The Throwaway

by Michael Moreci

  His hard-soled shoes sounded like high heels on the cobblestones, heightening Mark’s anxiety level with each step he took. His brow was moist with sweat, his breathing labored. Every five steps, he turned to look over his shoulder, scanning. Mark pictured the man running down the alley, gun in hand, ordering Mark to stop. Mark didn’t know if he’d do as he was told or if he’d run and try to escape. Where would running get him, after all?

  “This is ridiculous,” Mark said, even as he quickened his pace.

  As Mark approached the T, he convinced himself this was all just a delusion. He was sleep-deprived, stressed about work, and feeling all kinds of things about Sarah’s pregnancy. And in this heightened state, he had conjured a boogeyman following him through the city. He felt silly for a moment, then relieved. But the moment was short-lived.

  At the western end of the alley, a man in a black suit—a different man, this one taller and bald—emerged.

  Mark didn’t waste a moment, there was no hesitation in thought or action. He simply ran. Mark turned down the T and bolted as fast as he could through the alley, unsure of what to do or where to go. His shoes slapped the cobblestones with surprising resonance, and his panting deafened him to any other sound. He panted not out of any physical exhaustion, but out of fear. Mark was terrified.

  He looked back over his shoulder, but there was no one there. No men pursuing him, no sound of bullets whizzing past him. Distracted, Mark didn’t see the metal door swing open right in front of him, and he ran straight into it. The blow knocked him clear off his feet, sending him to the ground; the back of his skull cracked on the cobbles, and Mark saw stars. Out of breath and woozy, Mark struggled to get back on his feet. He rolled onto his stomach and tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like rubber. All he could do was lie there and wait for the person standing above him to pick him up and drag him away—or worse.

  “Hey man, you okay?” a voice, distant and muffled, said. “You hearing me?”

  Mark’s eyes blinked open. He was still alive, still lying on the alley floor. Slowly, despite his aching body’s pleas to not be moved, he turned to look at the person standing above him. It was a teenage kid in a solid white chef’s coat, not a federal agent or mercenary contractor. Just a kid with a joint in his hand, looking to duck out from, presumably, his dishwashing gig to get a little high.

  Mark struggled to get up, shaking off the cobwebs. “You see anyone out here?”

  “I see you,” the kid replied.

  Mark groaned. “Anyone else?”

  “No, dude, just you. Why? Cops looking for your ass?”

  Mark paused. No, of course no one was chasing him. And all he got from his paranoia was a ruined suit and, quite possibly, a concussion. “No … no. Just forget I said anything. Listen, mind if I cut through your restaurant to get to the street?”

  The kid looked back at the restaurant with a look of uncertainty on his face. Mark was certain he was suspicious of being ratted on, for the door, the joint, or both. “I don’t know, man. Boss doesn’t like us letting people in from here, you know?”

  “Look, kid, whatever you do out here, I don’t give a shit about. Just let me pass through, and I’ll be out of your life forever. Deal?”

  After a long sigh, the kid agreed, and Mark was on his way. But before he left, he took one last look down the alleyway and saw that no one was there.

  The moment Mark left, the kid lit up his joint and took a deep puff. Through the cloud of smoke, he saw two men, both in black suits, step out from either side of the alley’s mouth. Terrified, the kid threw away his joint and rushed back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

  6

  7:41 P.M.

  Mark had forgotten about the fund-raiser.

  It was some meet-and-greet event for a young hotshot senator from Pennsylvania, Laney Griffin, who was billed as the next rock star in the Democratic Party. He was strong on cultural equality and inclusion and, surprisingly, very candid about his strong military policy ideas. That was the kicker—a Democrat who was aggressive on national defense. If Mark could win Griffin’s good graces before his ascension to the top of the party, he could be looking at easy contracts for his firm—or better yet, the firm he would start—for a long time.

