Formerly Fingerman

by Joe Nelms

  True to their archetypes, no one had said a word or cracked a smile as Brad passed by. Fine with him. It felt good just to be back in the hive. He’d win the other bees over later.

  Geoff looked up and smiled.

  “Great people at Overthink. Shame about the lawsuit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They still have that little blonde receptionist?”

  “Actually, she was the one that sued.”

  “Boy, she was a real piece of ass.”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  Geoff continued to smile at Brad the way retirees stare at grandchildren before offering some freshly baked cookies or admitting they don’t recognize them.

  He was taking Brad in. Twenty-five years of interviewing people had made Geoff believe that he was a pretty good judge of character. He wasn’t. He had passed on several of the brightest candidates to come through his office for reasons as simple as a stray collar (not organized), a makeup covered zit (what else is she hiding?), and a Boston accent (you can’t trust foreigners). Many of these candidates had gone on to great success at Geoff’s competitors, but he was enough of an egomaniac to ignore this trend. He believed in his gut. Forget Golden Pencil awards, recommendations from friends, amazing portfolios. He looked into a person’s eyes.

  He was, after all, the mind behind the Actually, that is a banana in my pocket Moxoto mobile phone campaign. He knew what it took to be great.

  Geoff found Brad’s eyes to be particularly revealing. He sensed what he thought at first was a deep and profound desperation. A lost soul in need of approval. A man who was giving life one last chance before visiting a bridge and telling some passing stranger “It’s not worth it anymore.”

  The only thing was, Brad wasn’t sweating. Not a drop. Not like a desperate man should be. Geoff always turned the heat up for interviews. He thought it was a swell way to see how candidates handled pressure. An imposed anxiety. It was a great means of scaring up the highly resonant fumes of loser. But this Brad fellow was having none of it. Geoff started to question his initial judgment. Perhaps that wasn’t desperation in Brad’s eyes. He looked again and revised his original assessment. Well, well, well. This kid is a cold-blooded killer. Ice in his veins. Exactly who Geoff was looking for. After all, that’s what marketing was all about. The testicular fortitude of a veteran lion tamer. The oversized cashews of Seal Team 6. Stuttering John–caliber cajones. Someone who could look a client in the face and tell them, “You’re wrong and I’ll prove it to you.” It was maybe the worst way to handle an account, but Geoff had been rewatching the entire run of Mad Men and was considering a change in the way his company did business.

  Brad had prepared for every possible question Geoff could have asked. The one thing he didn’t prepare for was silence. Thank God he had remembered to put his cell phone on vibrate. A call going off in this vacuum would sound more obnoxious than farting while having your pants tailored. He could not have been more uncomfortable as Geoff continued staring/smiling at him. Was this a challenge? Was Geoff looking for some other response? An offer to set him up with the litigious receptionist, perhaps?

  Finally, Geoff shook himself out of his trance and affected a look that said I care.

  “Tell me about yourself, Brad.”

  That was all Brad needed. He launched into the pitch he had been over so many times in the bathroom mirror. He opened with a joke about how much he loved work—“Maybe a little too much, ha ha”—followed quickly by a serious but concise review of his experience, awards and accomplishments, and finished with a fascinating anecdote about a project he worked on that required a certain creative acumen that only a clever chap like Brad would possess.

  “Well, that is very impressive. Let me talk to my people and bounce your portfolio across a few department-head desks. I think we might be able to work something out.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Brad, it was great meeting you. And sorry about the heat. That was my little test.”

  Brad took the wink that followed to mean that he should kind of pretend to understand what that disclosure meant. He stood and shook Geoff’s meaty hand while looking confidently into that Stepford smiling face one more time. And then it was over.

  Project Fancypants

  A man in a dark suit and sunglasses stood in the hallway on the fourteenth floor of 1635 Broadway trying very hard to look as if he were supposed to be there when his earpiece crackled with Brittany’s voice.

  “Number five, how are we?”

