Nice

by Jen Sacks

  A very pretty problem.

  Yet for the first time, perhaps not unpredictably, I was experiencing qualms.

  It was not impossible to see through the bulletproof windows—I could watch her at her desk from a convenient distance, a room in a building across the street. Nobody thinks of everything. All I had needed was a plan of the pressroom, a decent gun, a basic understanding of geometry and physics, and a cell phone.

  And a heart of stone, of course. The kind I used to have.

  Sitting in her chair at her desk, her heart was approximately 3 feet from the floor. Through one of the windows in the office I had rented across from the press building, I could see the target clearly. That was not the window I would use, however. It would take several rounds to break through the protective glass, if that, and the outcome would be messy, not sharp. But the building that housed the little opposition paper was a fairly typical substandard construction of concrete and steel. I would need a powerful rifle, armor-piercing rounds, and a little experimentation time in the field—an actual field, that is.. I would shoot her through the wall. My only handicap was that I would not be able to see her. I would have to know where she was. That was what the cell phone was for. I observed her work pattern for a few days. Then, having done the calculations both as to where she was in relation to the wall and the likely amount of deflection the bullet would experience on its path, I would call her up and get her talking. That way, I would know she was at her desk, where I wanted her to be. The second after she hung up, she would be dead.

  The semiautomatic rifle I had chosen could drop an elephant in its tracks. The bullets were .50-caliber. I should only need one.

  With the heavy gun balanced on its tripod, sticking almost invisibly out of the open window, I sighted not on the target but on where the target would be. I picked up the mobile phone and then set it down beside me on the floor. I sat back and began to think.

  I had told Grace I would be out of town for the week, "on business." She had not asked any questions. And I had not volunteered any answers. She did not yet need to know.

  So why was I doing this? I did not need the money, not from this job. It was a dirty one. Dirtier than most, I hasten to correct. I had not known what kind of target it would be before I had signed on for this one. I had worked for this particular employer before; he was reliable and discreet, if distasteful. But I had agreed. A deal is a deal, especially in this business. Once you get a reputation for not fulfilling a contract, the work really does dry up. Of course, I could tell him that it was impossible to make the kill under the limitations he had given me. But he knew my work; he would know it was not true. And, frankly, that was something my pride would not allow.

  I grabbed another scope and moved to the window that mirrored hers. I took another look at her. It was strange—she did remind me of Grace. But that was pathetic. What if she had been a man? A big burly man who knew very well what he was getting into? But she was not.

  Well, what were my options? I could leave the message that the job was completed and get the hell out of town. Not an ideal solution. I wanted to be able to return to Argentina someday. And I wanted to continue breathing. I could pass the word that the job was undoable. Except that if I made the decision not to kill this girl, I did not want somebody else doing it, and quite possibly making a mess of it—and her. Or I could do the job that I was trained to do. Do it, knowing that if I did not, somebody else would. And that if I stopped here, if I started exercising my own personal judgment in the matter, I was finished. Was that a good thing? I was who I was. Who was I to think I could or even should change?

  I knelt in front of the rifle and sighted in again. I picked up the phone. I dialed the number. The reporter answered.

  Damn. I believed that I had thought of everything. It was not the first time that it had been necessary to speak to a victim. It had never made the slightest impression on me. I silently debated what I should do. The assignment was not yet blown. I could call again, if I needed to. I pressed the disconnect button as her voice came over the line.

  This was incredible. This was disastrous. What in God's name was I doing?

  I sat immobilized for a minute. Then I wiped my eyes and proceeded to disassemble my equipment.

  But it is not any easier to stop killing than it is to start. Before I left the country, I had to quietly ice the politico who hired me. Just to keep my future options open.

  27

  Grace

  He had to go away for a few days. Work. I don't know what that is.

  Does he think about me when I'm not with him? God, there I go again.

  28

  Sam

  Back in town, I watch Grace as she sits beside me at the theater or a concert; she makes me feel both old and world-weary, and yet younger, rejuvenated. I find myself recalling some facial expression or gesture of hers as I read or cook or putter around the house, experimenting with new weapons. I have no plans to accept any more assignments for the moment. I will stay here for a while and see this through.

  I would love to have her up for a meal, but I know the evening would end in the bedroom, and I want to respect her feelings in this matter, for as long as I can.

  She remains very cagey with me. She cannot help noticing that I say nothing about my own past. I have not given up on the effort, but to really break through, I might have to reveal much more of myself than I ever have to anyone before. And quite frankly, I cannot yet conclude that that is such a splendid idea. The last thing I want to do is frighten her away. I like her. But could she like me if she knew what I am? Yet, to fall back on psychology, it seems possible that the reason we are together in even the limited fashion that we are is that there is potentially real honesty between us. When I remind myself that she is a killer, it does not distance me from her, but gives me the sense that perhaps she can eventually understand and, dare I say, love me.

