The Office Of Randall Flagg, Gotham City, July 15th, 1987
"Alright, Mr. Leech, I believe I've managed to retrieve everything from the list you gave me. Let's see here..." I rummage around in the plastic garbage bag I used to liberate Leech's missing items from The Cavalier's ill-gotten collection, and pull out a cheap-looking plastic gun with a gas canister attached to the muzzle like an oversized silencer. "One prop gas gun from The Grey Ghost TV series..."
"Ah, classic, classic, my client will be thrilled to have this back. You know, I used to watch that show all the time when I was a kid, corny as hell in retrospect, but I guess that's nostalgia for ya. You ever watch it, Mr. Flagg?" Leech says, as he accepts the gun, studying it briefly before slipping it into the suitcase he brought along.
"...I caught it a few times, I think." Yes, apparently The Grey Ghost was a thing in this universe, and unfortunately the show suffered the same fate it did in the 90's Batman cartoon; the master tapes went up like roman candles when the studio vault burned down 20 years ago. Thankfully, from what I've been able to find, Simon Trent seems to be doing slightly better than his cartoon counterpart, as I've seen him appear in a few commercials and bit parts on TV, so hopefully he's not completely destitute like he was on the show. From what little I've seen of him, he even sounds like Adam West from my own world, no idea how that works...
...I should probably still look in on the guy, make sure he's doing alright.
Anyway, back to business! The next item I pull from the bag is a familiar golden figurine on a trophy stand "One Academy Award statue For Best Actor, belonging to Charlton Heston..." I pause, reading the name again "Wait, isn't he still alive? How did your client get this?"
Leech rolls his eyes "A yard sale, what do you care? I thought this was a No Questions Asked kind of business?"
"Fair enough. Alright, let's see, a movie reel and accompanying poster starring Dolores Winters..." I place the metal cannister and the rolled up poster on the desk, before reaching into the bag again "A lost recording of the Dave Clark radio series The Man Called Midnight... a mask and knife prop from the original version of The Terror... A pair of- ugh..." I grimace as I withdraw a sealed plastic bag containing an expensive-looking set of black lingerie, and drop them disdainfully on the desk on top of the other items "-a set of bra and panties belonging to Marilyn Monroe, gross by the way!"
Leech just shrugs, carefully placing the items into the suitcase "Trust me, Mr. Flagg, you better get used to "gross" in your chosen profession. The skeevier the client, the higher the pay! Now, I believe there's one item left?"
"Right, got it right here..." I pull out a second film reel canister, this one a good deal smaller than the one containing Dolores Winters final movie, and give the label on the front a quick glance "Property Of Grant Walker..." Hmmm, that sounds familiar... "...wait, I know this guy, isn't he that weirdo who built all those amusement parks?" I read the second part of the label "Casting Room Footage? Do I even want to know what's on this?"
"Uh, no you do not..." Leech says, snatching up the canister and putting it into the suitcase with the rest of the items, before closing it up and dusting his hands "Well, Mr. Flagg, I'm pleasantly surprised at how quickly you managed to retrieve my clients collection. Any idea who took them?"
"Oh, yeah, I ran into him at his last heist, but I let him go afterwards."
"You WHAT?!"
"Hey, you're the one who asked for discretion!" I shrug "What was I supposed to tell the police, he was guilty of dressing like an idiot?"
"No, but..." Leech sputters, waving his hands in the air "I expected you to, you know... rough him up a bit, maybe? Make him regret stealing from my clients, so he wouldn't do it again! What's stopping him from just coming back?!"
"Oh, I don't think he'll try again. At any rate, that's not what you hired me to do, you wanted me to get your creepy souvenirs back for your weirdo clients, and I did. You want a hitman or a legbreaker, ask the mob. Now pay up! Cash only please."
Leech looks like he wants to complain some more, but finally thinks better of it, before reaching into his coat, and pulling out a wallet made from alligator skin, which even I can tell is fake judging by how plastic it looks. He rifles through the bill fold, pulling out a thin stack of cash and tosses them on the desk. "Cash only, eh? What, my jewelry not good enough for your payment plan? I'll have you know I got some excellent deals on Rolex watches if you're interested..."
