by Martha Carr
He pulled into the deck and parked the car in the rented slot, waiting for a moment, giving himself the chance to be alone and take in the quiet parking garage. He got so little time to be alone, to be himself.
A young couple were walking out of the second floor stairway, talking loudly and arguing about whose fault it was that they were going to be late. Charlie watched them in the rearview mirror as they passed by the back of the car.
He couldn’t remember ever raising his voice at someone. It was too risky. Lately, he’d found himself noticing all the little things he couldn’t do. Saying whatever came into his head, asking a girl out that he met just to see what would happen, having that third beer and taking an Uber home. Stupid list, he thought.
It wasn’t good. He knew he was going to be lucky to last the entire year in this role. They were going to have to chalk him up to burnout in Management and let him slide into another role.
He already knew that getting out altogether from Management wasn’t going to happen. He opened the car door and made his way to the stairs to walk down to the lobby and through a narrow hallway past the cleaners and the row of elevators till he got to the main lobby. The old building was full of shortened hallways that sprouted off of the lobby.
He stopped for a newspaper, paying the concierge a dollar. He had made the arrangement when he first got there, agreeing to pay the man a dollar for the chance to read the paper secondhand. It was part of his basic training to create habits that could serve him later. He spent part of each evening reading the paper from front to back, taking in everything, paying close attention to the small box ads in between articles that were sometimes coded messages just for him.
By the time he had moved up in the ranks and was noticed by George Clemente, everyone around him saw the old fashioned habit as a personal quirk and no one seemed to notice it anymore. He tucked the paper under his arm and headed back to the elevators.
The Watchers were camped out on the eighth floor of the twenty-story Executive Towers. One of the first buildings to be rehabbed in the South Bronx after the fires that had consumed most of the older, elegant buildings that had once made up a thriving neighborhood. There were still too many buildings that were being ignored and had become drug dens or were full of squatters, just past the row of buildings lining the main thoroughfare through the Bronx, the Grand Concourse.
It was also the only building where a group of well-dressed men could come and go without making anyone suspicious about what was really going on inside. It’s not that anyone would have reported them but some would have insisted on a payoff in order to remember how to stay quiet. This was easier than killing them.
Charlie stopped at the door to the apartment, right next to the elevator and waited for the old woman from next door to walk past him. She was always trying to get him into a conversation.
“You need something,” said Charlie, a little too loudly, giving everyone behind the door a chance to move into the other room, and out of her view when he unlocked the door.
“Making my way,” she said, slowing down till she was near enough to the elevators to not look like she was loitering right behind Charlie. He grimaced and unlocked the door.
“A lot of comings and goings you got there,” she said, trying to peek around his shoulder.
“Bye,” said Charlie, as he slid through the opening and shut the door in her face as she leaned forward to get a better look.
Two Watchers were right behind the door, guns drawn.
“That really necessary?” asked Charlie, scowling in frustration.
“Has to be the only bitch in New York who hasn’t heard you don’t make eye contact,” said the beefier of the two, putting his gun back in the shoulder holster.
“Were there any problems?” asked George Clemente, as Charlie walked into the apartment.
“No, everything went well,” said Charlie in a low voice.
The walls were paper thin between the apartments and there was a general order to never raise their voices. The old woman would be listening whenever she was home, as usual.
“Must be a hobby,” said George, watching out the long bank of windows on the side of the living room. Charlie came and stood by his side, looking out at the tight grouping of pigeons as they swooped and turned around the top of the shorter, nearby building. A young man in overalls would lift his arm and they would turn back toward him, easily lighting on the tall wooden perches next to him.
“You think he sees them as pets?” asked George, turning for a moment to look at Charlie. A new Watcher stood at the far end of the windows with his back turned, watching the birds take flight.
“Why are you sweating?” asked George, “Can’t be hot outside, it’s December.”
“They’re overheating the lobby again. It’s nothing,” said Charlie.
“I see you got your paper. That’s good for you, to keep up like that but make sure you have a little fun. This is the greatest city in the world and you look a little bored, Charlie.”
“With all due respect, sir. This is the Bronx. The greatest city is somewhere over there.”
George bit his lower lip, making a sucking noise that showed off a gold incisor. “Tell you what, how about you take off for Manhattan. Do a little Christmas shopping for what, your parents? Your sister? Maybe a girl?”
“I can tag along,” said Alphonso, as Charlie shrugged, trying to look nonchalant about the idea.
“No,” said George, turning back to the window, watching the pigeons soar up into a wide arc. A plane could be seen taking off from La Guardia in Queens in the distance. “No, you stay here and eat,” he said, gesturing toward the litter of Chinese food takeout boxes on the long folding table.
“Came with plantain again. I don’t get it,” said another one of the Watchers. “Every restaurant in the Bronx. You get free plantain. It’s all yours,” he said, brushing off a folding chair and pulling it out for Alphonso.
