by Joe Nelms
“We’re off for next Thursday. I’m headed back to Tucson Thursday. And then when I come back, we’ll be off forever.”
“All right, then. Thanks for calling.”
“Take care, Brian.”
They had only been seeing each other three weeks and that only involved two dates, but Brittany wasn’t taking any chances. The road she was headed down lead to stardom, and she didn’t need any baggage when she got there.
Sal smiled as he listened to the girl let the boy down via a wiretap his crew had set up. Didn’t really even seem like the breakup was worth the effort. He was pretty sure he had heard the guy mutter “Oh, some girl” to whoever was in the room with him as he hung up the phone.
But what he was positively sure he heard was that the FBI agent responsible for the witness that claimed to have seen Frank murder Carmine was going to Tucson next Thursday. Jackpot.
Frank was going to be so proud of him.
Yo
That afternoon, Brad and Stump hammered out a couple of traditional brochure layouts as a backup to their more creative attempts in alternative media. As uninventive as the work was, Brad felt better losing himself in the task. Nice to be back in the saddle, even if it was strapped onto a broken down donkey instead of the wild palomino he had been riding five weeks ago.
They printed out their work, laid it all out across Brad’s desk, and picked a few favorites. Brad knew they had something relatively good because he started to feel the urge to show Alan. He felt like showing off. That was the litmus test. Stump must have felt the same way, but demonstrated a painful lack of understanding of how advertising worked.
“We should stop by Alan’s office on our way out and show him this stuff.”
“Are you crazy? We can’t show him now. It’s way too soon.”
“But we’re done.”
“He doesn’t need to know that. Mike D. said we have a few days. If we’re done too fast, they’ll expect it that way every time. I’m not letting them know how good we are yet.”
Stump raised his eyebrows at the brochures and bookmarks they had created to sell diapers to the elderly.
“This is how good we are?”
That certainly put a fine point on it. Brad realized he had fallen victim to ad-guy myopia. The stuff was 4A. Good for a brochure to help people who are worried about soiling their golf pants.
“I don’t want to work here.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, you’ll get me another job?”
“No, okay, you don’t have to work here.”
“Where will I work?”
“I don’t know.”
“How will I get a job?”
“Uhh, interview?”
“But Brad Pitt doesn’t have any work experience. What job could Brad Pitt possibly have?”
“Maybe you could be a movie star.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
Brad stared at their work, now disgusted as he realized it comprised the entirety of his new portfolio.
“You’re welcome to look for another job. You’ll need to fill out some paperwork and we’ll want to check out the company. But it’s your life. Do what you want.”
What Brad wanted was that primo job at Red Light he interviewed for a lifetime ago. It was the only thing he knew how to do. But his résumé was now a blank piece of paper. Soon it would be a piece of paper that read, “Brad sold diapers!” but he couldn’t imagine that would be of too much assistance.
“I’m gonna take a dump.”
“Good start.”
Brad did not need to take a dump. The truth was he needed to get away. He turned and walked down the hallway as if he had somewhere important to be. He continued purposefully straight past the bathroom and made a left at Skinny-Jeans-Emo-Haircut-Guy’s cubicle.
Brad needed to breathe. Alone. He managed a weak smile as he passed Uptight-English-Account-Planner-Girl’s office.
He needed to get this stress out of his system. When he passed Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy’s vacant desk, he stopped.
He needed to tell someone. He needed to talk. And there was Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy’s cell phone. Just sitting there. The universe was giving him a sign. Probably.
Brad checked over his back before he nabbed the phone, shoved it into his front pocket, and kept walking. When he came to the elevators, he found one waiting for him. Empty. Perfect. He stepped in and hit the highest floor there was.
Ahhhh.
Brad watched the floor lights go up. The building was only nine floors, but that would do. He was headed for his own private conference room on the roof.
Ding. Dammit.
The doors opened on the sixth floor and Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy looked in.
“Going up?”
For the love of God.
“Yup, going up.”
“Great!”
Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy stepped in and hit the button for seven.
Really? You couldn’t spare the calories?
Ding. The elevator slowed to a stop almost as soon as it started. Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy bounced on his toes in anticipation of spreading joy on the seventh floor. Finally, the doors opened.
“Have a great day!”
“You too—”
Brad was interrupted by the muffled “Single Ladies” ring tone coming from his front pocket.
“Oh my God! I have the exact same ring tone! We should go clubbin—”
Mercifully, the elevator doors cut Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy off before he did the ring-tone math.
Ahhhh.
The view on the roof of Assure Worldwide wasn’t quite as magnificent as the one on top of Brad and Gracie’s apartment building. It was a sweeping view of the office park in all its redundant glory. Five identical buildings, each composed of red brick and dark glass. It gave you the feeling that someone had decided to save some money by reusing the same architectural plans for each new address. Brad’s building sat on the south edge of the park, its rear parking lot butted up against a golf course. He headed around the structure that housed the stairs to the golf course side, pulled out the phone, and dialed a number he knew by heart.