  I still do not know why she did what she did, but as a result, she straddles two worlds: one of relative innocence, where death is accidental and guilts are minor, and my world, where death is a means and sometimes an end and guilt is monumental. Generally, it is a mistake for someone like me even to remind himself that that other world exists, but I do not find it so distressing when I see it through her. And perhaps I can guide her over the divide, not into my world, but into a special one of her own, where, if she can learn to keep her balance, she can avoid falling into the abyss on one side or looking back with intolerable longing at the one to which she no longer belongs.

  I have always considered myself an intellectual with an unusually broad arsenal, or rather, an intelligent, classically minded assassin, but I wonder if I am qualified for this task. I want to be. I would never have even considered it before. From a plateau built fairly firmly on artfully constructed rationalization, I, too, stand on a precipice. I do not know what she will cost me, this girl, but until now, the price exacted for what I have done has been too easy for me to pay. In my line of work, the plateau does not remain immobile; it gently, slowly descends into a land of utter soullessness. She has soul to spare. It may have to be my only religion at this late date.

  I am forty-six years old. She may already have saved me from that dark and inconsolably lonely place. The least I can do is to try to return the favor.

  29

  Grace

  New York can be a dangerous place. I'm reminded of that fact every now and then. Marie and I were headed one fine afternoon to an early movie. For some crazy reason, we decided to walk. Maybe because it was a beautiful warm day and we wanted to enjoy it. Some dumb-ass thing like that. And so we set off. We were headed to the Angelika movie theater, which shows semi-independent movies, and even though I am morally opposed to theaters that are designed with the aisle down the middle of the room and the seats on the edge, this is often the only place that shows certain pretentious films we'd like to see.

  Walking down a major though fairly pedestrian-free street, innocently chatting— that was
us.

  "I promise," Marie solemnly vowed. "I will not drag you to another Andy Garcia movie. I can barely force myself at this point."

  "I know you love him madly. I like him, too. He's a babe."

  "But if he's in a movie, it's almost certainly a bad one," she finished.

  "It's like Sam Neill," I added tragically.

  "All right, all right, all right. Please don't bring up Dead Calm."

  "In over his head. Drowning in predictable plot devices. Oceans away from a good film."

  "Stop it," Marie implored, but she was chuckling.

  "At sea." I couldn't help it.

  "Although everyone else thinks that was a good movie."

  "The decline and fall of Western civilization," I explained.

  And then New York reality broke in. It so often does. Marie walks around the city far more than I do—to her job in midtown, to her gym, to bars. She's black and she's shapely. She gets a lot of attention, almost all of it the unwelcome kind. Often she wears a Walkman headset (my theory is that we should wear them, but have the sound turned off so we know what guys are saying, in case it's anything really threatening, but they will think we have no clue). Her reactions vary wildly: Sometimes she just ignores the random "Hey, baby," or "Ooh mama," or "Good-lookin'," or "Like that ass," or "Get me some of that"; sometimes she doesn't.

  One night, some guy was harassing her from across the street and she started gesturing unpleasantly back at him, her fist raised, and asking him, "You want some? Huh, you want some? Come on and get it." She had been drinking a bit. Sometimes that can make you forget that you're not supposed to be walking down the street unworried and free-spirited. Friends of hers in a passing cab stopped and tried to hustle her away. Once, a boy on a bicycle pinched her butt as he rode by, obviously thinking he would get away with it easily. Umbrella flapping in front of her, she took off after him and basically ran him to ground, where, fortuitously enough, two cops, who thought he'd stolen her purse, grabbed him and shoved him up against a wall. The presence of law and order did nothing to elevate Marie's choice of words in that situation as she royally cursed the guy out, taunting him that he thought he'd get away with it.

  But most of the time, aside from a few vulgar epithets, Marie does nothing, because usually she's mistress of herself enough to know that there are maniacs out there who will kill you.

  I, of course, simply don't hear the things guys say. I don't hear 'em; I don't see 'em. That's the way we do things here.

  But it still rankles. And I guess it builds.

  So we were walking happily down the street, gossiping about people we didn't know, when a man we were about to pass stopped us with a look. There's always that moment when you don't know if you'll be greeted by a legitimate request for directions or something else. With this guy, it could have gone either way. He wasn't dirty enough to be homeless. Yet he wasn't dressed for business. He could have been anything. There was no way we could have known what to expect. And, in a way, that's the worst thing. Let's face it, we had each seen our share of guys who made sexual comments at us while we passed, and who, when ignored, got nasty. You never get reconciled to it, but you get used to it. With the first "Hey, baby," you pretty much know what will follow. But this wasn't like that. So we gave him the benefit of. the doubt.

  In a language I'm not sure God himself could decipher, the man said something to us. We let him talk, then responded with puzzled looks and a light "Sorry." We turned and began to walk past him. And then from behind us, he snarled something; one of the words was bitches. It often is.

  We walked on a few steps, but then… well, it was just one of those rare, unspoken moments. We looked at each other, Marie and I, and we both had the same thought: We had, for the space of a few innocent seconds, hoped for better.