"Mr. Leech, no offense, but I'm pretty certain I could get a better idea what time it is by putting a stick in the ground and look at the shadow than from any watch I get from you..." I quickly count up the money, before dropping it into my desk drawer "Well, that's all in order. Lack of assaulting the thief aside, I hoped you've found my services satisfactory!"
Before Leech can respond, there's a knock on the door. Leech turns to look at it for a moment before turning back to me.
"Ya double-book someone?"
"No... excuse me for a moment, Mr. Leech, I better take a look."
.....
The Office Of Ferris Boyle, GothCorp, July 14th, 1987
Ferris Boyle, CEO of GothCorp, had always had a flair for PR work. Natural charisma, good looks that only seemed to increase with middle-age, the traces of grey in his hair giving him an air of folksiness and honesty that made his job even easier, even his voice seemed to have been tailor-made to make people open up their hearts and their wallets to his company. Yes, Ferris Boyle truly had it all; looks, charisma, charm... as long as you only saw him on the TV screen or at a press release.
Victor Fries doubted anyone could spend five minutes in the same room as the man without feeling like they had to take a bath afterwards.
"Look, Victor, it's not that I'm not sympathetic..." Boyle said in that honey-drenched tone that had won him two Man Of The Year awards from the Gotham Commerce group, the same voice he'd spoken with when he'd convinced Victor to sign with GothCorp, a voice that now made Victor want to strangle the man with his own tie "But I'm trying to run a business here, not a charity. I understand you want to look after Nora, what with her.... illness and all, but I can't approve a sabbatical, especially not with the Freeze Ray project in the stage it's in. Surely you can see my point of view?"
"You have got to be kidding me. My wife is facing a death sentence, and you expect me to keep working nine to five like nothing's wrong?! I need to be there for her!"
"GothCorp provides you with a generous health insurance for both yourself and your family, surely medical professionals are more equipped to care for her than-" He cut off as Victor slammed his fist down on the desk between them, almost knocking over the Man Of The Year plaqure decorating it.
"The insurance isn't worth the paper it's printed on when no doctor in the city will so much as talk with us! Do you have any idea the sort of stigma that's attached to HIV, Boyle?! Nora is treated like a plague victim, I can't get anyone to give her an examination, much less proper care! How is your damn insurance policy going to fix that?!"
"Don't you take that tone with me, Victor!" Boyle shot back, the honey draining from his voice, replaced by a surprising anger Victor Fries had never heard from his boss before. "You signed the contract, just like everyone else who works here, and whatever personal problems you might be dealing with, I expect you to fulfill the duties you agreed to!"
"Fine, if that's the way you want it, then I quit!" Victor snapped, turning to storm out of the office, only for Boyle's next words to freeze him in place.
"If you do that, you'll be breaking your contract, and I will have the entire GothCorp legal division down your throat before you've left the building! Who's going to be taking care of your wife when you're both destitute and homeless from legal fees and fines, hmm?"
Victor stood shock still, his back still turned to his boss, his fists clenched at his sides. "...You wouldn't dare. The PR damage alone-"
"The story will be what I want it to be, Victor, you know that..." Boyle said, the fury in his voice gone again, once more replaced by that nauseating sweetness mixed with smug condesencion "Sure, with almost any other sickness, the public would be sympathetic towards you, but with HIV? That's an IMMORAL disease, Victor, and more importantly, a scary one. And the court of public opinion is ruled by emotion. They wouldn't see you as the victim. So here's what's going to happen; you're going to go back to your lab, keep working on the project I'm paying you for, then you can go home at the end of the day and do whatever it is you think you can do to help Nora. And then you do the same thing again tomorrow. And again. And again. Because this is MY company, and you work for me, and if you try to play hardball with me again, Doctor Fries, you will regret it. Now get out!"
As Victor slammed the door behind him on his way out, Ferris Boyle never realised that the only thing keeping him from getting his skull split open with his own Man Of The Year award was the thought of Nora dying alone and helpless because her husband was in prison for murder.
.....
Victor felt like he was drowning.
Leaning back against the door, one hand over his face, he gasped for air like his lungs had forgotten how to function, lost amongst the despair and helplessness that smothered him like a pitch-black ocean. He wanted to scream, scream until his throat felt raw and sore, he wanted to weep for the first time since he was a child. He wanted to rage against a callous, indifferent universe that seemed intent on taking everything from him. Even this, even something as simple as being by Nora's side during this ordeal was denied him. And he was officially out of options.
