The Directive

by Matthew Quirk

  Lynch nodded toward the guy with glasses, who stepped forward and clamped his hands on my biceps. “He doesn’t understand!” my brother yelled from the kitchen. “He thinks it’s a joke. Don’t hurt him. He had nothing to do with this.”

  As I was pulled away, I turned my head toward Jack. He stood there, absolutely ruined with sadness. At first I thought it was shame, for betraying me after I’d let him back in.

  “God, Mike,” he said. “I’m sorry. I guess you had every right to think it was a setup, but this is for real.”

  As the man with glasses held me to one side, I saw my brother struggle with the other one, who barked at Jack in an Irish accent as he wrestled his arms under control. Lynch walked over and struck Jack across the face with a pistol. He groaned and fell to one knee. He hit Jack with the gun again, in the temple, and Jack crumpled.

  I peeled away the hand of the man holding me and lunged at Lynch, shouting “Leave him the fuck alone!” before I could even think about what I was doing. I knocked him against the counter. The two other men took hold of me. Jack lay facedown on the ground, blood trickling from a cut over his eyebrow.

  Lynch walked over to me, took me in with a clinical look, then smashed the clip of his pistol into my cheekbone, under the eye. The world turned black for a second. Sparks of light shot through my vision, and I felt pressure bloom through my sinuses. I groaned. As I blinked back the pain, Lynch reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet.

  “Michael Ford,” he said, then looked at Jack. “I see. It’s a family act. And you live on Howell Ave. Del Ray, right? That’s a cute neighborhood. You ever go to the Dairy Godmother?”

  “What?” I asked.

  He sighed, like the whole thing was out of his hands. “So what’s wrong with you? Martyr complex? Why would you involve yourself in this kind of shitshow?” He pointed to Jack with the pistol. “Congrats,” he said to me. “This is on you now, too. You seem like a pretty together guy, so pay attention. Your brother makes things right, or next time we kill him. You understand me?”

  “You can’t pull this kind of shit.”

  He leaned over, reached down with his finger on the trigger, and pressed the pistol against Jack’s hand.

  “Do you understand?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He kept my license, tucked my wallet back into my pocket, then started out the front door. His associates slammed me hard against the bookshelves, knocking the wind out of me. As I picked myself off the ground, searching for breath, they walked out.

  I staggered toward the door to try to get the plates, then stopped and turned back to Jack. I heard the car outside peel away. Jack had rolled onto his back. I sat beside him on the floor, my back against the wall, and lifted his head up.

  “I’m sorry, Mike,” he said, looking up at me. “I didn’t mean for this to get to you. I told you to stay upstairs. I just can’t get away from this shit.”

  “It’s all right, Jack,” I said, and thumbed the blood away from his eye. “Don’t worry about that now. It’s going to be okay.”

  I didn’t believe it, but what else could I say? All I could think about was the fact that Lynch had my address. He was coming for me now.

  I spent the night in the emergency room with Jack, six hours for ten stitches. I wanted answers, but he was asleep or out of it most of the night. After he came to early the next morning, I pulled my chair up beside his bed.

  “We’re going to the police, Jack.”

  “I tried. They have informants with the cops. That’s why they came after me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Jack. You were working for them.”

  He reached onto the tray beside his bed for a plastic tub of juice and pulled the foil back. “I just have a number, no names.”

  “And where did you meet them?”

  Jack strained to remember: a Metro station, a library, a sandwich shop. All public, all anonymous.

  “Here,” he said. “My phone’s in my pants. The number’s in there.”

  I leaned over, then stopped myself.

  “Forget it,” I said, and fell back in my seat. “I don’t want any part of it. Every time I get my life sorted out, you always try to drag me into something like this. That guy took my license. He has my address, where I sleep, where Annie sleeps. They said it’s on me. What does that mean?”

  “Could you just back off?” he said. He shut his eyes and winced, hiding in the pain.

  “I swear to God, Jack,” I said, rising out of my chair and standing over him. “If this comes down on me, I will—”

  The curtain drew back. The physician assistant came in. No matter how righteous your position, you never look good shouting down a guy as he lies in a hospital bed wearing his own blood.

  Jack had a slight concussion, but no serious injury. The PA handed Jack a few prescriptions and a bill for two thousand dollars, and we were done. I drove back, stopped to fill Jack’s meds, then dropped him at home.

  “You going to be okay?” I asked as he walked up his steps.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And I’m sorry I got you dragged into it. I’ll take care of this, Mike. It’s probably what I deserve for trying to do the right thing. Go home and don’t worry about it. I mean it.”

  The good guy in me wanted to tell Jack I had his back. Growing up with a dad in prison, Salvation Army clothes, and free lunch tickets, I had every bully in town gunning for me, and Jack had taken more than his share of beatings to protect me. But I had bailed him out plenty of times since, more than my share. This was a different level. I had too much to lose. What could I say? I didn’t know, and after a night in the hospital, I was too exhausted to think about it. I told him to get some sleep, then headed back to the Metro to catch the first, predawn train back home.

  I stepped through my front door, sat down on the couch, and shut my eyes.

