Mark watched as Dudek sat back in his chair and flashed an arrogant smile. He kept the anger from his face, because he knew the old man didn’t owe Mark, or anyone, any explanation. Whoever the senator declared the winner for the contract would stand based on his word alone. He was an arrogant prick, one who always acted like he had the upper hand, but that was because he usually did.
Not today, though, Mark thought with grim satisfaction. Not today.
“Every future prospect is potential, Mark. Past performance is never an indication of future success. Take a look at yourself, right here and now. Your past success isn’t getting you all that far, is it?”
“Funny you should mention the past, Senator,” Mark said, pulling the envelope from his inside coat pocket. “It may not be able to predict performance, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be used in other ways.”
Mark was ready to fling the envelope in Dudek’s face and then start eating the rest of his steak. As tempting as that was, he wanted Dudek to actually open the envelope and read its contents. Tossing it in his face was a sure way to invite that Texas temper to kick in and get Mark tossed out on his behind. So, he simply slid the envelope across the table and waited for Dudek to respond. For a moment, there was nothing. Dudek sat silently, looking at Mark, ignoring the envelope. His eyes stayed trained on Mark even as he meticulously wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin, reached out for the envelope, and opened it. In the final moment of their standoff, Mark half expected the senator to tear up its contents, not caring what it was. Instead, his eyes finally dropped down to the four sheets of paper in his hand, and he started to read.
Dudek nodded his head to the rhythm of his reading, though it seemed more like skimming to Mark. It was evident that he wasn’t at all surprised by the envelope’s contents—he knew exactly what he was guilty of, and it was most certainly, Mark assumed, not his first transgression. He folded the papers three times, then gently nestled them beneath the lip of his plate, like they were a napkin. Mark could tell that he was trying his best to be calm and, as accustomed, in control. But he could sense the rage simmering beneath Dudek’s skin.
“Let me ask you one question, Mark,” Dudek said. “Do you want a job or a career? Because if you want the latter, then you need to take this information, burn it, and forget everything you’ve seen.”
Mark leaned in closer to Dudek—he was in the driver’s seat now, and he’d be the one to control the tempo.
“What I want is what I rightfully deserve.”
That got a laugh out of Dudek. “This is D.C., son. No one gets what they deserve by virtue. Do you think you’re the first person to get muscled out of a deal for all the wrong reasons? Get over it, go get the next one.”
“Do you think you’re the first person I’ve done this to? Like you said, I’ve got good eyes and ears, and I know how to get information. Like, for instance, a senator’s penchant for shuffling around funds until they suddenly disappear. That’s an easy one. What’s more difficult,” Mark said, leaning in even closer to Dudek, locking eyes with him, “is tracing the path that reveals how those funds were used.”
Dudek bared his teeth as he spat out his words in a controlled but rage-filled hush. “You slimy little son of a bi—”
“You’re not exactly in a position to be issuing judgments, Senator. Now what’s it going to be?”
Dudek leaned back and looked outside, processing his rage. “You get to pull something like this maybe once in your career. You really want to empty your chamber so soon? Never mind my stake in this—think about Terrance’s daddy. He’s a very powerful man, and he doesn’t take kindly to not getting what he wants.”
“Yeah, people who always get their way tend to get all pissy when they don’t. But they should get over it, go get the next one,” Mark said, twisting the knife into Dudek for no other reason than his own satisfaction. He felt comfortable; Mark read Dudek’s body language, and he knew the senator was only trying to maintain some dignity in his surrender. He just had to lean a little bit more, and the ordeal would be over. “Now let me ask you a question: What will you survive—the wrath of Terrance’s daddy, or the fallout from your South American escapades being made public?”
The senator flashed a quick, close-lipped smile, then he went back to cutting his steak. “You’ve gone and made yourself some enemies today, boy. You better hope this deal is worth it.”
* * *
Mark stepped out the front doors, shoving them open, and found his car parked right out front. It had been waiting for him.
