The Throwaway

by Michael Moreci

  * * *

  When the American awoke, he spotted Red Square outside his window, lit brilliantly in the night sky. Its magnificence dazzled him, but it also made him tremble. Because, looking at it, Mark Strain realized something:

  He might never go home again.

  2

  Washington, D.C., two days earlier 5:12 A.M.

  Mark knew it was wrong to snoop on what his wife was looking at on the internet. But it was right there in front of him.

  He was awake early, preparing for a run before he left for work; his shoes, keys, and gloves were all in the living room, scattered from one end to the next. As he reached across a dozing Sarah—who couldn’t have been home for more than a half hour from her overnight shift at the hospital—he spotted her laptop screen out of the corner of his eye, glowing in the room’s predawn darkness. Tabs were lined up in a neat row, a half dozen of them, their header text revealing addresses of properties on various real estate sites.

  “Mmmm…,” Sarah murmured, starting to stir. “What are you doing?”

  Mark took a quiet step back, having retrieved his gloves. “Shhhh, I’m just grabbing something. Go back to sleep.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” Sarah said, opening her eyes. “Just resting for a minute before I went to the bedroom. Are you going for a run?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d at least try to do something productive.”

  Sarah rose from the couch and greeted Mark with a peck on his cheek before looking right into his eyes. “You’re worried about today.”

  “No, no. Not at all. I…” Mark got flustered, tripping over himself in a very uncommon fashion. His business was words, controlling conversations, convincing people to come to his side. Sarah was the only one, with her uncanny knack for understanding everything he was thinking and feeling—sometimes better than even Mark did—who could put him on his heels.

  “And you saw my computer.”

  Mark opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  “Relax, I’m just looking. You don’t need to have that panicked look on your face, even though—might I remind you—buying a house is a good thing. For both of us.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just hard right now. I—” Mark paused, interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He quickly hit IGNORE. “With everything going on at work, moving out of D.C. is tough. I’m almost there. You know if I can just get this big one squared away, having a little separation won’t matter as much. We can go to Virginia, the suburbs, whatever.”

  Mark moved in for a deeper kiss, but Sarah spun away toward the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. “You say that and I know—I know—you believe it. But this isn’t the first deal you’ve made a promise on, Mr. Politician.”

  Mark gulped theatrically at being called the dreaded “P-word”—he was a lobbyist, a job with honor, not a pol spreading their legs for anyone with a slush fund. But it did actually sting, because he knew Sarah was right. He had promised for years to get them out of the apartment they’d outgrown two lease renewals ago and the neighborhood that had become noticeably younger and hipper than both of them. They passionately shared the dream of owning a home with a yard, a garage, a big kitchen, and room to grow. A place to raise a family. But being away from the center of the universe, not being able to get to K Street or the Capitol in five minutes, sitting in traffic on the Beltway while some other gunner stole his lunch kept Mark up at night.

  It was a crazy fear; he recognized that. Mark’s colleagues often pointed out—with just a dash of irritation and heap of jealousy—how quickly Mark had ascended in his still-nascent career. But he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to believe the next deal was the one, but he knew he was barely fooling himself, let alone Sarah. Still, this particular deal was so high-profile in all the right areas—military, security—that he should be able to write his own ticket if he could bring it home. Maybe he really would be able to give the swamp a rest after that and give Sarah everything she’d been asking for.

  “I really mean it this time, Sarah. But I thought we agreed to wait until you got off night shifts again anyway—”

  Mark’s phone buzzed again and, again, he ignored it. Two calls this early made him begin to feel a little uneasy.

  “I was looking, that’s all. I came home and needed to wind down, so I started poking around. Go for your run, we can talk later.”

  Sarah closed her laptop and shuffled off to the bedroom, clasping the back of her neck as she went. She was weary, physically drained from a long shift at George Washington, but Mark couldn’t help but dig a little deeper. Never let an opening go by, the lawyer in him said. Even with your wife.

  Especially with your wife.

