The Intern's Handbook

by Shane Kuhn

  I laugh in his face.

  “Am I embarrassing you in front of the low-rent janitors you hired to field dress me? That fucking ape over there can’t even pour a convincing cup of coffee.”

  I stand and throw my coffee mug at the thug pretending to be a waiter. He ducks and it shatters on the wall behind his head. He glares at me. Bob does nothing, which only makes me want to take this further.

  “That’s right! I’m talking about you, donkey show! Go ahead and pull that hardware you got behind the counter so I can pop your empty fucking balloon of a head!”

  He doesn’t move a muscle, waiting for slave master Bob to give him a command.

  “Nice work, Bob. You can’t even find human beings anymore.”

  “John, do you want me to kill you? Is that why you’re acting like such an asshole?”

  I sit back down. Bob’s tone surprises me. It’s almost conciliatory.

  “I want you to do what you came here to do and quit jacking me around,” I huff.

  Bob waves his hand casually and everyone leaves the diner.

  “Okay.”

  Bob reaches into his jacket. I pull my Glock 18 and point it at his face. He laughs.

  “You think I would actually try to pull a weapon from my jacket? Maybe you’re the one who’s got his head up his ass, John.”

  Bob takes an envelope from his jacket. Empties photographs onto the table. I glance at them. Surveillance photos of Locke, the third partner on the firm’s shingle.

  “I’ve had the other two partners on twenty-four-hour rotations since your assignment began.”

  Bob’s right. I am the asshole. Guilty as charged.

  “These were taken less than twelve hours ago. He’s selling WPL names to a capo from a Brooklyn mob family.”

  “You’re sure about him?”

  “Yes. But now I’m not so sure about you.”

  I shove the photos at him.

  “Then put a fucking bullet in my head and kill him yourself.”

  “Believe me. I thought about it. My partners strongly suggested it.”

  “But you told them I deserve another chance. Because no one but me can pull it off.”

  My arrogance is only amusing to Bob now as he quietly revels in the egg on my face.

  “No, John. I have plenty of people who can pull this off. I told the partners you deserve another chance because I owe it you—for years of dedicated service.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I have no reason to bullshit you. You’re my most valuable asset. I told them to go fuck themselves and if you screwed the pooch they could retire me as well.”

  “So what are we doing here, Bob? This is not the kind of place where people dole out second chances.”

  “We’re here because I think we have some heat on us from the feds and I’m having the office fully cleaned.”

  “What? Any specifics?”

  “No, let’s just say my Spidey sense is tingling. The point is our whole operation is at risk, and I need my best button man to deliver.”

  “It’s going to be a bitch trading horses at the firm.”

  “Stay put for now. I don’t want you to call attention to yourself.”

  Bob gets up to leave.

  “Hey, Bob, thanks for looking out.”

  “I want you to do something for me, John. Something you would never have dreamed of doing in all the years I’ve known you.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to trust me.”

  “I trust you, Bob.”

  “I don’t need to hear you say it, John. I just need you to believe it.”

  21

  * * *

  LAWYERS, GUNS, AND MONEY

  As soon as I get to the office, I brush up on Locke’s CV, and things begin to make sense. He’s a criminal defense attorney and he has won 99 percent of his cases. The man is an animal and he eats prosecutors for breakfast. Also, not surprisingly, he abhors the press and has never granted them an interview. He is truly the man in black, lurking behind the scenes, occupying the shadows and keeping the streets full to bursting with USDA prime criminal scum. His client list is encrypted, so I have to rely on reports from hundreds of obscure legal journals to get a handle on who he handles. Not surprisingly, a fair number of Mafia types owe him their freedom.

  But that’s not enough for him. Guys like Locke get greedy and power hungry and all they give a shit about is winning. So he gets his hands on the witness protection list and sells names to clients, friends of clients, the highest bidder, etc. Now he can stack the deck for his clients and keep his win percentage in the stratosphere. This translates to millions for him and for the firm. The icing on the cake is the tidy profit he turns by selling the names. That, my friends, is what we call win-win. And, of course, the firm wants the money to keep flowing in, but they don’t want to know where it’s coming from, so they don’t ask.

  I’m beginning to think Locke could give Bob a run for his money. He might be a civilian, but he’s dangerous, powerful, and his connections are probably the who’s who of organized crime. Waxing him with a cup of coffee ain’t going to happen. I’ve got to find a way to ambush the bastard when he’s not surrounded by an army of killers. Bob’s right. We’re rapidly approaching our expiration date on this assignment. I need a fast track to Locke and I need to get to him without arousing any suspicion. I need Alice. She’s on Bendini’s team, but as an actual employee, she has much greater access than me, and I’m not about to try to reel in another asset this late in the game. Of course, Alice would sooner kick me in the nuts right now than help me in any way. I need to get back into her good graces. I wonder what wines go best with a generous helping of crow?