Part of him wanted to storm right back into Boyle's office, and show him up close what Victor thought of his threats, but he knew that his boss wasn't bluffing. He'd happily destroy him and Nora, simply for the crime of not doing whatever Ferris Boyle told him. The man had a predators instinct for when he had someone over a barrel, and he wasn't going to let it go. As Victor began to walk back towards the stairs leading to the laboratories below, a dark thought began to break through the despair in his mind. If Nora died ("when, not if, you sentimental fool! Deny it all you want, you know it's true!"), Victor would have nothing left to lose, and Boyle's threats would be just as worthless as he was. Victor would show that miserable worm what real despair was! There was something horribly poetic to that, all the money and awards in the world would do nothing to protect him from Victors revenge once the end came. The freeze ray was almost ready to be tested, and by God, Ferris Boyle would get his moneys worth, Victor swore it-
"...didn't believe it at first either, but he found my brother, just like he said! The Magician really came through for us..." A voice drifted in from the corridor to his right, and that one word broke through the haze of despair that had settled over Victor Fries. Stopping in his tracks, Victor whipped around, looking frantically for the source of the voice. Near one of the office doors down the hall stood two women, both dressed in maid uniforms. One was older, and fairly heavyset with greying dark hair, while the other, the speaker, was younger, in her early 20's, with long, black hair and tanned skin. Their conversation ended abruptly as they saw Victor come rushing towards them, almost tripping over his own feet on the way.
"You! Who is The Magician?!"
"Uh, I'm sorry..?" The girl, who's nametag he could now see read "Anya", stammered out, taking a step back when she saw the frantic look on his face, and Victor forced himself to calm down, stepping backwards to avoid crowding her, and taking a deep breath before he tried again.
"Sorry. I'm sorry about that. But, please, miss, this might be important. I overheard you mention someone called The Magician. Please. Tell me who that is..."
"Oh!" she responded, seemingly calmed by his explanation, and walked over to the cart of cleaning supplies standing against the wall, where she opened up a purse hanging from one of the handles. "Well, there's this... man living near our neighborhood who runs... well, I guess it's a bit like a detective agency, except he's pretty insistant that it's not one. A while back, my brother ran away from home, and he helped bring him back. See, his real name is Randall Flagg, but we call him The Magician around the neighborhood because he gives these out as business cards!" As she spoke, the girl pulled out a card from the purse, and held it out to him.
It wasn't the same card as the one he'd found in his lab, but Victor knew it was part of the same deck. The shape and size was the same, the style was the same, even if the motif was different. It featured a man dressed in red and white robes, holding a wand in one hand, with a table in front of him carrying a cup, a sword, a staff, and a symbol Victor thought might be a pentagram. Above his head was a second symbol that looked like the number 8 sideways. The text beneath the figure, printed in the same font as the one on The Lovers, read The Magician.
"Here, you can keep it if you want, I got a few more and The Magician asked us to hand them out anyway."
.......
And so, less than a week after Nora's diagnosis, Dr. Victor Fries found himself standing on the third floor of a crumbling old apartment building in one of the worst parts of Gotham, staring at the homemade sign on the door in front of him, which held a copy of the same card that had brought him here. The whole thing seemed even more absurd now that he finally stood here, trying to will himself to knock on the door. What was he expecting, exactly? To be greeted by some miracle worker who could simply wave a wand like some fairy godmother and make one of the most horrific diseases known to mankind vanish like a troublesome cold? When all reason and logic told him that the only thing waiting on the other side of that door would be some two-bit charlatan using a bit of cold reading and sleight of hand to draw in customers. Some snake oil salesman who'd squeeze them for whatever savings they had in return for a pretend blessing, or a "magic potion" that was more likely to make the customer worse rather than healthier?
But it didn't matter. Victor considered himself a rational man, but rationality had no place here, not while Nora was sick. He'd be throwing every dime he had into a wishing well if he thought there was any hope in saving her, so it's not like this could be any worse. So with one last deep breath to steady himself, Victor reached out and knocked on the door...