  As Sarah was entering the bedroom, he asked, “But why? Of all the things to do to unwind, why shop for real estate? That’s what they made Candy Crush for.”

  Sarah laughed. “Right, like I don’t see enough addicts at work.” She gave Mark a wide, sunny smile. “I know you’re not going to let this go, so for my own sake—and for the possibility of getting any rest today—I’ll tell you why.”

  She took Mark’s hand and pressed it to her belly. “You’re really on the clock now, mister.”

  Mark felt everything inside him drop. “Wait…” His hand on Sarah’s skin, he thought he sensed movement. Mark knew it was impossible, but still, touching Sarah’s belly, knowing that his baby was in there—it was electric.

  “Holy shit. You’re pregnant? How?”

  Sarah gently brought her hand to Mark’s cheek and gave him a look of pitying mockery. “Oh, sweetie, you and your poor Catholic schooling. See, you take a man, then you take a woman—”

  “Ha ha, hilarious. No, I mean, I thought we were being careful and … you know what, doesn’t matter. You’re pregnant!” Mark swooped Sarah off her feet and they kissed, smiling. He then put her down, as gently as a Fabergé egg, and took a big step back. “Whoa—sorry. Was that too much? Are you okay?”

  Sarah playfully sighed. “You’re really going to need to read the books.”

  Mark nodded, then he began to pace. “Wait, do your parents know? Do my parents know? We have so many people to call. And your job! You shouldn’t be on your feet so much, not—”

  Sarah grabbed hold of Mark, giving him the pause he needed. “Whoa, whoa, just slow down. Okay? Breathe. First, before we tell anyone, we need to get an ultrasound and make sure that, you know, everything is okay with the baby. I was waiting to tell you until I could get an appointment.”

  “What wouldn’t be okay? What could be wrong?”

  “Mark, breathing, remember? Right now, everything is fine. It’s great. I’ve already talked to the doctor about my diet, about work, everything. We’ll go see her next week.”

  Mark felt strange. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, but he knew his body was capable of either, or both at the same time. What mattered most, though, was how alive he felt. From the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes, he could feel endorphins cycling through his body and lighting a fire to his spirit. It was the same feeling he got after pushing through a long run or closing a deal, only amplified to the umpteenth degree. Him—Mark Strain—a father. He was already loving the idea, even though it was still a little abstract.

  Bolstered by excitement, fear, and joy, he felt ready for anything, yet completely unprepared for what came next.

  “I can’t believe this,” Mark said. “This is … Sarah, I can’t imagine being happier about anything. I love you, and I’m going to be here. I’ll make some changes at work, I’ll—”

  Sarah laughed. “One thing at a time, we still have a long road ahead. For now, I have to get some rest. They aren’t kidding when they say the first trimester wipes you out.”

  As they embraced, Mark knew he wasn’t just going to win the day, he was going to slay whatever—and whoever—stood in his path. There was no stopping him, not now.

  He kissed his wife all over her face and neck,
even as she pushed him out of the bedroom. When the door shut, he closed his eyes, drinking in the moment. “A dad. A dad.” He looked down at his phone: four missed calls, two voice mail messages, three emails.

  It was 5:36 in the morning and his day had started running without him.

  3

  6:18 A.M.

  The District was still coming to life as Mark pushed through the light mist that glistened as it softly sprayed from the sky before smearing across his windshield. He raced toward his office, using every shortcut and side street he knew of in order to avoid the Beltway. He instructed Jenna, the office assistant, to do the same. It was still early but, with D.C.’s penchant for random traffic chaos, Mark sided with caution.

  Jenna was waiting at the front door, without an umbrella, by the time Mark arrived. She was huddled so deep into the shelter of her fur-lined hood that Mark barely recognized her. Just her eyes and the tip of her nose were visible in the cave she’d withdrawn into. It was barely past 6 A.M., though. Nobody else was dedicated—or crazy—enough to stand in the rain and wait for Mark to arrive.

  “I hate the rain,” she said.

  “What? It’s the stuff of life,” Mark said as he unlocked the front doors of their building, a modern-design edifice that looked like a cube made of glass. “It feeds our crops and nourishes our farms and all that.”