The valet, a square-headed Eastern-European kid, flipped Mark his keys. “I’d never be part of a club that would have me as a member, anyway,” Mark said.
He smiled as he drove away, but Jenna’s words about threatening a senator floated back to him. It was a dangerous move, but it was the only play he had left to him, and he’d be damned if he’d be made into the bad guy for fighting to keep what was his. As the awareness of his success with Dudek sunk in, Mark felt the same rush of adrenaline he’d felt that morning wash over him, reminding him of the real news of the day.
Traveling at the speed of “do whatever it takes to cement your career,” Mark never slowed his mind long enough to let the future sink in. He had to repeat it to himself, aloud, a few times for it to stop seeming like an abstract concept.
“I’m going to be a dad. I’m going to be a dad. I’m going to be a dad.”
He’d heard that men lost a lot of testosterone once they became fathers, how that explained the existence of minivans and fanny packs and all that. Yes, there were going to be diapers and feedings for the baby and sleep deprivation for the adults. This was real, he was going to be a dad.
Mark never felt more joyful in his life.
* * *
Senator Dudek stepped outside after finishing his lunch and downing two more old-fashioneds. He lit a cigar in the hopes that its aroma and rich body flavor—it was Cuban, after all—would cool his still-flaring temper. He’d feed Mark to Terrance’s old man, Dodd, there was no doubting that. If Mark wanted to tussle with the big dogs, Dudek would be happy to oblige. But that wasn’t enough. Dudek needed to find some way to satisfy his craven desire for payback. He’d serve that dish nice and cold, and anonymously, but derive the revenge he required nonetheless. His mind wandered to possible scenarios for inflicting existential suffering of the first order on Mark Strain when two men in black suits came up from behind him, jolting him from his reverie. He dropped his cigar and was convinced the universe was out to get him today.
“Senator Dudek,” the man on his right said. “We need you to come with us and answer a few questions.”
Four old-fashioneds in, and the senator’s mind wasn’t processing his surroundings as it normally would. It took a moment for him to realize that there were not one but two men standing beside him, and the one on his left had gently grabbed his elbow.
“I’m sorry, do I know you, son?” Dudek asked, looking over his shoulder at the young, serious man standing behind him. The man didn’t answer, though the other man, on his left, began pulling Dudek forward. “Hey now, what’s the meaning of—”
A black sedan, Dudek couldn’t tell the model, pulled up to the valet stand. The man on his right opened the door and helped usher Dudek into the back seat. It was like he was floating, being guided directly into this strange car before he could even grasp what was happening. Not until the last moment, when he began to offer some resistance.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice growing louder. “God damn it, do you know who I am? What do you think you’re doing? Answer me!”
Neither man spoke, and once Dudek was in the car, it pulled away swiftly and left no trace. It was like he had never been there.
The valet pulled up with Dudek’s car, a mint Escalade, but the vestibule was empty. The senator wouldn’t retrieve his car until two days later, offering no explanation where he went after his meal or what he had done.
5
&nb
sp; 3:28 P.M.
After a long call with his contacts at Verge, assuring them, in specific detail, that their deal was safe—and being certain to stress the magic he had pulled to make it safe—Mark decided to call it a day.
He left the office before 6:00 P.M. once every never, but he was feeling good enough to convince himself that he’d earned it. Mark peered outside his window, down Thirteenth Street. His immediate sight captured the modern glass edifices that housed lobbyist firms, think tanks, legal practices, and all the other industries that could only exist in a place as contentious as D.C. But beyond those buildings, the district soon gave way to a different kind of architecture and culture. Beyond where Mark could see rested colonial and Victorian row houses, squat federal homes, and Tudor estates. Just the thought of those buildings always managed to fill Mark with a sense of patriotism. Many of these homes belonged to pioneers who had conquered adversity and built new lives for themselves and their families. That spirit of reinvention is what defined the American experience, at least to Mark it did. The settlers, and even their ancestors, were stuck as one people who lived in one place until they decided to be someone, and somewhere, else.
