The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller

by Shane Kuhn

  “Can I help you?” One of them half grunts.

  “John Lago. I work for Mr. Bendini.”

  “Look into the camera.”

  He points to a security camera above the door. I look up at it.

  The guard touches his ear, listening.

  “Okay, you’re good.”

  “What happened to your face?” The other guard is a fucking Boy Scout. I can tell he doesn’t like me but he doesn’t know why. He wrinkles his nose, waiting for me to answer.

  “Paper cut.”

  “Funny. Let me look in your briefcase, Dane Cook.”

  Shit. I need to learn to keep my smart-ass mouth shut.

  “John!”

  Bendini comes down the stairs. He is genuinely happy to see me. This pisses off the Boy Scout.

  “Hey, you goons, let him in. He works for me.”

  He might as well have told them to sit, roll over, and play dead. Their faces tighten with anger and they let me pass. Bendini slaps an arm over my shoulders and walks me down the hall to his study. The security guys follow us. Bendini sees me looking at them and smiles and waves me on. When we get to the study, they lock the door from the inside. Damn. This guy does not fool around. I wonder if these cheese dicks sleep in the same bed with him too.

  “You’re late. And you look like shit. Is that what the animal that hit your car did to you?”

  “Yeah. He really creamed my car. Insurance guy says I’m lucky I didn’t get hurt worse than this.”

  “Damn right. Cars are death traps. Just make sure you take that asshole to the cleaners.”

  “Oh yeah. He’ll be lucky if he can finance a scooter after I’m through with him.”

  “That’s the spirit. Well, let’s see what you have on the Foster estate.”

  “May I use your restroom? Long drive.”

  “Of course. Lars, show him the way.”

  Lars the Jersey goon points a fat hand to the hallway and leads me to a door. Inside the cavernous, Louis Quatorze gold-plated restroom, I pull the detonator duct taped to my inner thigh and hit the sequence. My charges outside start popping like the hellfire brigade. It sounds like a hailstorm as the bullets strike the outside of the house. I hear voices pitch up into freak-out panic defense mode. Good, they aren’t as cold as their swagger suggests. I throw on some ultra-thin leather cop gloves—stylish and crime scene–friendly, and pull a short barrel .45 (mobster special) and a Glock (security geek special) from the false bottom in my briefcase.

  Lars knocks heavily on the door. I peek out with an “I’m peeing my pants in fear” face.

  “What’s going on? Are we in danger?”

  Lars sees the Oscar-worthy panic in my face and goes into Boy Scout troop leader mode.

  “Get into the tub and stay there.”

  More charges go off and he flinches. I almost hit him in the arm and say “two for flinching,” but there’s no time for boyhood shenanigans. Instead I put a 9-mm pill from the Glock in his forehead and pull him into the bathroom with me. Now I’ll go whack Bendini and his pals with the .45 and come back here to put it in Lars’s dead hand. Lars goes down in the books as the killer—as long as I make Bendini dead within the next ten minutes (the medical examiner’s margin of error in determining time of death)—and I trip the fuck out of here and off to freedom.

  Then I feel my pocket vibrating and I almost jump out of my skin. I know who it is immediately because when I’m on a job, I carry only my HR phone, and only one person has that number: Bob. My whole career I’ve never had to answer this phone . . . until now. I pull it out. I have twenty missed calls from Bob. What the fuck? Bendini must have a cell tower block on the grounds—countermeasure for FBI mobile phone recon software. By now Bob is fucking furious.

  “Bob,” I whisper.

  “John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Abort.”

  “Fuck.”

  I would say “Why?” or “What the fuck?” but that would be stupid. If Bob’s aborting, it’s for a very good reason.

  “I’ve been calling for the last hour. Where the fuck have you been?”

  There’s a knock on the door again. I hang up, kill the lights, and grab Lars’s corpse, prying the Glock out of his meathook. Motherfucker’s heavy. The door slams open and I’m holding Lars up in a standing position. I heave him at whoever is there and he fires his gun. A bullet blows through Lars’s neck and slams into the tile wall. I am now splattered with blood, viscera, and most likely some very exotic cooties. The shooter turns on the lights and sees me. Sees his buddy Lars.

  “Friendly fire,” I say and shoot him with Lars’s Glock. He falls. I drop Lars in a reasonable landing position to sell the fact that his panicked coworker and he shot each other by accident, at least until the crime scene supernerds arrive. I know it’s getting confusing but now I have to make this shit up as I go along! Then I shove the .45 into my pants and run to get Bendini. His study is full of windows and he is a fucking fish in a barrel right now. He gets popped and Bob will never believe it wasn’t my fault. I will get popped too. I find him under his desk, a thin stream of blood trickling down his face.

  “Mr. Bendini. Are you okay?”

  “John! My God. What happened to you?!”

  “Let’s get out of here. You’re a sitting duck with these windows!”