  United States Department of Justice

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  * * *

  Washington, D.C. 20535

  ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED

  SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING—INFRARED LASER MIC (150M)

  Location: Alice (censored) Residence/Bedroom, East Village, Manhattan

  Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).

  KNOCK ON THE DOOR. SOUND OF ALICE OPENING THE DOOR.

  Alice:

  Look what crawled out of the devil’s asshole.

  Lago:

  You have a way with words.

  Alice:

  And you don’t. Walk away so I can see your tail between your legs.

  Lago:

  I’m sorry.

  Alice:

  You’re a sorry excuse.

  Lago:

  You think I’ll wither away if you reject me and you’ll have your petty revenge? How long are you going to play tough with someone who’s used to suffering?

  Alice:

  I don’t know. How long are you going to use your suffering as an excuse to be a bastard?

  Lago:

  I’m not using it as an excuse. I’m just not. Shit. I’ve never really been with anyone. I mean, I’ve had plenty of . . . You’re just my first—

  Alice:

  Girlfriend? Is that what you’re stumbling on? Because most guys got past that in the seventh grade.

  Lago:

  The longest I’ve ever been with anyone is two weeks, and she’s dead. Remember I said it ended badly?

  Alice:

  Now you’ve gone and made me feel sorry for you. You suck.

  Lago:

  I’m not looking for pity. I’m just trying to tell you what you’re dealing with. I’m probably going to make a lot of mistakes, fuck-ups that most guys got out of their system when they were younger.

  Alice:

  And you want me to give you a chance.

  LONG PAUSE.

  Alice:

  If you can’t even say it, why should I give it to you?

  Lago:

  Give me a chance. Please.

  Alice:

  Okay.

  Lago:

  Just like that? Okay?

  Alice:

  Oh, you’re s
till in the doghouse. In fact, if the doghouse had solitary confinement, you’d be in there.

  LONG PAUSE. SOUNDS OF PHYSICAL CONTACT.

  Alice:

  Get your butt in here.

  LAGO WALKS IN. SOUND OF DOOR LOCKING.

  Alice:

  I have a present for you. I came to surprise you with it at the bar, but then you got all Kiefer Sutherland on me.

  Lago:

  I like presents. Let me guess. Is it a puppy?

  Alice:

  Smart-ass. Now I don’t want to tell you.

  Lago:

  Come on. I’m dying. What’s my present?

  Alice:

  Wait here.

  PAUSE.

  Alice:

  Here you go.

  Lago:

  What’s this?

  Alice:

  Read it. One of those men is probably your father.

  Lago:

  Come again.

  Alice:

  Dorothy did her research. Went through all of those hospital visitation records from when you were in the NICU. Weeded out the nonstarters and it all came down to ten names. Ten!

  Lago:

  Holy shit.

  Alice:

  All you have to do is call them.

  Lago:

  I don’t know what to say. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

  Alice:

  You know what to say, you dolt.

  Lago:

  Thank you.

  Alice:

  Nice try.

  Lago:

  I love you?

  Alice:

  Getting warmer.

  Lago:

  I love you.

  Alice:

  I believe you.

  Lago:

  You’re not going to say it?

  Alice:

  Hell no. I’m still pissed at you. Nice flowers, by the way. You get those at a funeral home?

  —END TRANSCRIPT—

  22

  * * *

  AIN’T LOVE GRAND?

  Last night I tore several pages out of the Hugh Grant playbook and went to Alice’s house to deploy some world-class groveling. I did just about everything but get down on my knees in the pouring rain, and believe me, if there had been pouring rain, that’s exactly what I would have done. I brought her some mediocre flowers to add an extra touch of charm to the performance. Of course I know flowers very well and could have easily gotten her a bouquet of rare saffron crocus, but that is not in keeping with my persona and would have aroused suspicion. Plus, the guys that win the girl in romantic comedies almost always have some kind of pathetic flower to represent the ragged soul that they need a woman to cultivate. Suffice it to say that Alice was moved by my performance and I won my way back into her good graces. And her bed, incidentally.

  To really cure the meat, I’m taking her to a fancy lunch that she’ll feel outwardly guilty about because of my pay grade, but inwardly ecstatic about because I’m willing to throw down for her, even if my persona would realistically be living at poverty level. Ain’t love grand? It is, if I can get her to agree to help me get an in with Locke.

  * * *

  “You’re really pouring it on, John. You didn’t have to do this.”

  It’s like magic, right?

  “I actually want to talk to you about something.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  She grins. “Try to be serious at least until the salads get here.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “You may have heard a rumor about our boss recently.”

  She smiles. Of course she knows about the wild west show that took place out at Bendini’s house the other night because I’m sure she has him under 24/7 surveillance.

  “Watercooler chatter says he might be teeing off with the wrong foursome,” she whispers. “One of them tried to whack him over the weekend.”

  “I was there,” I whisper back.

  She’s legitimately surprised. Good. She didn’t know I was there.