  “Are you just getting home now?” Annie asked as she came downstairs. “Jesus, Mike. It’s the middle of the week.”

  “I’m sorry. Every day is Saturday when you’re with Jack Ford.”

  She inhaled sharply as she saw the bruise on my cheek. “Did you get in a bar fight?”

  “Collateral damage. Some guys jumped Jack.”

  “Where were you?”

  I’m sure she assumed it was some sort of roadhouse, which was less scary than the truth. I stood up. “Nowhere good,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I was just leaving a few things out.

  “You didn’t even text me until after midnight. I thought—”

  She could have rolled right into a proper harangue. I deserved it. But she stopped there.

  “Just make me a deal. Give me a heads-up next time,” she said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Jack?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Head hurt?” she asked.

  I nodded. The pain was due to blunt force, fatigue, and worry, not alcohol, as Annie suspected. She watched me suffer for a while, then decided to commute my sentence.

  “You poor idiot,” she said, and ran her hand through my hair. “I’m glad you got it out of your system. If one night of acting like an ass is what it took to find some peace with Jack, I’m happy you’re done with it. Couldn’t you just talk about this stuff, have some tea?”

  “Doesn’t work like that.”

  “It is out of your system, right?”

  “Sure thing. A cup of coffee and I’ll be all squared away.”

  “Good,” she said, and picked up her briefcase. “I have to run.”

  I walked her out and kissed her goodbye. Annie paused at the bottom of the porch steps. “And no more trouble with Jack, huh?” she said.

  I didn’t answer. I was distracted by a car I saw parked up the street. I thought I recognized the man inside.

  “Mike?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Lesson learned.”

  She started off.

  Parked
half a block up from my house in a black Chrysler 300, not caring if he was seen, sat Lynch. I watched him watch my fiancée walk away.

  Chapter 8

  I STEPPED OUTSIDE and glared at Lynch as I approached his car. He looked back, seemed bored. He made no effort to hide himself. It wasn’t surveillance. It was intimidation.

  He rolled the window up and started the car. I ran inside to get my keys. When I returned, my neighbor across the street, a Korean War vet, was backing his car out of his driveway. That usually took about three minutes. I scanned the cross streets both ways. The Jefferson Davis Highway was two minutes away on my left, and 395 five minutes away on my right. Lynch was long gone.

  I drove into the city for a meeting with some election lawyers I was working with on a dark-money case. Special interests from both ends of the political spectrum dump hundreds of millions into “social welfare” nonprofits, then spend it to buy elections. It’s all anonymous, all tax free, hidden by shuffling the cash among a web of shell organizations. We were trying to untangle it all and bring the people behind it into the sunlight.

  I loved the case. We were close to exposing the major funders behind these shells and getting some political buy-in to go after them. Their lawyers and lobbyists were fighting back hard. It was just starting to get fun, but I could barely pay attention to anything that was said during the next two hours. All I could think about was Lynch, who he was and why he was after me. I kept going over what Jack had said about his meetings with him.

  “Mike? Where do you land on this?” one of the other attorneys asked.

  “Very interesting,” I said, and chewed my pen. I had completely lost track of what we were talking about.

  Jack and Lynch had only repeated a single meeting site: a lunch spot ten minutes away. As soon as my appointment wrapped, I headed for Jack and Lynch’s meet-up. Just for some coffee, I told myself. The sign said Euro Café. It was a small, Korean-run buffet place. I ducked in and filled a Styrofoam cup. The teenager at the register put a textbook down, and I paid for the coffee.

  “Thanks,” I said. “And can I ask you something? Do you ever see a guy in here, tall, thin, pale, narrow teeth?”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “I see lots of people in here.”

  She picked her book back up. I asked her a few more questions, with no success. I don’t know what I expected. Name and address? I didn’t even have a photo. I walked around the block, wondering what would bring Lynch here. It seemed like the kind of spot you would frequent if it was the only option near your office. Maybe he’d lowered his guard as he grew more comfortable with Jack.

  I stopped. In the lot behind an office building, I saw a black Chrysler. I circled the building, keeping to the sidewalk on the far side of the street. There was no one around. Five cars were crammed into the lot behind it, including one that I recognized as Lynch’s from the extra antenna on the trunk. I walked out front and scanned the entrance. There were no signs for any businesses. After a glance both ways, I started toward his car.

  I saw some papers on the back seat, leaned in, and tried to make out the letterhead. I’d managed to read “Draft—Confidential” on the top of a piece of paper sticking out of a folder when I heard footsteps to my right. I looked up to see Lynch. That instant, a large hand shoved my head sideways into the car window.

  I reeled back. Someone twisted both arms up behind my back and pressed me against the hood of the car. I turned my head far enough to see that it was the guy in the glasses from Jack’s house. He locked my legs in a wide stance in a confident impression of a police restraint and shoved my cheek against the cold sheet metal.

  Lynch stood near the hood, then tsk-tsked me. With his right hand, he drew a lockback knife and flicked it open. “Okay,” he said, and the man stood me up.