  I drag him out of there, laughing on the inside as I, Pinocchio, heroically save Geppetto from my bullets as they whip through the windows and punch holes in several hideous English fox hunt paintings. Why do all bourgeois people think that the pinnacle of wealth is the crusty fucking English aristocracy?

  Two thugs run up and grab us. They hustle us to a panic room like Secret Service agents on a bum rush to save the president. Once inside, all the noise goes away and we can see what’s up on the security cameras. The grounds are littered with dead guards.

  “Holy shit!” the other guards proclaim.

  I make myself puke in the trash can for good measure. I’m viewed with pity and disgust by the guards. A perfect reaction to what they believe is a pencil-neck intern paralyzed by fear.

  A goon runs into the panic room.

  “Lars and Victor shot each other. By accident.”

  Thank you, Mr. Goon, for that stirring testimonial. You’re my top salesman this month. You win a trip to Maui.

  “I was there,” I say with a vomit-smeared grimace. “It was horrible.”

  Bendini shakes his head.

  “Amateurs.”

  I almost laugh out loud but pretend to cough instead.

  After a few beats of incredulous silence, all of my charges are finally spent and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. A cavalry of police sirens are heard rapidly approaching the house. Bendini goes to put his arm around me but thinks better of it when he sees bits of Lars’s brain and skull on my shoulder. Instead, he awkwardly pats me on the back.

  “Sorry about this, son. As you can see, I have some . . . enemies.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Bendini. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  “Thanks to you, John.”

  He scowls at the security men.

  “Which is more than I can say for the rest of you high-priced Neanderthals.”

  They all mumble “Sorry sir” and take on the collective expression of a pack of whipped puppies.

  “I owe you one, kid,” Bendini says to me in his grandpa voice. Maybe he’ll give me a pocketknife and some penny candy.

  “Don’t mention it, sir.”

  “Speaking of that, John. I would appreciate it if we could keep this all on the QT at the office. My colleagues tend to get nervous at the mention of all-out gun battles taking place at a partner’s home. Not good for business. You understand.”

  “I understand completely, sir. This incident doesn’t leave this room.”

  “You’re going to go far in this business, John. You need to understand that too.”

  I’m beginning to think I’ll be working at Bendini, Lambert & Locke long enough
to prove him right.

  United States Department of Justice

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  * * *

  Washington, D.C. 20535

  ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED

  SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING—OPTICAL CONTACT MIC

  Location: AKA Bar, East Village, Manhattan

  Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).

  Lago:

  Hey, booty call.

  Alice:

  What the hell happened to you?

  Lago:

  Mugged. ATM machine.

  Alice:

  Jesus, you’re lucky they didn’t kill you.

  Lago:

  You should see the other guy.

  Alice:

  I guess you missed the memo about just handing your shit over to muggers because absolutely nothing you have in your cheap-ass Velcro wallet is worth dying for.

  Lago:

  We got to go back to the old west. Fucking frontier justice. Set up a gallows in Times Square. Everyone’s strapped and ready to throw down if you look at ’em wrong.

  Alice:

  You are a hick.

  Lago:

  No, I’m Clint Eastwood, ma’am.

  Alice:

  Clint Eastwood doesn’t drink margaritas.

  Lago:

  I’m not much of a drinker . . . (strange accent) Whiskey bartender. The bottle.

  Bartender:

  That’s not on the menu, cowboy.

  Lago:

  Why do people insist on calling me that?

  Bartender:

  We good here?

  Alice:

  Yeah. Thanks.

  Lago:

  Saddle up, lady. We’re riding off into the sunset. Or at least to a bar run by foreigners so we can do as we please.

  Alice:

  Enough with the Gunsmoke shit. You’re killing me.

  Lago:

  Dyin’ ain’t much of a livin’, boy.

  LONG PAUSE.

  Lago:

  Tell me you know that line.

  Alice:

  Doesn’t ring a bell.

  Lago:

  You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s one of Clint’s most famous lines. It’s from one of his most famous films. Outlaw Josey Wales.

  Alice:

  Not really into westerns.

  LAGO MAKES A SPITTING, RASPBERRY SOUND.

  Alice:

  Let’s go. You’re wasted.

  Lago:

  I’m not an animal. I’m a human being!

  Alice:

  Elephant Man.

  Lago:

  Thank Christ, she finally got one.

  LAGO LAUGHS.

  Alice:

  I’m into romantic comedies, you dick. You probably don’t know shit about those.

  Lago:

  Is that a challenge? Do you really want me to do the deli orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally?

  Alice:

  For the love of God, no.

  Lago:

  Take a shot. Try to stump me.

  Alice:

  Okay. You said you couldn’t be with someone who didn’t believe in you. Well, I believed in you. You just didn’t believe in me.

  Lago:

  Pretty in Pink.

  Alice:

  Jesus.

  Lago:

  Jesus loves that movie too. Next.

  Alice:

  Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.

  Lago:

  An Affair to Remember. Total classic.

  Alice:

  Are you crying?

  Lago:

  Yes and no. Try harder.

  Alice:

  Love means never having to say you’re sorry.