“Charlie can go alone. He’s a big boy, right Charlie? Take the subway, though, not the car. Nowhere to park in Manhattan anyway. Here, take a few bills, on me, and do a little shopping. Things are going to get more complicated after this, anyway.”
Charlie wasn’t sure if he should feel grateful or alarmed. He tried not to wonder if he was under suspicion or Clemente was giving him the first break in all the time Charlie had been traveling with him.
“Sure, thanks,” he said, “That would help. I haven’t really bought anyone anything yet. Thought I’d have to buy everything off my phone like last year,” he said. It was the truth. He didn’t have time or the headspace to think about how to personalize a gift. He was so used to hiding how he really felt it made it difficult to imagine what someone he cared about might really want to get out of him. Even just a gift.”
“Go, go,” said George, putting his arm around Charlie’s shoulders. “We’ll be here when you get back.”
The gesture was out of character for George but Charlie knew he liked being magnanimous at times, usually for no reason. He knew he had to roll with it, anyway. There was really no choice. Turning it down would be insulting, something George never took well.
“Be back before midnight,” said George. “Need you to get some sleep. A lot going on,” he said. “Phase two of getting everything back on track.”
“Getting what on track?” asked Alphonso, taking an oversized bite of broccoli in a goopy brown sauce.
Charlie winced just a little as George reached out and slapped him hard across the back of his head. He dug a fingernail between Alphonso’s ribs bringing the Watcher to his knees. Alphonso spit out a piece of broccoli letting out a breathy ‘woof’.
George didn’t like questions.
“I’ll see myself out,” he said, trying to suppress a smile. He felt a momentary small surge of revenge come over him for the dead friends who were buried somewhere in Wyoming. The door clicked softly behind him as he waited by the elevator.
“Follow him,” said George, quietly to the
Watcher who had stayed back by the window, keeping to himself. “See if he makes contact with anyone,” he said, too low for anyone else to hear.
The Watcher nodded and checked his phone.
“The signal strong enough?” asked George.
“We’re a go,” said the Watcher, tracking the small GPS that had been slipped into Charlie’s coat as he stood by the window. “We can give him a few minutes. No need to crowd him. He’ll never see us.”
Charlie quickly made his way down the Grand Concourse and through Kilmer Park, a small green area with a sidewalk that ran around the edges and cut through the middle in sections. Heavyset grandmothers were pushing small children, yelling to the older ones who were running too far ahead.
Down at the far end a homeless man was sitting on the base of the statue of Louis Heintz, the French sculptor. He was wearing an afro made entirely of different color trash bags, like his own work of art. He was yelling something incoherent about being watched. Charlie felt a shudder and kept moving.
He hurried down the steep concrete stairs, getting a sharp whiff of old urine as he made his way to the platform. He could hear the rumble of the D train approaching and quickly pushed the card into the slot at the turnstile while pushing against the bar, and grabbing the card as it popped back up. All in one swift motion.
The arriving car was already crowded as the conductor yelled over the intercom, “There’s a train right behind this one. Just five minutes away,” he said, stretching out the ‘five’ for emphasis. “No need to push your way onto this one.”
No one listened, including Charlie. He leaned into the crowd until he was sandwiched between a middle aged woman with a large shopping bag balanced between her legs and two young men in ill-fitting suits and thin, black ties. The men were holding onto a pole, busy snickering and holding their free hand up to their mouth, hiding bad teeth.
“Nah, you don’t want to go out with her,” said the taller of the two men, his hair cropped closely on the sides. I took her out once and she was all talking about the sales rack was where she buys all her clothes. That girl’s a McDonald’s girl. That’s not what you want. You want a Red Lobster girl.”
Charlie leaned in between the two men and grabbed onto the pole as the doors hesitated and then quickly shut and the train jerked into motion.
“Pete pay you yet?” asked the smaller man, his hair pulled back into a small tight bun.
“Nah, not yet,” said the tall man, giving a tsk with the shake of his head as he jostled against Charlie. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, glancing at Charlie for just a moment.
“But he lost the bet.”
Charlie listened without looking up, distracted by the conversation, trying not to think about anything else.
“For a dollar,” said the taller man, laughing, covering his mouth again. “A dollar! I bet him a dollar I’d sell more shoes that shift and he couldn’t pay up.”
“He’s a McDonald’s man,” said his friend, snickering again.
“Where he can spend my dollar.”
Charlie looked up at the small billboards that were all along the top of the subway car. A plastic surgeon was advertising cheaper rates for a chin lift. Charlie read the details wondering who would pick their doctor on the D train.
The lights flickered for a moment as the train moved through the tunnel finally passing into the west side of Manhattan. The two men got off at 125th street in Harlem, still telling stories to each other, laughing about something from work. Charlie took a further step back into the car as more people pushed past the two men and glanced around for seats.
A mariachi band pushed their way onto the train, wearing red linen costumes with silver closures down the bellbottomed pant legs and large green sashes tied around their necks in an oversized bow. They struck up a loud rendition of Feliz Navidad as one member went up and down the crowded aisle, holding out an undersized sombrero that had a piece of holly pinned to the underside. Charlie dropped in a couple of dollars.