  And then we turned around in unison and began to beat the living shit out of him. It took only a few seconds. Together, we shoved him to the ground and began to kick at him with all our strength. There was nobody near enough to do anything, and nobody did. But we didn't even think of that. I was wearing my black cowboy boots with the pointy toes; Marie, her Doc Marten walking shoes. We kicked and we kicked and we kicked. Silently, except for a little grunting. His chest and back took the brunt of it, but I think his head got a little, and I personally got his knee at one point. When we turned, moments later, and walked very quickly away, the last thing I saw on his face as he writhed was agony. But that wasn't what was satisfying. It was the look he wore when we first knocked him down: pure, unvarnished shock.

  We made tracks around a corner and down several small blocks before we stopped and looked each other over. Marie's jumper was a little askew, so I helped her straighten it out. With some old napkins from my backpack, I helped her wipe off her shoes. They were a little bloody. So were mine. We got all the spots we could see, and then we just stood for a moment. And smiled, a little breathlessly and wide-eyed. No words were necessary.

  And then we made our way to the movie theater. Luckily for all concerned, it was a pretty civilized crowd.

  30

  Sam

  There was a spot of dried blood on her boot. I am quite familiar with the substance, in all of its manifestations. I was mildly perturbed. I had been holding the boot, turning it around in my hands almost absently, as I sat on the sofa, waiting for her to dress for dinner. The bedroom is not really separated from the living room in her apartment, so she does her changing in the one closet in the place, a large walk-in. She was at the far end of the rectangular space, in her bra, digging through a pile of blouses on a shelf, when I barged in. She jumped when I touched her shoulder with my finger. It is a good thing I had something else on my mind.

  "Get out," she said, irritated. "You're not supposed to be here."

  "What is this?" I asked, undeterred. She, the boot, and I were rather a tight fit. I could feel my heart begin to race.

  "It's a boot," she answered, turning back to tall stacks of tops, as if to ignore me.

  "Killed anyone lately?" I pursued.

  "No."

  "Walk through a crime scene?"

  "No."

  "Then what?"

  "Hmmm, I'm not sure you have any need to know."

  I laid my hand on her shoulder. She shivered.

  "You see? You see? You're taking advantage again."

  "I believe I am fully justified here. Let us not have secrets."

  "Let's."

  I let the boot fall and put my hands on her sides, standing right up against her. There was no place for her to back up. She just looked away, toward her sweaters. I placed my cheek against her hair. She put her hands flat against my chest as if to push me away, but she did not actually do it. I knew if she did not do it soon, it would be too late.

  "My friend and I beat up a guy on the street who called us bitches."

  I pulled my head back to look at her. "Out in the open?" I said aghast.

  "Nobody paid any attention. We were gone a few seconds later."

  My thumbs were creeping up toward her breasts. My hands had a mind of their own.

  "He called you bitches?"

  "Sure. It's not the first time I've heard that."

  "That is all he did?"

  "You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?" She tried a little to pull away, but I held on. "He accosted us on the street, said something to us we didn't understand, and when we turned away, he called us bitches. We just snapped. He'll think twice next time."

  "Was he a large man?"

  "No, he was pretty short. Didn't matter to him. He never thought we'd actually do anything." She paused. "Hell, neither did we. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times, we don't."

  I tsked a bit. "Then what did you do?" I was still concerned, although about what, I was not exactly sure. Possibly the future of mankind if women started to take men to task that way every day. But that would never happen.

  "We disappeared. Don't worry about it. It was kind of a beautiful moment. Please let go.
I can't take this."

  "Are you going to beat me up?" I was curious.

  She kissed me instead, open-mouthed, letting herself fall against me, and, given the situation, that was worse. I was inches from fucking her right there and then. I let her go, because I knew if I did not, she would hate me later. I can still feel her at that moment. So close, so unbearably close. I backed out of the closet, kicking the boot behind me. I went to sit on the couch, trying to calm myself down. And I waited. She was some time in that closet. I wondered what she was doing.

  To distract myself, I closed my eyes and tried to envision the sequence of events she had described. She was right. Women almost never do what she and her friend had done, even though, by rights, they should. Inveterately, men call out an unending series of remarks at women as they pass—sometimes warmly and appreciatively, sometimes roughly. I have seen it often without ever paying much attention. But the hostility underneath can be palpable—too many times, when these men are ignored, their follow-up comments are laced with anger. In an ideal world, even I have to admit, a woman would be able to punish such a man physically. But they almost never do. I had a colleague once, a woman with a well-earned reputation for viciousness in her work, who waited too long one night to recognize that a man following her down the street, loudly harassing her, was a real threat. We had all marveled about it at the time; she had been in a vacation spot, not on the job. She must have been in an off-duty mode in her mind, I realized now, just a typical female. The sound of heavy footsteps behind them must be a persistent sensation.