  Sarah exited the bedroom in a tight-fitting dress that accentuated her toned body. It was Mark’s favorite. He loved seeing Sarah, even after eight years of being together, embrace her sexiness, even though she was usually shy about doing so. Her wearing this dress was a sign, Mark knew, of how excited she was for this evening. It was special to her, and she wanted it to be special and memorable to Mark as well. Mark also knew he wouldn’t be seeing this dress for a good long time, and it killed him to take all the steam out of their evening—out of their celebration—by asking Sarah to change their plans. It was like dumping a bucket of ice water on a burgeoning fire. But he had to do it. Wrapping up the contract today was nice—great, even. But Mark’s world was one that hinged on a simple question: “But what have you done for me lately?” He knew that finishing one deal only meant that you had to get started on the next one.

  “You look incredible,” Mark said, standing opposite Sarah, holding her shoulders gently. “I’ve never seen you more beautiful than you are right now.”

  Sarah smiled. “I actually believe that you mean that, but I also know it means you need something.”

  “Just remember: You’re pregnant, and you wouldn’t want to upset the baby by hurting his father.”

  “What’s this ‘his’ talk? And the baby has no ears at this point, so we don’t have to worry about what we say or do.”

  “How about, instead of a nice, romantic dinner, we go to a fund-raiser for a hundred people?” He watched her face turn to stone. “It’s just … I know, okay? I don’t want to do it, I truly, truly don’t. But I’ve got to try and grease a few wheels. Future prospects—that’s where my head’s at now. I need to secure the future, for all of us,” Mark said, putting his hands on Sarah’s belly.

  Sarah promptly slapped his hands away, playfully. “Don’t you even think about it. You don’t get to play the pregnancy card before I do.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” Mark said, smiling. “Okay, how about we make a deal—if we go, for just thirty minutes, I’ll let you have a girl.”

  Sarah shook her head with playful exasperation. “You’re such an asshole,” she said, then sucked in a deep breath. “Okay, we’ll go. But thirty minutes.”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “I’m not kidding. Anything longer, and I act drunk and make a scene. A weird one.”

  “Your definition of weird scares me, I’m not going to lie.”

  “Then don’t force my hand, Mark.”

  Mark embraced Sarah and, as he often did, realized how fortunate he was.

  “You know,” Mark said, lingering in their embrace, “we don’t have to go anywhere…”

  “I didn’t put this dress on just for you, sweetie. Now let’s move.”

  * * *

  The fund-raiser was located on the rooftop of a D.C. cultural center, and the space was filled with two types of people. First, there were the scenesters, people who wanted to be seen at important places for the sake of being seen. They were mainly young and idealistic, at least by Mark’s standards, and always stuck out at these events for their lack of proper attire. Those words, “proper attire,” always played in Mark’s head like they were being said by an aging British butler. But it was no less true. These were the interns, office assistants, and other lower-level employees in important places who stumbled upon an invitation when someone from their office bowed out at the last minute and offered up their space. On days like today, Mark remembered those eager and far more innocent days with especial fondness.

  The second type were the movers and shakers, those who came bloodthirsty with a specific agenda in mind. Mark could practically see their fangs sticking out from beneath their lips. Although Mark was technically like them, he was far
from being one of them. K Street was all about roots and how deeply—and richly—they penetrated the Earth. And Mark? Mark’s roots were still fighting to absorb water from the top of the soil; his competition—and his peers, at times—drew their water from deep underground, so deep most people didn’t even know the roots were there. That’s why Mark had to fight so hard against the Terrance Wilsons of the world; there was no telling what amount of power people like him could rally with just a few phone calls. Mark had no golden parachute to gently lower him to the ground if he failed. The way Mark graduated from eighth grade to high school was the way these people graduated from adolescence to lives of immense power and influence. Should Mark stumble, a flood would wash his roots right out, like he’d never even been there at all.

  The party was what Mark expected, a healthy mixture of these two groups, with an unusually high showing for the first due to Griffin’s traction with young audiences. Waiters in jeans and loose ties served tomato soup and grilled-cheese appetizers, tying into the senator’s middle-class, “regular Joe” brand. From the rooftop, Mark caught sight of the Washington Monument shimmering in the distance, like an eye in the sky watching them all.

