by Shane Kuhn
Motherfucker.
It’s not a team, waiting to pump a thousand silent 9-mm rounds into me and wheel my body parts out onto Central Park South in a hot dog cart.
It’s Alice holding a bottle of champagne and two janitors with all of my stuff.
“What the hell is your problem, you freak?”
“Jesus, I . . . what the hell is going on here?”
“You made associate. I came down to help you move your shit. The boys upstairs are waiting to buy you a drink.”
She laughs. The janitors are not amused. I’m amused by the irony, which is now thick enough to qualify for fat camp.
“Sorry. Claustrophobic.” I give them a sheepish grin.
She takes my hand.
“Come on, weirdo.”
We leave the janitors staring at the drywall explosion. Next thing I know I’m sipping champagne in my new office on the fifth floor—with a window.
“Of course, you are still my bitch.” Alice smiles.
“Of course.”
Bendini walks in and shakes my hand vigorously.
“One million dollars in back fees? Unheard of. You, my boy, are a one-man wrecking crew.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Everyone else thought you were some kind of goddamned hick. But I knew. I could see it in your eyes. You have the right stuff, kid. Congratulations!”
“I couldn’t be happier, sir. I want you to know that I’ll work hard to live up to—”
“Cut the horseshit, son. Let’s have a drink.”
His troll of an assistant appears out of nowhere with a thick stubby bottle of expensive Scotch and pours us all a glass.
“To this young man’s bright future,” Bendini toasts.
I know this is The Intern’s Handbook, but I am no longer an intern. I am a junior associate at one of the biggest law firms in New York. If this weren’t the worst possible thing that could happen to me as a contract killer, I would be pretty damn proud of myself. Conceived in a petri dish of despair, birthed from the loins of a brain-dead junkie with a third-grade education, raised by vermin abusers, pedophiles, smack dealers, and all manner of welfare system bloodsuckers, and adopted by a homicidal jarhead. By all rights, I should have been dead long ago or at least institutionalized. And look at me now. You’ve come a long way, Dumpster baby.
And you know what? I’m going to enjoy it. Now at least before I end up a corpse or a prisoner, I’ll have a claim to fame that has nothing to do with being responsible for a majority of the high-profile murders that have taken place in Manhattan in the last decade. I’m legit, yo.
After Bendini leaves, Alice settles beside me at the window. I actually have a decent view of the street and the edge of the park. She taps my glass with hers.
“Blue Horseshoe loves Anacott Steel.”
“This is your wake-up call, Buddy,” I say with a smile.
“I guess Bendini owed you one.”
“Yep.”
“Still want to try to lick Locke’s tasseled loafers?”
“No, I think I’ll be fine here, thanks.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts, because I’m going to be gunning for you.”
She means what she says, but she’s not saying what she means. Gunning is a great choice of words. For the first time, I’m kind of glad she thinks I’m a loose cannon that she can’t seem to put a finger on. It’s making this whole thing more fun all of a sudden. Especially since I’m gleefully chucking the rulebook to the wind. I think it’s fun for her as well. I just moved up a notch from someone earning her casual interest to a potential player. I touch her ass, just to see if she’s going to close up the candy store. She touches mine back. Good. No sense letting work get in the way of a great lay.
That night I decide to pretend all of this is real and enjoy the fruits of my labor. After shopping for new suits with Alice (on Bob, of course), we have dinner at an expensive restaurant that seems to be perfectly designed to annoy the shit out of me. But I am not annoyed. I am half drunk, somewhat on booze but mostly on power. I have a beautiful woman on my arm. And I can tell that she is fully immersed in her fake self as well. All is right with the world as we slip into the high-thread-count bliss of hotel sex. And as we drift off to sleep, I tell myself to remember this because I’ll need a happy memory when it all blows up and leaves a bloody mess.
United States Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
* * *
Washington, D.C. 20535
ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED
SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING—FIBER OPTIC SCOPE
Location: Flatiron Hotel, Manhattan
Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).
PHYSICAL CONTACT. LONG PAUSE. SUBJECTS BREATHING RAPIDLY.
Alice:
I love doing it at a hotel. Makes me feel like a call girl. Which was my Plan B if this whole lawyer thing didn’t work out.
Lago:
How much do I owe you?
Alice:
You’re funny. I should charge you. You just killed one of my billable hours.
Lago:
Do I get a discount as a professional courtesy?
Alice:
You can sleep in the wet spot. No extra charge.
