his collar close to his neck and shivered against the cool damp air.

Frank pulled the fake revolver from its nesting place. "Murdoch," he yelled. Frank tilted his head and waited for a response. When none came, he pointed the revolver into the darkness. "Murdoch, I'm only going to give you a few seconds to come out before I open up." Silence rang in his ears. He shouted, "Where are you?" Frank revolved on his feet in a circle, like a beacon shining from a lighthouse, until he felt light headed. He stopped spinning and planted his free hand over his chest. He coughed and said in a raspy voice, "Murdoch, I'm not kidding. Don't make me kill you."

A male voice called from the darkness, "Over here."

Frank jerked and gasped for air. He edged forward, carefully stepping in the direction of the voice, with the revolver leading the way. When he arrived at the brink of darkness he halted. "Where are you?" Frank stared out into dead space. With his own breath whispering in his ears and the feel of his heart pounding in his chest, he listened for a response for what seemed like an eternity.

"Here, on the floor," the voice responded. "Help me."

Frank cautiously stepped forward and planted the toe of one of his winged tipped shoes outside the perimeter of light. He craned his head forward and strained his eyes to see through the veil of darkness. He heard something in the shadows slithering along the floor and gurgling like a plugged drain pipe. He shook the gun at the black hollow. "Don't come any closer." A pain streaked through his heart like a bolt of lightning and his chest muscles quivered in the aftershock. He dropped the gun and turned to run.

A bloodied hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed Frank around the ankle. He looked down over his shoulder as a mortally wounded Richard Grayson pulled himself across the floor and into the light. With every exhale of breath, blood and air escaped through the hole in his chest.

Frank’s eyes widened in terror. "Oh God! Please! No!"

Frank broke free and stumbled through the room, out the door and onto the pier. The beat of his heart was like thunder in his ears and he felt the constriction of the muscles in his chest suffocating him like the coils of a boa constrictor. He stumbled across the crumbling planks and collapsed at the edge of the pier, with one of his arms hanging out over the water. He listened to the water lap against the pier and then heard approaching footsteps. Frank gasped for air. The footsteps stopped next to him and then he heard a thud as an object touched down on the wood.

Murdoch kneeled next to Spencer and watched him gasp for air. "Bravo, Frank. Outstanding last performance."

Frank lifted his head and tried to form words with his mouth.

Murdoch mocked Frank with child-like glee. "What's that?" He leaned down and began to improv. "Yes, it was perfect," he chimed. "The cast and crew was let go early because of the storm. Grayson is always the last to leave the set, so I just waited around for him to be alone and put a bullet through his chest." Murdoch sat down. "The murder weapon has your fingerprints all over it and cotton fibers from the doily in your apartment."

Frank coughed and spittle ran down the side of his face. He silently worked his lips as he stared up at Murdoch with glazed eyes.

Murdoch continued with his monolog. "I can see the headlines now." He reached down and patted Frank on the chest. "Aren't you excited Frank? You are going to be big news again. Everyone is going to be talking about Frank Spencer. One more thing, Frank." He twisted around and picked up the metal object that he had placed on the deck. He held it above Frank's head. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s Oscar goes to....Frank Spencer." He laid the award across Frank's chest.

Frank smiled weakly, raised a shaky hand in the air, and crooked his finger for Murdoch to come closer. Murdoch complied. With a final burst of strength, Frank snatched the trophy off his chest and whacked Murdoch across the forehead.

Murdoch’s glass eye popped out, rolled across the pier like a stray marble, and dropped through a gap. His other eye rolled back in his head and his eyelids fluttered as blood poured out of the gash above his eyebrow. He fell back and flipped off the pier into the water. His unconscious body broke the surface with a hardy splash and sank.

Frank let the Oscar slip from his fingers and it followed Murdoch down into the watery depths, to join him on the bottom.

Frank smiled and closed his eyes.

The End.

Edited by Sheila Williams

All rights reserved and is the property of the author. copyright 2011