  The moment they walked in, Sarah set the alarm on her phone for thirty minutes. She smiled and waved at people she knew in the crowd while whispering to Mark, “That’s the second time I put you on the clock today—let’s not make this a habit.”

  Mark, shaking hands with a Democratic Party strategist, mouthed back, “I love you so much,” and was off to work the room in record time.

  The rooftop was lit by strands of naked bulbs strung along the perimeter, making the center of the room a little difficult to read as Mark scoured the crowd for essential people to bump into. Despite being a head taller than most, Mark had a hard time spotting the key personnel he was looking for. But that just meant he had to put a little extra pep in his step.

  He recognized most of the faces. These were the people who attended every event, jockeying for position the same as Mark. He nodded to them with a smile, and they did the same in return, even though they both knew, deep down, they’d each feed the other one to the wolves for a moment of Griffin’s time. Mark shook hands in passing with a house representative, a federal judge who had trouble hiding her disdain, and a Post reporter who, on more than one occasion, tried to bait Mark into becoming an unwitting source for a story. Then in the center of the room, Mark spotted the prize: Griffin, the Thanksgiving turkey of the evening.

  Mark wanted to, at least, introduce himself. At the moment, Griffin was engaged in a conversation he clearly had no interest in. The signs were all there: that bored expression, the disinterested nods of agreement, those eyes that couldn’t help but dart around the room looking for something, anything, that would allow him to break away. The last resort would be checking his phone and acting like an important message had come through. Mark wanted, desperately, to avoid that step; once Griffin pulled out his phone, his handlers would pick up on it and shuttle him to the next important person to speak with. And Mark wasn’t on the handlers’ list.

  Zig-zagging his way through the crowed, Mark had to hurry. Griffin seemed ready to fire off his flare—i.e., flash his phone—at any given moment. And Mark was just about there, he was nearly close enough to touch the man of the hour when a firm hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him back.

  Men in black suits flashed in Mark’s mind, and he shivered. His hands balled into fists, but when he turned around he wasn’t greeted by his ghastly stalker. Instead, Mark found himself standing face to face with Dale Schmidt, his mentor. And Dale didn’t seem at all happy.

  “Mark,” he said, already sounding perturbed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Mark inhaled sharply—he knew he had some explaining to do.

  Not only was Dale Mark’s mentor, he had been the first person to recognize Mark’s skill and perseverance and put them both to use. Mark had completed three other government internships without making much of an impression; he tended to get lost beneath more polished interns who worked their roles like they were already seasoned pros. Where his classmates already had accepted lucrative job offers by the start of their senior year, Mark was interning with Dale during his winter quarter and had another internship lined up for the spring. Dale, a former athlete who had played some pro ball with half the teams in the NFL, understood Mark’s brand of tenacity and, more importantly, he knew how to put it to use. For that, Mark was, and always would be, grateful. The fact that many people went their entire lives without having their strengths recognized was not lost on Mark, especially since, even at a young age, that fear had already begun creeping into his life. Mark had spent many nights lying awake in his ramshackle college apartment, choking down no small amount of fear as he trembled at the idea of what he was going to do once he threw his mortarboard in the air. It felt like everyone around him knew exactly where theirs were going to land while Mark’s just spun in the air. Not going up or down—it was just stuck.

  Now, ten years later, Mark still looked up to Dale. That’s why being caught in the crosshairs of his role model’s anger filled him with an unnerving sense of dread.

  “What do you mean?” Mark asked, knowing full well what Dale meant. Word traveled fast through the Beltway; Dale had undoubtedly heard about his lunch with Dudek by now.

  Dale led Mark away from the throng at the party, and away from Griffin. Mark looked back to see him getting lost in the crowd and felt Sarah’s ticking clock wasting away.

  “What did I tell you about making enemies? I think, if I taught you anything, I was pretty clear on this point.”