  The man in the suit raised his cuff to his mouth and spoke quietly into the hidden microphone.

  “We’re all clear. Over.”

  “Tom, are you still wearing your sunglasses?”

  The man in the dark suit paused for a second to review his situation and then, realizing his surveillance faux pas, whipped his sunglasses off and jammed them into his jacket pocket.

  “No.”

  There was a heavy sigh over the earphone wedged inside his left ear.

  “You know we have cameras and mics all over this building, right?”

  “Pshh, yeah.” Duh.

  “Just make sure no one gets by you, okay?”

  “Affirmative.”

  The man in the dark suit without sunglasses gave the hallway another once-over. All clear. But Jesus, did he have to pee. Probably just his prostate pushing his bladder around. It happened to Tom more and more often these days, especially when he spent a lot of time on his feet. He knew he should have it checked out, but he also knew what getting it checked out involved. It would wait.

  An elevator dinged its arrival on the fourteenth floor, and Tom arranged himself in front of the opening door to make sure no one got off the elevator. An elderly couple on their way to a doctor’s appointment started to exit when they saw Tom’s stern face. Tom shook his head and told them, “Wrong floor.”

  Tom appeared to be quite serious. The unrelenting pressure of having to urinate lent a certain gravitas to his statement. The couple froze for a beat before looking at the lit floor number inside the elevator. It was the right floor, but who wanted to argue with this visibly upset man?

  “Sorry. Our mistake.”

  Tom nodded and the old couple then backed into the elevator, letting the doors close in front of them.

  Inside the surveillance vehicle disguised as a plumber’s van parked outside 1635 Broadway, Brittany sat with two underling agents watching a bank of monitors set up to observe the route Carmine would presumably take this morning.

  Brittany’s research had been exhausting. She had called in every favor she had with undercover agents, informants, and reporters around the city. She left no rock unturned. There could be no mistaking what was going down today at 1635 Broadway.

  Frank Fortunato’s plan was to meet Carmine Mastramouro in the lobby and shoot him dead. Frank’s bloated ego had convinced him that he could buy off or kill any civilian witnesses foolish enough to testify against him. And he probably was right. Which is why Brittany had brought her own witnesses.

  Her plan was to catch him in the act, gun in hand, just before he fired. It was very theatrical and would make a compelling front page. And her case would be bulletproof. Captured on video from start to finish. FBI agents planted in the elevator banks to not only stop the crime and catch Frank, but to serve as impeccable eyewitnesses. The tabloids would refer to her as the new Eliot Ness. Her name would become synonymous with law enforcement. Hello, Oprah.

  Her cell phone rang. It was the call she had been waiting for her whole career.

  “Marinakos, go.”

  “Target is two blocks away from 1635 headed south on Broadway.”

  “Stay on him. Let me know.”

  She hung up and hit the walkie button to talk to all the agents working for her.

  “We’re T minus two minutes from go time. Tom, can you check that north stairwell one more time?”

  “Check.”

  “Yes, check them. You know, make sure they�
��re clear.”

  “I meant affirmative.”

  “Just do it.”

  Tom had not been Brittany’s first choice, but her department was shorthanded and she needed men. He wasn’t the best agent she had ever met, but Brittany knew Tom could at least be counted on to follow some very simple instructions. Carmine would exit his therapist’s office at eleven o’clock exactly. Same as every Wednesday morning. He would take the elevator down on his way to meet his boyfriend for coffee across the street. Like clockwork.

  Tom’s instructions had been to make sure the fourteenth floor was clear of any interference, basically busy work to keep his head in the game. Brittany knew Tom could be a little unfocused at times, so she had warned him there was a good chance that Frank would send backup soldati, picciotti, sgarrista. Basically everything but pirates. Tom assured her he would be on his toes with his eyes wide open. Once he had cleared the area, he was to wait for Brittany’s signal that Carmine had entered the elevator a few floors above, hit the Down button, and wait to catch a ride down with him to the lobby, ensuring Tom would be there when Frank attacked.