He needed to have someone else share this burden. Why should he be in this mess alone? It was a risk and he knew it, but so was using a Kindle in the bath and that had always worked out for him. He just had to be careful.
Gracie picked up on the third ring. He couldn’t tell if she was working or sleeping or confused by the Arizona area code he was calling from. He couldn’t tell because she didn’t say hello. She just picked up the phone.
Brad may have been brave enough to call Gracie, but he didn’t have the guts to say a single word to her. And if he did what would that word be? Something nasty? Something conciliatory? Something admonishing? He realized he probably should have thought this out a little more before calling. Perhaps jotted down a few notes.
“. . . Brad?”
Whoa.
Brad hung up immediately. She had known it was him. Or is that how she answered the phone every time it had rung since he left? Was she heartbroken? Was she repentant? Did she want him back? Did she hate him? Did she want to make everything better? Did she want to start over or join him in Tucson or tell him she was wrong about everything? Did she know he knew?
He was dying to know the answer to even one of these questions, but his reptilian brainstem forced him to end the call before any deeper feelings were evoked or he was stupid enough to say something out loud. Like “Hello” or “God, I miss you.”
That was close. He was white hot with adrenaline.
What was he thinking? Why did he just do that? Hiding from the Mafia was hard enough on its own. What was with the unnecessary self-torture?
Brad dug his wedding ring out of his pocket. He had been carrying it around since he discovered it in his dresser drawer but hadn’t found the perfect stretch of road to dispose of it yet. Not in all the nine miles of the South Nogales Highway betwe
en his home and the office.
The ring sat there in the palm of his hand, staring back at him. Daring him.
What are you looking at, pussy?
The band of gold was no different than the stupid phone call he just made. He got worked up every time he saw it and he had no idea why that was so pacifying.
Brad clenched the ring one last time and then hurled it as far as his moderately exercised arms would allow. It landed somewhere just over the golf course fence, in the rough of the fifth hole fairway. If he wanted to badly enough, and if there was a metal detector rental place around here, he probably could have found it, but he knew that wasn’t ever going to happen. That ring was gone.
Brad dialed Owen’s number.
“Hello?”
“What’s up, you lazy shithead?”
“Dad?”
“Dude.”
“Brad? Holy shit, what are you doing?”
“Going crazy. I need to talk to someone.”
Owen was polite enough to not interrupt the silence that followed while Brad figured out something else to say.
“So, how’s work?”
“Same. But there’s some new guy who just doesn’t get it.”
“He doesn’t get handing out fliers?”
“He almost got into a fight with a cop. Some people aren’t cut out for this kind of work.”
“Nope.”
“But, hey guess what!”
“You passed your test? You’re gonna work for the city?”
“Yep. I start in a few days, and I already have my assignment. That’s like going straight to the big leagues.”
It was so depressing to hear that life in Manhattan was moving forward without Brad.
“Wow. I’m really impressed. Congratulations.”
“Yeah. I guess it doesn’t matter the new guy isn’t Chicken Shack material. Not my problem anymore, right?
“. . . Owen, I didn’t see anything.”
“Well, how could you? You’re out of town. Trust me, the new guy is a loooo-ser.”
“The murder. I didn’t see the murder I’m testifying about. I didn’t see Frank Fortunato murder Carmine.”
There was that weird beat where someone pauses while they wonder what’s wrong with the person they were listening to.
“But, you said you did. To the FBI.”
“Look, I was in a weird place. I tried to tell them I missed the whole thing, but they wouldn’t believe me and then a bunch of stuff happened and I said I saw the murder so I could get into the Witness Protection Program because no one would hire me in New York and I’m pretty sure my wife is having an affair. My story is complete bullshit and to top it all off, it got me nothing. Now I’m stuck in Tucson making diaper ads.”
“You could have crashed with me.”
“Uh . . . oh.”
Well now, that would have been a simple solution, huh? Brad told himself that things were complicated and Owen just didn’t understand.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Come clean. Tell the truth.”
“No. Something else.”
“I don’t see a lot of options here.”
This was not exactly turning into the motivational seminar Brad had hoped it would be.
“All right, whatever. Never mind. I just have to be convincing on the witness stand.”
“Well, how hard could that be? You were there when it happened, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, you must have seen something.”
“No, nothing. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I was cleaning my shoe. I didn’t actually, technically see the murder. I’m lying to the FBI.”
“You can’t lie in court. That’s . . . sacred.”
“I can’t go back to my old life.”
“Oh man, this is bad.”
Brad sort of wished he had called an Indian tech support line instead. At least they would have the decency to lie to him and say everything was going to be all right.
“I gotta go. Take care, Owen. I’ll steal another phone soon.”
Brad hung up and took a moment to stare at the golf course, now golden in the setting sun. Some people would call it wallowing.
“That’s some fucked up shit.”
Uh-oh.