  “You said, above all else, be careful who you become enemies with.”

  Dale pursed his lips, shooting Mark a disapproving look. “No, Mark. That’s not what I said. What I said was that enemies are like bacteria. Some are good for you. Others, like, say, dysentery, will make you shit out your organs. Don’t make enemies with dysentery. And what did you do today?”

  Mark paused and took in a deep breath. There was no speeding this up—he was stuck spending what little precious time he had on getting lectured. “I made enemies with dysentery.”

  “You’re damn right you did,” Dale barbed. After a long breath, he softened, transitioning from Mark’s superior to his father figure, and a concerned father figure at that. “Mark … what were you thinking? Confronting him in his own club? As ridiculous as Dudek can be, he’s a guy you don’t want gunning for you. And, believe me, he’s going to be gunning for you.”

  Mark turned to lean over the side of the building. For the first time, he took a step back and let what he’d done sink in. Dudek was a real person with real power, and Mark had extorted him. This time, there’d be a reckoning for his boldness. And it would be much, much worse than paranoid delusions of men in black suits chasing after him.

  “It was a high-risk play, and I know that I’m going to catch hell for it. But—”

  “But you couldn’t let Terrance win. I know you, Mark, and I know your Achilles heel is people getting things they haven’t earned. You can’t stand it. But that’s the way of the world, for better or worse. Terrance wouldn’t have deserved that software contract, there’s no question. But you have to think about the big picture. Had he won, everyone would know why, and there’d be no recourse for you. But now, Mark, you’re starting to garner a reputation, and it isn’t a good one. Losing a contract goes away—bad reputations, playing dirty, those things stick.”

  Mark lowered his head and looked down at the street. Just beyond the bars and restaurants was a neighborhood crowded with those beautiful colonial homes that were rich with history and character; they had yards and lawns, they were surrounded by terrific schools, and they provided any modern comfort imaginable. Mark coveted that life and the security it represented for him and his family. His ambitions, even when they got the best of him, were still true and good. And that’s why he couldn’t bring himself to feel any shame about how he
had played Dudek. Not after what he and Terrance had tried to do to him. Not after how dramatically his life’s stakes had risen that very morning.

  “Sarah’s pregnant,” Mark told Dale, looking out to the city. “She told me this morning.”

  “Jesus,” Dale said, joining Mark on the rooftop’s ledge. “You’re in even more trouble than I thought.” After a short pause, Dale clasped Mark on the shoulder and looked at him. “I don’t know anything about being a dad, but I’d venture to guess that, if I was in your shoes, I would have done the same damn thing. You’ve got a family to think about now.”

  “Some job I’m doing if my rep—and my future—is as deep in the toilet as you’re saying.”

  Dale waved Mark off with a casual swipe of his hand. “Eh, Dudek is corrupt as hell and everyone knows it. I’ll do some counter-programming on your behalf and plant the seed about how things really went down. You won over General Hodges fair and square and all the sound and fury from the Dudek camp is just sour grapes.”

  Mark breathed a sigh of relief and pushed away from the ledge. “Thank you, Dale. That means a lot.”

  “Consider it your first baby gift. Now go find that beautiful wife of yours and celebrate. There’ll be plenty more opportunities on the horizon for you to kiss Griffin’s ass, trust me.”

  * * *

  Sarah was tapping her wrist at the spot where a watch would be when Mark found her by the exit, waiting.

  “Thirty-two minutes. You lose, Strain.”

  “I didn’t know we were wagering anything.”

  “You didn’t? Well, keep in mind that every minute you waste is a minute off your window to get laid. Because a few months from now, you’re going cold turkey.”

  While the news did catch Mark in the gut, he made it a point to oversell his reaction. “My God. Cancel dinner, get an Uber! We’re going straight home.”

  Mark tried to pull Sarah out the door, but she stayed put. “No, no, no. I don’t think so. We don’t get to skip what I want from this evening so we can go hop in the sack.”