  Not that Tom could do anything to stop Frank. There would be other people there for that. Highly trained agents who would quickly subdue Frank and prevent any real injury. Tom’s real job was to be the handsome guy with twenty-twenty vision and a squeaky clean record who saw it all. Perfect for the witness stand. But he better not be wearing those goddamned sunglasses.

  Up on the fourteenth floor Tom moved quickly to the stairway door, passing the men’s room on his way. The stairs were clear. No mobsters, no henchmen, no sneering men in skull-and-crossbones hats and curly mustaches. Yet. Whew.

  As he headed back toward his post in front of the elevator, he stopped in front of the men’s room. Man, he had to pee like you read about. If he was calculating correctly, they were still T minus about one minute until he had to make his move. Plenty of time. He slipped into the bathroom, fumbling with his zipper as he hustled toward the urinal.

  Brad navigated the interior of the Red Light office on his way to the front door, mentally replaying the last ten minutes of his life. He came to the conclusion that his interview could not have gone better. It was the same feeling he had after the presentation he gave the day he got fired, only without the embarrassing ending. He took a moment to savor the feeling of being immersed in an agency once more. While fleeting, it was nevertheless inspiring. Who knew the vapid poseur culture of advertising could work as such a salve for the soul?

  Yes, this pasty Tarzan with a hundred dollar haircut had swung from one vine, let go, done a few flips, posed for the cameras, grabbed another vine, and swung away. He was back.

  It felt good to swing. Life had its ups and downs, but in Brad’s world, the ups were worth the downs since usually neither was life-threatening. Sure he forgot when the vodka assignment was due, but if he hadn’t he wouldn’t have come up with the brilliant idea that skyrocketed him to interagency fame. So he blew the vodka thing only weeks later. A few weeks of unemployment was an easy trade for a deep notch in the bedpost like Red Light. There was always another vine. Would it be inappropriate to attempt a Tarzan yell? Probably. He settled for growling a quiet Ungowa! to himself as he worked his way through the kitschy office.

  He exited Red Light’s fourteenth floor office to face the elevator in an empty hallway and pressed the Down button. His phone began vibrating. Gracie.

  He pulled it out and soaked up the moment. It was time to answer her call. Hitting the green answer button meant he had the go to tell her the good news. The great news. That he had fucking owned it and was back on top. They were back to really being the couple he had been pretending to be.

  Oh, but wait. Why do that on the phone? You can’t get a congratulatory (ahem) hug over the phone. Brad smiled to himself and declined Gracie’s call for the last time. He would delay gratification for a few more minutes to share the news in person. God, he was so mature.

  As he waited he allowed himself an indulgent thought.

  Things are finally turning my way.

  It was T minus nothing. Frank was headed into the building lobby. Carmine was headed down in the elevator.

  “Showtime.”

  It was so great when Brittany could say dramatic things that really had two meanings, even if she was the only one who realized it.

  Brad almost didn’t hear the elevator ding.

  Standing in the hallway, he was too lost in his tiny dreams of success, picturing himself striding confidently into the Red Light office wearing the warm glow of self-assurance that radiates from those who know they’re The Man. In his mind he had just shared a joke with the guy in the coffee cart outside (staying in touch with the little people), picked up his usual paper from the newspaper vendor (Morning, Mr. Fingerman. How ’bout them Giants?), and chuckled good naturedly at the people gathered around the three-card Monte hustler outside 1635 Broadway (Suckers!). Brad’s future self made sure to say hi to the cute young receptionist who greeted him a little too warmly every morning. Probably a crush, but who could blame her? Good morning to you too, Christy. But no thanks, I’m happily married. Which reminded him. Hmmm, perhaps an upgrade to a platinum wedding band. And a well-earned man-cation. Nice.

  Inside the waiting elevator Carmine cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. Coming or not? Brad snapped to and glided on in.

  Brittany scanned the monitors and focused herself on the exquisite timing they had all agreed on.