  “It’s bad enough we have to deal with your brother,” Lynch said. “What’s with you? It’s like you want more trouble.”

  He pressed his finger once into the bruise on my cheekbone. “Michael Ford of Howell Avenue. I did some homework last night, and I’m impressed. You extracted yourself from a very complicated situation a while back. We’re going to need that,” he said. “Because I don’t think your brother can manage this on his own. This job is now your baby.”

  “What? What happened? Did he steal some money from you? A handoff? How much was it?”

  “No. We got that back. This is about opportunity costs. It was a simple job. He didn’t deliver the payment to our guy on time. He started asking questions. Jack grew a conscience all of a sudden. He spooked our inside man. There was a nice easy way to do this, but now that’s gone. So you and your brother need to figure out another way to get us what we need.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” I said. “I don’t know who you think I am or what sort of job you want me to help with, but I’m not good for much more than filing briefs and padding bills. I can’t help you.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Breaking into the DOJ. Taking down your old employer. Word gets around, Mike. You’re going to enjoy this one.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. And I’ve barely talked to my brother in years.”

  “This will give you and Jack a chance to catch up. He owes us. And you seem to have inserted yourself into the situation, so you’re in my ledger, too. All you need to do is help us finish what Jack fucked up. Then I’ll forget you exist.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “The job.”

  “What job?”

  “A bank.”

  “You want me to rob a fucking bank? This is ridiculous.”

  “Jack didn’t tell you?”

  “What bank?”

  “All of them, really.”

  “This is a joke?”

  “No,” Lynch said. “But it’s not as bad as it sounds. You’re thinking of guns, stopwatches, rubber masks. This is different. This job you could do in a suit and tie without breaking a sweat. That’s the beauty of it. It could get bad—” he waved the knife “—but that’s entirely up to you. A respectable guy like you is always handy. I don’t think you’ll have much—”

  “That’s good,” someone said behind him. “Right there.”

  Lynch turned, and the newest member of our party came into view: a blond woman wearing a field jacket over a sweater, and jeans tucked into leather riding boots.

  Lynch looked amused until she eased her jacket back with her right hand and rested it on the butt of a gun in a hip holster. Great. Were Lynch and Glasses now the better of my options?

  “Put the knife down,” she said. “Don’t make this complicated. Just let him go, and step back.”

  “You don’t understand—” Lynch started to say. She drew the gun.

  “Drop the knife and let him go,” she said in a commanding tone.

  Lynch looked to the man holding me and nodded. He released my arms.

  “Send him over here,” she went on. They stepped back.

  Enemy of my enemy and all that, I walked toward her.

  “Thanks,” I said as I neared her. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Emily.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Mike.”

  “Likewise,” she said, and glanced around. “Could you do me a favor there, Mike?”

  “Sure.”

  “Grab those trash bags.”

  There were two black ones lying beside a dumpster. She’d saved my life. The least I could do was haul her garbage.

  “Head out and to the right,” she said. “The old Land Cruiser. Get it going. Toss the bags in the back.”

  She handed me the keys. I stepped out of the lot, threw the bags into her car, and started it. She walked backwards out of the lot while watching the two men, then ran to the car and jumped into the passenger seat.

  “Go go go!” she said.

  I pulled away fast. She called someone on her cell phone, described the two men who had cornered me, then told the other party to “send some guys down.”

>   Her truck was a vintage Land Cruiser from the 1960s or ’70s. As we barreled toward Rock Creek, I grew increasingly certain that a five- to seven-liter modern truck engine had been dropped into it. I looked in the rearview at the trash bags.

  “What line of work are you in, Emily?” I asked.

  “Investigator,” she said. “We can stop by my office and get you cleaned up.”

  I wasn’t all that interested in cleaning the grime off my face in the office of some PI. I’d met a few. I pictured her working out of a 350-square-foot office in a seedy building on 15th Street, where you needed a key tied to a stick to access the shared bathroom in the hallway.

  I appreciated her help, but something wasn’t right. I needed to know why she was behind that building at the same time I was jumped.

  Chapter 9

  WE DROVE ACROSS the bridge into Georgetown and turned down toward the canal, where the old factories and mills had been converted into luxury offices and condos. The Ritz-Carlton had a smokestack.

  She directed me off Water Street into a garage under a brick warehouse that had been redone as lofts, then had me park in a reserved spot beside the entrance. We carried the trash bags in through a basement corridor and then stepped into an elevator.

  That neighborhood is lousy with well-dressed, casually rich types, and the elevator accumulated a half dozen or so as we rose. Several gave Emily looks. I assumed it was because she was hauling garbage through their creative-class high-design Eden.

  We exited on the sixth floor. It looked like an architecture firm or ad agency: lots of exposed brick, open space, funky lighting, and modern furniture.

  “You’re back soon,” a guy in a suit and no tie said to Emily.

  “My shootout didn’t take very long.”

  The man chuckled, waved his finger as if to say Good one, and walked away. This was starting to make more sense. With her vaguely equestrian duds, classic wheels, and loose bun, Emily looked like old money that knew how to have a good time, not the kind of woman who’d be lugging around Glad bags.