Brad rounded the corner of the stairwell housing to find a man leaning against the wall as if it were the east side of Union Square Park. Baggy jeans. Huge white T-shirt. Lit joint hanging loosely from his lips. When he spoke, Brad noticed a few gold teeth.
“Lying to the FBI. Mmm.”
There were a few different ways to handle this situation. Pretend his new friend misheard what had been said and explain that he was talking about a movie he once saw. Beg the eavesdropper to not say anything about what he definitely heard. Be righteously indignant and demand an explanation for this sneakery. But Brad was too aggravated to act any way other than the way he was feeling. Pissed.
“Who are you?”
“Yo.”
“Hello. I said, who are you?”
“I’m the guy who heard all your dirty little secrets.”
Brad quickly realized that he had blown his cover in less time than it took to generate the documents that supported it. But he couldn’t help indulging in a tiny bit of frustration. Can’t a guy have a simple, super dangerous, mission-compromising conversation without someone listening in? Now what? He’d have to go into Witness Protection Protection?
“Yeah, well, marijuana’s illegal.”
Weed Guy chuckled and took another deep puff. He kept it in and held the joint out to Brad.
This decision was an easier one. Brad took the joint and inhaled deeply as well. Weed Guy finally exhaled.
“Well, I guess we both know something about each other then, huh?”
Brad exhaled. Now that was some helpful therapy. He figured since he was smoking the guy’s herb, he might as well introduce himself.
“I’m Brad. I’m the new guy.”
“I know who you are.”
“Have we met?”
Brad passed the joint back. Weed Guy took another major hit.
“Nope. I’m Dr. Yo.”
This guy did not look like a doctor. He was wearing cornrows, for Christ sake. Maybe a PhD from state university, but even that was a tough sell.
“What are you doing up here?”
“Same thing I do up here every day.”
Dr. Yo stubbed what was left on his shoe, stuck the roach in his pocket, and headed for the stairs.
“Later.”
What Sal Heard
“My friend is going to get some air.”
“Your friend is going to get some air.”
“But he’s not going to get it in Zone B.”
“Okay.”
“And he’s not going to get it in Zone C.”
“Not Zone C.”
Sometimes Sal was so bad at talking in code it made Frank’s forehead hurt. He was fine with pronouns. The guy with the thing at the place. No problem. Frank could decipher that without thinking twice. They had been talking like that for the better part of thirty years, so understanding that particular dialect of Sal-speak was easier than Frank Jr. flunking algebra. He and Sal had more interpretations of the words “thing” and “guy” and “place” than the Eskimos had words for snow. And the feds could never crack it because it only made sense to the two of them. It was a beautiful system. As long as they were talking about a thing or a guy or a place.
But when it came to putting other symbolic words into the channel, Sal was awful and usually indecipherable. So, as they sat there in the Rikers visitation chambers talking over handsets, it took all the self-control Frank could muster to not derail the conversation by calling Sal a fucktard and focus on figuring out what valuable information was being delivered.
Not going to Zone B for air. Not going to Zone C for air.
“My friend is going to get some air in . . .”
Not B. Not C. Why did he skip A
? Ah. He’s going to get some Air in Zone A. Arizona. God, that was a long way to go for a code word.
“Got it. Any particular place in Zone A?”
Sal looked around to see who was listening. Like that’s how the feds did it. Sneaking up with a cup against the door or pretending to get a drink at the water cooler and hoping to overhear your murder plot instead of picking up a backroom extension of the line they were on. What an idiot.
“Well, I’ll have to ask my son about that. Not my number one son, though.”
Charlie fucking Chan over here with another prizewinning riddle. Not number one son. So . . . his number two son. Number two son. Ah.
“Got it.”
“You want that I should set up a scholarship for my friend?”
Wow, was Sal a bad actor. He even tilted his head down and raised his eyebrows when he said “scholarship.”
“No. Don’t do anything. I’ll handle the scholarship or whatever.”
“No, Frank, not a real scholarship. A scho-lar-ship.”
“Yeah, I understand. Scholarship. I’ll handle it. I don’t want you touching anything for a while, okay? Stay clean.”
Sal was visibly hurt by this perceived rejection. Here he was bringing information that could shoot a big hole in the conviction that was looming and Frank’s treating him like a fat stewardess.
“I just thought . . .”
“I said I’ll handle it. But I still want you to go see about that thing.”
“The guy with the thing or the thing at the place.”
Frank grimaced and cocked his head at Sal as if he should know already.
“Oh, that guy. You got it.”
Yo, Yo
Brad held firm that they shouldn’t show the work any earlier than was absolutely necessary, effectively earning him and Stump six hours of dicking-around time the next day. He was pacing himself.
They filled their time with Stump-approved Internet gossip sites, online chess, and a passionate debate (on Brad’s side) over the merits of paparazzi rights. Stump couldn’t have cared less, but it was fun to push Brad’s buttons.
“What if they’re putting innocent lives at risk?”
“Celebrities are not innocent. If they didn’t like risking their lives they wouldn’t eat at The Ivy.”