  “What the fuck? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “I haven’t told a soul. I was taking him the Foster files we’ve been working on. He wanted me to bring them to the house because I was out of the office. When I got there it was like a fucking war zone. The whole thing scared me shitless. But what scared me more was Bendini. He didn’t actually say this in so many words, but I feel like he implied, very kindly mind you, that I should keep my mouth shut about this or I might piss off the wrong people.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “And now I’ve told you, so you better keep your trap shut.”

  She’s feigning sympathy, but I can tell she’s charged up. This is huge for her case and it’s great for me because it will keep her sights trained on Bendini, so there’s no chance her investigation will fuck with my new orders to kill Locke. She’s dying for details.

  “What did Bendini actually say?”

  “All he said was that he has enemies. And thanked me for saving his life.”

  “You saved his life?!”

  My eyes dart nervously.

  “Keep it down.”

  “Relax. What do you think this is, Three Days of the Condor?”

  “That is your first good movie reference since I met you. And yes, like in Condor I feel like it’s possible that there are eyes and ears everywhere. How do I know that the person who tried to kill Bendini doesn’t know who I am and want to whack me now as a witness?”

  “You watch way too many movies, John. Jesus.”

  “What makes you an expert?”

  She starts to make a point but pulls back, catching herself. She is getting too comfortable with me.

  “I thought about this a lot and I think I would feel more comfortable working for someone else in the firm.”

  “I don’t blame you. Who, though?”

  “Litigation interests me quite a bit. Maybe I could see about getting a post with Locke’s crew.”

  “The dragon slayer? Are you a glutton for punishment?”

  “I’ve heard he’s the best.” Spoken like a true bumpkin.

  “He’s definitely the best, but his people are miserable. They look like zombies. The joke around the office is that they never take lunch because they’d just eat each other.”

  “Sounds perfect. Can you get my foot in the door?”

  “Maybe. A girl I know from law school works in his department.”

  This makes me laugh because Alice is trying to get me to climb aboard her own version of the Bullshit Express.

  “But you do realize you will piss off Bendini to no end if you do this, right?” she warns.

  “Yeah. I just want to get on the right path for my career.”

  That really sounded like a nervous white yuppie. I am scoring regular guy points like a son of a bitch.

  “Makes sense. I’ll see what I can do.”

  23

  * * *

  YOU’VE COME A LONG WAY, DUMPSTER BABY

  After lunch, I walk into my windowless closet of an office and it’s completely empty. The place was wall-to-wall files when I left it. Now it’s just white walls. My computer is gone as well, along with all of my personal stuff. I take a breath and try to process this. I know I’m a total fucking plebe, but this is ridiculous.

  While I’m standing there with my dick in my hand, my door shuts and locks behind me. I reach for the knob. There is just a keyhole. Presumably, the person on the other side has the key that was never issued to me. But that is neither here nor there because the person on the other side more than likely is planning to kill me. If you think about it, this room is a perfect death trap. I am on the second floor, which has a handful of these types of offices but mostly serves as a giant storage floor for office furniture and file archives. So it’s quiet and I rarely see other people here. Also, there are no escape routes. Unlike the other floors, this floor only has one stairwell access door and one elevator—the service elevator. You literally have to use t
he fucking service elevator to get to this floor. Which is why they love putting interns here because it’s dark, lonely, and reminds you every moment that you’re lower than a boiler room roach in the firm’s food chain.

  I can hear someone outside the door, but he’s whispering to another person. They are moving quickly, and I occasionally hear their heavy footfalls on the old wood floors near the elevator. I look around my shit box office. I can easily kick the door down, but that is ill advised, as they will have it covered. Chances are, they sent a scout to make sure I was here and alert the rest of the team to move in. If I’m lucky, I have thirty seconds to move. Door is out. No windows. I know what you’re thinking. Ventilation shaft. Well, guess what, Mission: Impossible, there’s a twelve-inch HVAC duct crammed in the corner on the floor. I doubt I’ll be crawling into that to escape CIA headquarters.

  Then I notice the tiny space between the bottom of the far wall and the edge of the 1950s-era kitchen carpet. The wall it shares a corner with has the same thing, but it’s harder to see because of the quarter inch of filth piled up on the carpet. These are floating walls, and they were thrown together to make this room private. Of course none of it is up to code, and that is my saving grace. I hear more hushed voices outside moving down the hallway. Got to make a move now. I pull my knife and quietly shove it into the drywall on one of the floaters. It goes in easily, as these walls are paper-thin. I cut a large cross in the lower part of the wall to score it. Voices getting closer. I shove the heavy metal desk as hard as I can into the wall. As expected, it disintegrates as the desk smashes corner-first in the middle of my cross. I hear someone shouting, but my adrenaline is roaring in my ears like a freight train. I don’t have time to pull my ankle piece and I can’t find my knife. Must have fallen out when I picked up the desk. Fuck it. I dive through the ragged hole in the wall and leap to my feet, ready to throw down.