  Jenna groaned. “What are you so chipper about?”

  “Huh?” Mark said, fumbling his keys out from the lock. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Past the front door was a small security kiosk that was unattended until 7:00. While employees could hang out in the lobby and the atrium before that time, entering the building’s individual offices, which were secured by an alarm, was a clear violation. Only building security, management, and top executives knew the code and protocol, and Mark’s position didn’t fall under any of these three categories. Nonetheless, he walked straight to the security kiosk and started entering in the code to disable the alarm.

  “Ummmm,” Jenna began, nervously. “Are you supposed to do that?”

  Mark looked up, an expression of cavalier indifference on his face. “Do what?”

  Mark led them to the elevator bank at a brisk pace, hurrying to their office on the fifteenth floor. Jenna was right there with him, and Mark took notice of her dedication. He liked Jenna, she had spunk and a whole lot of motivation. People in her position came and went all the time—their job was hard, thankless, and the pay was no solace for the amount of grief they had to deal with. Most assistants ended up back home with their parents within a year. It was rare to find one who saw the long game and its benefits; Jenna was one of those gems and, after this day was done, Mark would help her take the next step.

  “So,” Jenna asked. “How you holding up?”

  Mark shrugged. “Well, I always knew Terrance was a slimy little shit. Now he’s a slimy little shit that I’m going to choke out.”

  “I called you as soon as I found out. I have a friend at The Post who is obsessed with security contracts. When she heard that the Lockhorn Group had a meeting yesterday with General Hodges, she thought it was something I might like to know.”

  “You did great, and tell your friend I owe her lunch. Now, just so I’m absolutely clear: You don’t know anything about the meeting, what was said, who exactly was there, or if any decisions were made?”

  The elevator doors opened and Mark held out a hand to let Jenna exit first before he motored past her in the hallway, almost sprinting to their door.

  “Nothing, and I really pressed her. All she has is grapevine stuff. At most, Hodges apparently left the meeting looking very satisfied.” Jenna took a breath, feeling almost winded by the pace. “Why don’t you talk to Terrance, try to feel him out?”

  Mark stopped at the door, contemplating for a moment. Everything he did was chess—moves, countermoves, and positioning for what would happen over the next five turns. Mark once read how Bobby Fischer would play matches that lasted ten, fifteen hours with hardly a break. Though Mark hated chess, he admired that kind of focus and intensity. He needed it now more than ever. Terrance had Mark in check—but Terrance was nothing if not supremely arrogant, and Mark knew he’d mistake his position for mate. It was crucial he kept thinking that.

  “Can’t do that,” Mark said. “By now, he might suspect that we know. Maybe. But if I show my hand, it’ll be way easier for him to plan his next move. I want him resting on his laurels.”

  “It’s what he does best.”

  “Listen,” Mark said, his wheels spinning. “Are they still firing that one girl … Sheila? Sharon? The one who talks like she’s singing a show tune.”

  “Linda?”

  “Sure. They still getting rid of her?”

  Jenna raised an eyebrow, an involuntary reaction to the oddity that was Linda. “She’s a train wreck. Last week, I caught her streaming old episodes of Keeping Up with the Kardashians in a bathroom stall. While eating a Kit Kat. Which … gross. Anyway, yeah, I’d say she’s not long for this place. Why?”

  “Carrie Jones, she works at Lockhorn under Terrance. From what I understand, she’s very, very unsatisfied right now; she got passed up for a promotion or something. I’m going to offer her Linda’s job.”

  “Is that … is that yours to offer?”

  Mark pushed his way into the office, flipping on the lights. “The Janitor.” That’s what they all called him behind his back, a nickname affixed to him because of his penchant for being the last one to leave the office every night. Let them laugh—he wore his sobriquet with pride. Yeah, he was the first one in and the last one out. But he’d also be the first one to retire to an estate in the Hamptons, so they could all choke on his dust. “Maybe. Could be. But she doesn’t know that, and dangling it in front of her in exchange for some information isn’t a binding contract.”