  “Perfect, Tom. Just stay cool. Everybody’s in position.”

  The flush broadcasted over Tom’s microphone to everyone on the walkie network. He had raised his mic hand to respond to Brittany when the AutoFlush sensed that he had moved away from the urinal. It wasn’t his prostate after all. It was the jumbo coffee he poured down his gullet on his way to work, after oversleeping. Which took more than the T minus thirty seconds he had hoped to spend peeing. Damn those late night infomercials.

  “Be right there, Brittany.”

  “Wait, that’s not you?”

  A cold tingle quickly walked its prickly fingers up the back of Brittany’s spine as she stared closer and closer at the feed from the camera in the elevator. There was Carmine standing next to a guy who was not Tom. This was not her plan.

  “Who is that? Why is he there? What’s he doing? Can we get him out of there?”

  Brittany and her fellow van mates watched helplessly as the elevator doors closed.

  One team member raised his eyebrows and actually cracked the tiniest smile.

  “Not anymore.”

  There’s nothing worse than a smug underling agent.

  “Tom, how did he get past you?”

  “I’m in position, Brittany.”

  He sounded as if he were walking briskly.

  “No, Tom. You missed him.”

  “Oh . . . Oops.”

  Now was the time for Plan B. She needed a Plan B.

  “Stop the elevator. We have to get him out of there.”

  “That would compromise our entire operation, we can’t—”

  ZZZZZZPPPTTTPPZZZPT.

  Every monitor in the van went black as all three agents clasped their hands to their headphones before whipping them off. The squeal of feedback was audible even as the headphones hit the floor.

  “What just happened?”

  Smoke filled the interior of the truck. Mr. Smug didn’t look so smug anymore.

  “Uh, sorry.”

  Tom wasn’t the only one who picked up a jumbo coffee on the way to work this morning. But of the two, Tom was the one who didn’t spill his barely touched, Trenta Pike Place Roast on the computer that every camera and mic was running through.

  “Holy. Shit.”

  As the video system flamed out and smoke poured through every nook and cranny of the van, passersby could hear the three plumbers within coughing and cursing, and one of them finally screaming, “ALL UNITS GO GO GO! TAKE HIM DOWN! I REPEAT TAKE THE TARGET DOWN!” into their walkie
talkies before bursting out of the side door.

  All units go. Tom heard the call and jumped to action, jamming his finger into the Down button over and over as quickly as he could. Maybe this was his chance to make up for the bathroom break.

  On the street several agents disguised as regular Joes and Janes sprang into action. The coffee guy whipped out his gun. The newspaper vendor hopped over a stack of magazines and ran for the entrance. The three-card Monte dealer left an eager German chump midgame to follow the other two undercover agents into the building.

  Brittany and her crack team made it into the lobby only to find it completely empty. Frank was nowhere to be found. Plan B was a bust. The Agent Formerly Known As Smug posed a theory.

  “He’s gone. Maybe he isn’t going through with it.”

  Fat chance. Besides, Brittany had too much riding on this to take that risk. Plan C. What was Plan C?

  “The stairs. He took the stairs. He didn’t want to do it in the lobby. We have to check every floor. Let’s go.”

  They hit the north-side stairs running. As they raced up, story by story, agents peeled off to individual floors. Brittany barked orders as she raced ahead of them all.

  Brad and Carmine’s elevator was quiet. Brad stood next to the doors and did his best to contain himself, but how often does a guy like him have days like this? His restraint didn’t last more than two floors. He looked over his shoulder and caught Carmine’s eye.

  “Just had an interview.”

  Carmine widened his eyes to affect the smallest possible courtesy reaction. B. F-ing. D.

  Brad considered singing the chorus of “The Bitch Is Back” but decided that wasn’t quite the tone he wanted to set. He really wished he could think of some other relevant, comeback-related song, but he came up empty and decided to just keep it simple.

  “Went great. I mean really amazing.”

  Carmine forced himself to nod. Whoopee.