Brian Weinert is an English undergraduate in his junior year.  This is his first publication.   

Mr. Jagermann Finds a Friend (January 20, 2011. Issue 24.)

The cuckoo recklessly tossed twelve chimes around the dark hallways of the mansion and returned to the clock with a snap. Gleaming in the polished marble floors, a rusty waxing moon lurked just below the surface like a predator patiently waiting for something, anything to chance by on such a desolate evening. An icy draft blew in through a single open window stitching the night together with a faint aroma of campfire. Voices drifted sporadically over the hill and wandered the corridors of the chateau until both timbre and laughter melted into velvet blackness.

The estate’s only occupant, Scott Jagermann, walked aimlessly down the hall. He was staring blankly at his cigarette; an absurdly long ash clung delicately to the faint ember. His footsteps made no sound, and upon seeing the open window he breathed a short chuckle and sent the ash spiraling to the floor. He was a handsome man of twenty-six. He had worked as an investment manager for the nephew of a very powerful man in the government for four years and had made a killing doing so. The more aesthetically disinclined politicians of Virginia would spend hours over scotch and cigars debating on where Jagermann bought his fine suits. Some swore he never wore the same suit twice. Others merely fantasized like children about the scores of luxurious objects that must occupy his pockets. Scott Jagermann was the envy of some of the most powerful and wealthy men on the east coast.

The enviable gentleman strolled over to the open window, and after flicking his cigarette butt onto the lawn, shut it quietly. The maid can be so careless. Leaving a window open in the middle of December! He resolved to rewrite her bonus check when he returned to the study.
Exiting the blue grandeur of the hallway he entered the dimly lit bar. A great affair of crystal, glass, and liquor that reflected and refracted the tiniest beams of light into a dazzling spectacle occupied the entire wall opposite the entryway. After methodically pouring himself a white Russian, Mr. Jagermann seated himself and hung his jacket on the back of the chair adjacent. After a few long sips his mind began to drift to thoughts of work: numbers, prices, the effect of the holiday season, necessary adjustments, the few things beyond his control he needed to account for. He subconsciously twirled the gold band on his finger. He’d never been married. The contract didn’t have enough clauses to make it a safe investment. The ring looked good in his line of work, though. Besides, he never had time for a woman. The only free time he had was late at night when he took strolls around his estate, always making a stop at the bar. That’s the time he needed a woman most, though. No man drinks alone when he is content with the goings on of things. He would pour hers first- cranberry and vodka. Then they would sit and drink together. But she would want to talk. Oh, she would want to talk! He could handle discussions, arguments, and the like, but just talking? What’s the point? If there is something to say, one must say it no matter the repercussions. But, words that accomplish nothing are just that- nothing.

He poured himself another white Russian to take his mind off women. It didn’t work. He would buy her lavish evening dresses and sapphire jewelry to accent her honey hair. She would hold his arm as they stepped into the bar, and kiss him on the cheek as he set her drink. Then they would talk- there it is again. What could he say to a woman like that? He would try and impress her with his accomplishments at work, and she would yawn and make up an excuse about the alcohol making her sleepy and excuse herself. Then, he would drink alone. At this point Mr. Jagermann decided his life would be no different with a woman than without. He stood up gruffly and opened a very expensive bottle of whiskey. He was thinking of how much pay to dock the maid for the window when something caught his eye. He could not tell if his loneliness was getting the best of him or if the reaper had come to end his misery, but there in the whiskey bottle stood a man in the next room. Yes, a man; he was sure of it. He watched for a few seconds half frightened and half curious to see what the stranger would do. That’s when a bitter winter wind suddenly blew through his mind and swept out the haze. He was being robbed!

He watched for nearly an entire minute. The thief had no idea the proprietor of the estate he was looting sat not but twenty-five feet away. Mr. Jagermann put his coat on, stood up as quietly as he could, tiptoed to the threshold of the door, and waited. He watched to see the selections the thief would make. The stranger came close enough that he could smell him. It was a mixture of sweat and... his own cologne. That son of a bitch.

“Hey, friend!” Jagermann boomed. The robber fell backwards and his eyes bulged so big they could burst from his skull at any second. “Find anything good?” Jagermann continued. “Personally, I’m partial to this beauty.” As he said this he produced a long-barrelled revolver from the inside pocket of his coat.

“Please, man-” the thief started but the enviable gentleman interrupted.

“My name is Mr. Jagermann. Do not call me anything else. It’s very clear what you’re doing, so there’s really no point in trying to explain yourself. I’ve got this whole place under surveillance anyhow, so you really have no case. The way I see it, you’re fucked.”

“Mr. Jagermann-“

“That’s better.”

“Mr. Jagermann, I- I…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry?” The poor man looked scared out of his mind. He had urinated in his trousers at the introduction of a firearm.

The enviable gentleman approached and the stranger’s eyes followed the barrel of the gun intently. He searched the robber, no weapons. “Have you ever done this before, ever?” Jagermann asked through suppressed laughter.

“Well, no…” The man admitted, eyes still fixed on the revolver.

Much to the stranger’s relief Mr. Jagermann put the gun away. He squatted down so their faces nearly touched. He could smell the whiskey on his own breath. “Here’s what’s going to happen, uh… what’s your name?”

“T- Thomas Keller, sir- uh- Mr. Jagermann.”

“Alright, here’s what’s going to happen, Thomas. You’re going to stand up and go into that bathroom. In there you’ll find a change of clothes. Now, they're not cheap so don’t rough them up. But, after you get changed you’re going to join me at the bar for a few drinks. Do you know anything about finances?”

“I know that I have none,” the stranger grinned. The situation had taken a very unexpected turn.

“Try not to smile with piss on your pants. It makes you look retarded,” Jagermann instructed. The stranger’s fear returned and he began frowning as hard as he could. Mr. Jagermann had to fight the urge to laugh. The poor sap looked plain ridiculous. “There’s a pen and paper on the counter in the washroom. Write down your cell number. As long as I have that tape, you’d better be up for a drink when I’m up for a drink, got it?”

A twinge of confusion snuck onto the thief’s face and he hesitated. “Yes sir, Mr. Jagermann.”

“Good, I hope you’re free on Christmas. Now go clean yourself up and maybe I’ll teach you a legitimate way to make a living off someone else’s money.”