  Lago:

  That’s a low blow.

  Alice:

  You are crying. Let’s go home.

  Lago:

  Bartender! Another round!

  Bartender:

  Doubtful!

  Alice:

  This isn’t fun for me.

  Lago:

  Who said anything about having fun? Continue.

  Alice:

  Far from this world of brutal lies is a land for lovers who despise violence, weeping for the lost and lonely. A land for lovers, for lovers only.

  LONG SILENCE. LAGO MUMBLES TO HIMSELF.

  Alice:

  Ha! Stumped you. Cyrano de Bergerac! Are you okay, John?

  Lago:

  Just leave me alone.

  Alice:

  John—

  Lago:

  I said leave me the fuck alone!

  SOUND OF BREAKING GLASS. PATRONS SHOUT INSULTS AT LAGO.

  Alice:

  Fuck you, John. Have a nice life. I’m out of here.

  Bartender:

  Hey, douche, you’re cut off and you’re leaving NOW.

  Lago:

  Get your fucking hands off me.

  SOUND OF GLASS AND WOOD BREAKING, PATRONS SCREAMING.

  —END TRANSCRIPT—

  20

  * * *

  DRUNK DIALING THE GRIM REAPER

  Rule #11: Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.

  I’m quoting Hemingway because last night I had more drinks in one sitting than I’ve had my whole life. I tend to avoid alcohol because I have seen it make monsters out of the men who were supposed to be my guardians, and, let’s face it, it makes you fat and stupid over time. But in light of the Bendini situation, I decided to drown myself in snake oil like an outlaw on the eve of a showdown he’s certain to lose. It was at the pinnacle of my nihilistic rage that Alice showed up, looking for a booty call. I was the world’s biggest prick. Not only did I burn that bridge, but I blew it to kingdom come. I feel bad, but it was the only way. Got to just rip off the Band-Aid. When she looks back, she’ll hate my guts and there won’t be any regret because my name will simply go on a plaque in her mausoleum of fucked-up men who failed her.

  But that’s not why I’m quoting Hem. After nearly killing the bartender and stomping out through the rubble like some kind of hillbilly Godzilla, I decided it would be an excellent idea to call Bob at 2:00 A.M. I thought it was an even better idea to leave him a message telling him I wanted to be relieved of my duties and that he should go fuck himself—or something to that effect. It is now 5:00 A.M. and I’m facedown on the kitchen floor, hoping it was all just a bad dream. Then my phone rings. Bob wants to meet me at a diner in Battery Park. He hangs up before I can say anything other than, “Yes.” He does not sound happy. The picture is complete when a black Town Car that might as well be a hearse pulls up to my building to take me to Battery Park.

  When I arrive, Bob has a telltale bulge in his jacket. My guess is he’s packing something small and light so as not to alarm me. Wants me to think it’s “for snakes and such.” But I am alarmed. He is also wearing a Kevlar vest. Mind you, it’s an Israeli-made undercover police vest—very thin and difficult to see under normal clothes. Also, this diner is located near the water and is fairly obscure. It is surrounded by rail yards and other empty industrial places—great for killing someone and dumping them in the river without a lot of witnesses. And let’s not forget the two gentlemen posing as police officers sitting in the police cruiser drinking coffee outside. Nice touch. I know they are professionals because most New York cops are not that fit. Also, hitters have a look. Many of them gobble steroids like PEZ, and they end up with that muscle face you see with juicers. These guys are your garden-variety, ex-military (special forces or whatever), bulging-at-the-seams neck breakers.

  I know there are more. If Bob were taking precautions with me, and he clearly is, he wouldn’t come with only two for backup. My guess is the kitchen staff, waitress, and maybe even the homeless guy taking a shit in a Folgers can outside are all waiting to bag and tag me like a baboon on Wild Kingdom. This is it. This is how it’s going down. I’m going to do something I never want you
to do: I’m going to confront Bob. As they say on Jackass, don’t try this at home. It’s a hundred times more dangerous than any of your assignments will be, and you would be an idiot—a dead idiot—to try it. The only reason I’m doing it is because I’m fairly certain this is going to end badly and I’ve decided I’m not going down easy. Why should I?

  “John, I wouldn’t have expected something like this back when you were fourteen, let alone now.” Bob is attempting, unsuccessfully, to contain his anger.

  “This is a unique situation, Bob.”

  “So you got frustrated and now you want to quit?”

  “Frustrated doesn’t quite capture how I’m feeling about this job. All due respect but to say this is irregular is putting it lightly.”

  Bob slams his hand on the table, knocking everything to the floor. Now I have to be ready for anything.

  “Stop patronizing me with that bullshit tone. We’re talking man to man here!” he yells. Bob never yells.

  “As long as we’re talking man to man, may I say that this assignment has been dog shit from the beginning, and you seem to have your head up your ass? Furthermore, I’m not fucking lifting another finger until you get your shit together. If you don’t like it, you know where you can shove it. Does that meet your John Wayne seal of approval?”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?”