Mark relied on that reinvention narrative to see him through his darkest times, when he thought he’d never break free of the lower-middle-class rut he was born into. He dreamed of getting out, of having the means to support his mom—who raised Mark on her own—and living a life free of the anxiety and desperation that his upbringing had bred into him. Through luck and determination, Mark had clawed his way out, and there was no way he—and now, his family—would ever turn back. Maybe he’d buy one of those colonial homes one day; he’d get Sarah the home she’d always wanted and, in the process, have a constant reminder of that American spirit of reinvention.
Mark stepped out of his office feeling, for the first time in what seemed like ages, calm. “Jenna,” Mark said, “I’m heading out for the day.”
Jenna looked up at him, a blank expression on her face. “Oh my God,” she said after a brief pause. “You lost the contract and now we’re all fired.”
“What? Jenna, no—”
“I can’t believe this,” Jenna continued, not listening to Mark. “I’m going to have to spend time in the wasteland known as LinkedIn. I just … I knew this would happen, Mark. You shouldn’t have gone after Dudek. You messed with Texas, and here we are. That’s why they have that saying, to let people know not to fuck with Texas. But you went and did it anyway.”
“Jenna, listen,” Mark said, trying to interject, but it was no use, she was on a roll.
“Now I have to start from scratch as an assistant, all the way at the bottom. And you know what? I’m too old for that shit. Mark, you told me this deal was ironclad and made promises about my career that—”
“Jenna!” Mark said, clapping his hands twice. “We did not lose the contract. You are not fired. In fact, you can consider me leaving early a cause for celebration. Okay?”
Jenna was silent, letting the news really sink in. “I see,” she said, and Mark could tell she was trying to rewind the tape that would put everything she’d just said back into her mouth. “You know, all those things I just said…”
“Forget it,” Mark replied. “We’ve all been wound super tight. Take the night off, but keep your cell on you in case of an emergency. Okay?”
Jenna was grabbing her things before Mark had even finished speaking. “No objection from me—see you later!” she said, then practically sprinted to the elevators.
Mark headed to the elevator as well, slowly, letting his victory sink in. His colleagues watched as he went by, noticing the time. That’s right, Mark thought, The Janitor is leaving early because his work here is done.
* * *
It was date night with Sarah, but instead of sitting in bed half asleep streaming Netflix, they had plans for the evening. Mark had made dinner reservations, weeks ago, for a new fusion restaurant on L Street. Granted, Mark made reservations for them all the time, at least twice a month. But this time, they were actually going and there would be no interruptions. Tonight, they were celebrating.
Mark had two hours to spare before Sarah’s alarm went off, so he decided to stop and grab a coffee, read The Post, and get acquainted with the world beyond K Street.
No sooner had Mark stretched out his legs as he eased into a stiff Starbucks armchair than he started to get the feeling that he was being watched. He tried focusing on the newspaper spread in front of his face; after reading the same sentence six times and still not understanding what it said, he tried losing himself in the bland pop music crackling through the speakers. That didn’t work, either. Mark could not shake the feeling that something was slowly closing in on him.
As casually as he could, Mark looked over both sides of the newspaper, trying to see if his feelings of being watched were at all founded. On his right, he spotted the usual throng of customers, like the solo mom trying to wrangle her kid long enough to get her caffeine fix and the pretentious grad student looking for a place to work on that novel of his. On his left was more of the same, though something stood out in the background—a grim man in a black suit, alone, who didn’t seem to belong anywhere other than the inside of a casket. He sat at a table, no beverage in sight. Whenever Mark looked at him, the man’s eyes jumped sideways, like he’d just been caught in the act.