Lago:
That’s more than generous.
Alice:
So, are you happy now, you cranky fucker? You got the job, the girl, the swinging dick office.
Lago:
Yeah. Didn’t think it was possible, but I am, I dare say, happy. For the first time maybe ever.
Alice:
And you owe it all to me, of course.
Lago:
Of course, darling.
CHAMPAGNE CORK POPS.
Lago:
That’s minibar champagne! It’s going to cost us a fortune.
Alice:
It’s a special occasion. We need to celebrate.
Lago:
I thought we were celebrating.
Alice:
This is not just about the job and how great in bed I am. It’s much bigger.
Lago:
Oh my God. You’re pregnant.
Alice:
Hilarious. No, I have a surprise for you.
Lago:
What?
Alice:
You have to promise not to be mad.
Lago:
About a surprise? How is that possible?
Alice:
Just promise.
Lago:
Okay, I promise.
Alice:
It’s about your father. I called the people on your list. My . . . Dad used to work with the government and I asked one of his old colleagues to help. I know you’ve been having a hard time getting through them all. Are you mad?
Lago:
Of course not. So what did you find out?
Alice:
I’m pretty sure I found him.
LONG PAUSE.
Alice:
You okay?
Lago:
Yeah. I’m just kind of stunned.
Alice:
I can imagine. But it’s also exciting right?
Lago:
Absolutely. What’s his name?
Alice:
Marcus (censored).
Lago:
Wow. What a great dad name.
Alice:
What were you expecting?
Lago:
With my past I was thinking it would be a one-word bullshit street name like Whippet or Snowball.
ALICE LAUGHS.
Lago:
But Marcus (censored). Damn. That sounds like one of the guys from the office, you know. The squash and gin Mafia.
Alice:
I know. He probably wears an ascot and boat shoes.
Lago:
Thank you. I really appreciate all of your help with this. You’ve been amazing and I couldn’t have done it without you. And I do love you.
Alice:
Lago:
I will.
—END TRANSCRIPT—
24
* * *
IN BED WITH THE JONESES
The next two weeks are surreal. I am so inundated with work that I almost forget why I am really there. Or I would rather not remember. At any rate, I am reveling in my new social stratum. The other junior associates, my coworkers, are all highly educated, interesting people. They like me because they think I’m some kind of roughneck genius coming from total obscurity. Bob said it best. They know their own kind—the prep school, Ivy League, summering in Southampton circus. But they want to accept me as a convert. They want to adopt and care for me like a stray puppy. So they invite me to their parties and squash games. They ask my advice about cases and bring me their grandmother’s homemade fudge. They tell me I must come skiing with them in Beaver Creek this year and ask me to join their crew club. And I drink it all in. I mainly do this because they may be valuable assets when it comes to gathering intel on Locke. But I also do it because these are really the first friends I’ve ever had. Growing up, I was lucky if a three-legged alley cat would be friendly to me, let alone the well-bred master builders of Manhattan’s power elite.
Alice likes some of them, but they don’t all like her. The women are especially reluctant to embrace Alice because she is everything they will never be: quick witted, fiercely independent, physically strong, and beautiful in a way only mutts can be beautiful—a total original without the whole Reese Witherspoon vibe put out by every member of what I like to call the Barbie Cabal.
As I sit in my humble, yet well-appointed office and admire my partial, yet spectacular view, I begin to wish that things could just stay this way forever. Maybe Bob will decide I’ve earned this and send someone else to kill Locke. After all, I’m hardly the subtle breeze anymore that used to blow into hits as easily as I would blow out of them. It’s a nice fantasy. I could just transition into my new career right now. Because of my “killer” instinct, I would kick down the corporate ladder and trample everyone ahead of me. I could take this fucking place over. Being a lawyer is not that different from being an assassin. Both require a predator mentality. Both leave unholy destruction in their path. In fact, I only kill people. Lawyers destroy people, like briefcase mercenaries with godlike powers at their disposal. Hey, if lawyers could get someone like O. J. Simpson acquitted, they can fucking walk on water and open the gates of hell. This career is perfect for me in every way.