The train rattled on and the band ducked out of the car at the next stop, hustling to get to the next car before the doors closed. Charlie could still hear them from the other car and he shut his eyes to take it in. He tried to let himself feel happy, for just a moment, even if it was fleeting. He opened his eyes and watched the lights fly past until they arrived at 59th Street at Columbus Circle.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” he said quietly, over and over again, as he pushed people out of the way, pushing on the doors as they started to close.
“Do not attempt to hold the doors,” he heard the conductor say in a tired voice over the intercom, as he made his way toward the tall escalators that led up to the gleaming shopping center that covered three floors right by an entrance to Central Park.
Outside the small trees that dotted the sidewalk out front were strung with pale purple lights. Large, oversized Moravian stars were hung at different lengths in front of the large glass window that covered the entire front of the mall.
His stomach growled and he decided to move toward another escalator that ran down into Whole Foods, as the crowd of holiday shoppers and tourists swirled around him. He got out one of the small brown cardboard takeout boxes and piled it high with food from the two long salad bars of different offerings. It had been a while since he had been able to choose for himself without thought for what George Clemente was doing and if there was time to really sit down and eat.
“Oh sorry,” he said, as a man leaned over him to grab the large spoon buried in the chicken lo mein. The man ignored him but Charlie saw the pin in his lapel as he took a step back. A small, tight circle of stars. The Circle was making contact with him.
“All yours,” said the man, without smiling, as he passed Charlie the spoon. Charlie felt the small wad of paper pass into his palm. He grabbed the spoon and slid it back into the soupy lo mein, sliding the neatly folded ten dollar bill into his pocket. He would have to find a way to look at it quickly before passing it along.
Before he took the assignment he was given a set of ten series of numbers, three numbers each, and was told to memorize them. It was the only method of initial contact the Circle would be using while he was so close to George Clemente. Anything else was too dangerous. His standard iPhone that could be used to bring in the random radio signals that gave more specific instructions was left back in Washington, DC. He was left with an ordinary iPhone6 that could pass any inspection.
He took an empty seat at a small table already occupied by a man wrapped up in a scarf with earmuffs clamped down around his ears. The man didn’t even look up as Charlie sat down across from him, his head down reading a book.
A local, thought Charlie, as he started to eat slowly but then wolfed down the rest, hungry and anxious to make the best use of the little time he was granted. Besides, he was growing more anxious to find out what was so important they had felt the need to contact him.
He could feel the weight of his cell phone in his inside pocket but he didn’t make a move to take it out. Too much temptation. There was too much risk for too many people if he called home and sounded lonely or anxious. Better to wait for another time and stick to the routine.
Call at one of the regular times. Nothing important, just a few bland details, no specifics.
He had enjoyed giving the finger to Helmut Khroll, though, in Angola. It was just a preconceived signal to a temporary Circle operative but it made him feel better. It was a nice way of letting them know he was in New York.
His companion at the table never looked up from his own cardboard box as Charlie got up to leave. It only made things easier as Charlie palmed the stranger’s phone, neatly sliding it into his pants pocket. It would become useful later to help send a message.
He made his way to the coffee station and waved at the barista who was busy restocking a shelf, while he quickly unfolded the bill in his pocket. He pulled out the stolen phone and slid his finger across the top. No password needed. A little bit of luck.
“T
all dark coffee,” he said, pulling out his wallet. If anyone was watching, it would become a problem to see him randomly pull money out of his pocket. Too much to explain. He opened his wallet, and deftly palmed the ten dollar bill underneath, pulling it out a moment later from under the brown leather wallet his sister had given him last Christmas. He glanced at the serial numbers as he handed it over to the barista who held out the coffee.
Five-eight-six. Movement detected.
George Clemente had moved the members of the rogue cell he still operated around just enough for the Circle to take note and become wary of what he might be planning. The Circle was asking for confirmation and any necessary details.
That could be a problem, thought Charlie. There was a reason George had lasted this long. He didn’t part with information unless it was absolutely necessary and usually at the last minute. Still, there might be pieces he could pick up from a careless Watcher who had seen something that looked unrelated.
Charlie took the escalator up to the main floor and went into the Carriage leather store right by the entrance, looking for something for his sister. He needed to return with proof of the shopping trip. Maybe there’s something small I can find in here that’s in the ballpark of my budget, he thought, not noticing the tall Watcher passing by the glass out front. It was an unusual slip.
It didn’t take Charlie more than an hour to wear out his credit card in the different shops. He gathered up the bags and headed out the front door, crossing Columbus Circle to the benches just at the entrance to the park.
He took a seat, not wanting to get back on the train and take back all of the false identity just yet. The pedicabs were circling the entrance looking for customers as tourists leaned back to take selfies or pictures of the surrounding skyline. He took out his cell phone and stared at it, wondering what could go wrong if he made one unscheduled phone call to his parents. A normal moment for most people.