Mark nervously tapped his right hand on the chair’s slightly worn armrest—worn for character, not from actual usage, Mark was sure. He couldn’t help feeling paranoid. He knew Dudek would be trying to get back at him, if only for pride’s sake. And he couldn’t discount Dodd Wilson either, who was, as far as Mark could tell, one of those D.C. ghosts who officially did nothing but was involved in everything. The man in black could be working for either, or both.
Or maybe Mark was making a boogeyman out of his own anxiety. Weirdos hung out in Starbucks all the time. It’s just where they seemed to go. In any case, Mark thought, it was time to be on his way.
Flowers were in order for Sarah, that was a given. But was Mark supposed to get her something more significant, more memorable and lasting? He knew about the push gift, but was there a gift for kicking off a pregnancy? It hadn’t dawned on Mark until now, when he was too short on time to act on a tradition he wasn’t even sure existed.
The flower shop’s door chimed as Mark entered, and an older man, the florist, shuffled out from behind a set of cooling units. He had gray hair that fell behind his ears in curls and a small hump in his back. His steps were slow and careful, and he kept a polite distance from Mark, seemingly giving him space to come to him when he needed help. Mark walked slowly through the shop, unsure of what he was even looking for. The hushed stillness and mingling of innumerable flower scents made Mark think of a funeral home, which is one reason why he was never thrilled about the idea of bringing flowers to Sarah. Funeral homes also made Mark think of caskets, which brought his mind back to the man who’d been watching him—maybe watching him—at Starbucks. Suddenly, Mark didn’t feel much like getting flowers at all.
“May I help you find something?” the florist quietly asked, perhaps picking up on Mark’s consternation. He was in his late sixties, Mark assumed, with large hands that were impossible not to notice. They were the hands of a laborer or carpenter, not a florist, Mark thought, and he wondered what his occupation was before he started arranging flowers.
“What do you get when your wife tells you she’s pregnant?” Mark asked.
“Well,” the florist replied, “in nine months, you get a baby.” Mark smiled and nodded, knowing he had walked right into that one. “But,” he continued, “as for what flower to get her, you don’t get her any.”
“You’re quite the salesman.”
“Just a man who’s done this a few times myself,” the florist said, patting Mark on the shoulder and leading him away from the flowers. “What you want is a plant. Something that will grow and endure. Flowers, they wither in a few days. They go bad—you don�
��t want your wife thinking of that. You want her thinking of life and…”
The florist continued talking, but Mark lost his focus. The florist was showing him a potted plant when Mark spotted a black-and-white shape in his periphery. As casually as possible, Mark pulled out his phone and set his camera to selfie mode, using it as a makeshift rearview mirror. Through the shop’s picture window, he spotted a man in a black suit standing across the street. Casket Man. He had a newspaper in his hand, acting like he was reading it, but Mark could see him look up every few seconds.
“Excuse me,” Mark said, cutting the florist off. “Do you have a back exit?”
Mark walked briskly toward the coolers from where the florist had emerged. “A what? Why?” the florist asked, perplexed.
“Another way out. Anything.” Mark looked through the picture window—the man in the suit was gone. Presumably knowing what Mark was doing. Mark cursed himself; he shouldn’t have made such a sudden movement for the back of the store. Now the guy was likely heading to cut Mark off.
“There’s a back door, but that’s just for deliveries. Customers aren’t allowed—”
Mark took out his wallet and handed the man three twenties. “I just need to leave. Please.”
The florist led Mark at a brisk pace—as brisk as he was capable of—to the back of the property. There, he unlocked the delivery door’s dead bolt and pushed the solid metal door open, allowing a burst of sunlight to rush in. The back of the florist shop spilled out onto a cobblestone alleyway that connected to the east and west and opened up midway through for a T that headed south. The shortest distance from the front of the building to the rear was from the east, so Mark headed west.
He walked swiftly, but also tried to not seem like he was in a panic. No one else was around, but should Casket Man pop up again, he didn’t want it to look like he was fleeing—he just casually left the florist through the rear exit without buying anything because that was a thing he liked to do, he’d tell the judge.
The Throwaway Page 4