But I know all of this is just a bullshit pipe dream fueled by wishful thinking. Fantasy is a luxury I can’t afford, and that’s confirmed when Bob wakes me up by lighting a fire under my ass. He tells me the people that ordered this hit are getting very impatient. In fact, they have demanded results and given us two weeks to execute or they will send someone else and they will send a team to retire us. This is not the first time we have been pushed to expedite the process. However, this is the first time we’ve been threatened. I promise to ratchet up my efforts and then he kind of reads my mind and tells me that I shouldn’t get any ideas about dragging it out so he will get fragged and I can be free to play lawyer the rest of my life. He’s kind of joking when he says it, but the thought had crossed my mind.
United States Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
* * *
Washington, D.C. 20535
ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED
SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING
Location: Wireless phone call intercept—IMSI catcher/Roving bug
Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).
Alice:
Will you miss me?
Lago:
Of course.
Alice:
Of course what?
Lago:
Wow. Really?
Alice:
I need to hear you say it.
Lago:
I will miss you.
Alice:
I will miss you too.
Lago:
Why so formal?
Alice:
Because that’s how you sound.
Lago:
Jesus.
Alice:
Don’t get pissed.
Lago:
I’m not pissed.
Alice:
Come on. What’s wrong?
Lago:
I was, uh, I was looking forward to seeing you. There. Happy?
Alice:
Now I feel bad because you’re being all honest injun and boyfriendy.
Lago:
Honest injun? Boyfriendy? Why you gettin’ all Miley Cyrusy?
LAUGHTER.
Alice:
I was looking forward to it too. Rain check?
Lago:
Yes. Definitely.
Alice:
Thank you for being so understanding. My aunt really needs me.
Lago:
When are you flying out?
Alice:
Couple of hours. Funeral is tomorrow afternoon.
LONG PAUSE.
Lago:
What’s wrong?
Alice:
I’m just thinking about how easy it is to just lose someone, you know? I could just blink my eyes and you would be gone too.
Lago:
I’m not going anywhere. Well, I’m going to get a steak, but I’ll chew it very thoroughly.
Alice:
Ha-ha. You know what I’m saying. Everything is so fleeting and impermanent. It’s enough to drive you bat shit crazy.
Lago:
That’s why you can’t take anything for granted.
LONG PAUSE. SOUND OF ALICE CRYING.
Lago:
I’m sorry. I just feel like life is short and I want to remember it all, good or bad.
Alice:
That’s a good way to think. But it kind of sucks too. Makes me just want to say fuck it sometimes and take off.
Lago:
Take off?
Alice:
Yeah. Get the hell out of this city. Maybe even leave the country. Try to just melt into obscurity somewhere and enjoy the rest of my life.
Lago:
That’s not your style. You would go nuts. You love the action.
Alice:
I’m not so sure anymore.
Lago:
For what it’s worth, if you did get the fuck out of here, I would get the fuck out of here with you.
Alice:
Thank you, John. You’re a good guy.
Lago:
I wish that were true.
Alice:
Why would you say that? Did you cheat on me?
Lago:
Oh my God. Wow.
Alice:
Okay, sorry. But seriously, why would you say that?
Lago:
Do you really want to know?
Alice:
Yes. I really do. I want to make sure I’m not fucking Ted Bundy.
Lago:
If only I had his looks.
Alice:
Come on.
Lago:
Some other time. I’m sure you don’t need to hear my litany of sins while you’re on your way to a funeral.
Alice:
I’m holding you to that. You owe me a confession.
Lago:
Yes, padre. Just be careful what you wish for.
—END TRANSCRIPT—
25
* * *
THE UNTIMELY DEATH OF UNCLE SAM
After a squash match with one of my new office buddies, I get in cab to go meet Alice for dinner, but she calls me and cancels. One of her uncles has died and she has to take a flight to D.C. tonight for the funeral. D.C.? Could that be her Uncle Sam per chance? Like me, she probably has to have a sit-down with her superiors to discuss her lack of progress. At least she won’t have to listen to threats. Or, at least, not life-threatening threats. I tell her I’m sorry for her loss and make it sound like I mean
it. She makes it sound like she is all broken up about her uncle. I don’t ask his name out of professional courtesy. I hate it when I hear a lie, and I know this would be a lie, so I spare both of us the agony.
I decide to pay a visit to Alice’s apartment and try to ramp up my intel. The mountain of raw data that’s been dumping to my computer each day from the device I planted inside her laptop is massive, overwhelming, and will take way too much fucking time to sift through without the help of Bob’s drone corps. She left the office and went straight to the airport, so I know her laptop is still at home. She doesn’t bring it into the office because the feds probably don’t want their data just lying around the biggest, most powerful law firm in Manhattan. This could be my best shot.