  “Mark, that’s kind of shitty.”

  Mark was unmoved. But he was glad that Jenna still retained her own sense of ethics and was bold enough to speak her mind. That’s what made her valuable. And maybe dangerous down the road.

  “Just get in touch with her using an outside line,” he ordered, walking toward his private office. “Don’t call from here—use your cell. Set up a meet for the Starbucks on F Street at eight fifteen.”

  Deep breath. One piece in motion. He knew salvaging this deal would require more than pooling his resources, calling in favors, and convincing people to come back to his side. Things had changed, and whatever drove this sudden change had to be, at the very least, unethical and maybe worse. This was a new ball game now, and if Terrance wanted to be bush league, then Mark had no other choice but to react in equal measure.

  8:22 A.M.

  “I want a twenty percent raise, my own office, and an extra week vacation. And if I come in to the office late from time to time, as long as my work is getting done, I don’t want to hear shit about it.”

  Mark smiled a smile that said, “Well, okay then,” before taking a long sip of his coffee, using the time to collect his thoughts. Carrie Jones’s brashness, at first, made him think she was a plant for Terrance, that he knew Mark would go after her and had prearranged this entire charade. But as Mark looked at her from across the small circular table, he didn’t see someone playing a role; he saw a no-nonsense determined woman who knew exactly what she had, what it was worth, and what she expected to get in return for it. Carrie awaited Mark’s reply with an air of indifference, conveying to Mark that this was not a negotiation. He could take what she was offering and get what he wanted in the process or hit the bricks. She had nothing to lose—she was young, smart, and possessed an understanding of the Beltway game that far exceeded her rank of an assistant. Climbing the ranks wasn’t an “if” for Carrie—it was a “when.”

  She and Jenna would be at each other’s throats.

  “All right, you have a deal—pending some, well, I’ll call them ‘interview questions.’”

  “You can ask whatever questions you want as s
oon as I have a contract in hand.”

  Now she was pushing it. Mark slowly lowered his coffee to the table and let out a perturbed laugh. The shop was bustling with morning activity, mainly young gophers fetching morning joe for their bosses, just as Mark had done many years ago. He remembered asking his first boss, Teddy Galt, for a guarantee that he’d transition from an intern to an assistant once he wrapped his few remaining courses. Without looking up from his computer monitor—Teddy may have looked directly at Mark twice in the ten weeks he interned for him—Teddy said: “Mark, marriage is a sacred union presided over by the Almighty and over half of them end in divorce. You’re my intern, so take your guarantee and get the fuck out of my office.”

  Mark didn’t have it in him to treat anyone as bad as Teddy had treated him. Yet he had to contain himself from crossing that line with Carrie—maybe it was his vitriol for Terrance coming out or his life going into overdrive as the stakes rose way above his head, when not six hours ago they were at chest level. All around him people went about their business, interns fetching coffees, parents trying to appease fussy kids with apple juice, baristas slinging drinks, not one of them knowing the pressure Mark was under to justify the past eleven years of his life by securing a deal that he so thoroughly deserved. And the person sitting across from him had the nerve to ask about a contract.

  “Yeah, I’ll send it right over,” Mark said. “Keep an eye out for the envelope with my family seal pressed in wax on it.”

  “I don’t remember saying ‘knock knock’ in front of what I just said.”

  Most people would start to lose their cool by now, but this is what separated Mark from most people. He fed on high-pressure situations, absorbing intensity and stress and turning them into focus and determination.

  “Listen,” Mark said, speaking slowly and carefully so Carrie would know he was choosing his words precisely, “you know what I need is time sensitive. You’re leveraging that against me, and that’s fine—I would lose respect for you if you didn’t. But if you deliberately screw me on this with unreasonable expectations, I’ll redirect all my focus from closing this deal to ensuring you spend your political career asking the clumsy interns you see all around you if they want their coffee grande or vente. Our deal is contingent on you giving me what I want right here, right now. Take it or leave it.”