by Allen Zadoff
“Your secret is safe with me,” I say.
He cracks the window, lights the cigarette, and takes a long pull.
“I’m worried about Sam,” he says.
“Worried?”
“There are a lot of changes coming. She’s not good with change.”
He looks at me for a few seconds, then settles down in an armchair. He opens the bottom drawer of a mahogany cabinet and pulls out an ashtray.
“Sit, Ben.”
I do. On the corner of the sofa next to him. Our legs are at a forty-five-degree angle, approximately twenty inches away from each other. When he reaches for the ashtray, he reaches toward me.
“I know Sam trusts you,” the mayor says.
I could agree with him, let him say what he’s going to say. But this is a smart man. I need to keep that in mind.
The best way to do that is to stick to the truth.
Most of the truth.
I say, “To be honest with you, we just met. I don’t know her very well.”
“The fact remains that you’re here. She’s never invited anyone to family dinner before.”
“Actually, I invited myself.”
The mayor chuckles. “Is that what you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“She asked me this morning if she could invite you.”
“She did?”
“She’s a crafty one, Ben. She’ll keep you on your toes.”
I think about the moment in the hall when I suggested Sam invite me to dinner. Was she stage-managing the whole thing?
How could I have missed that?
“You know that my final term is up in a few months,” the mayor says.
“I’ve read about it.”
I glance toward the kitchen. No movement there.
The mayor says, “I’ve been offered something—let’s say it’s something on a much larger playing field.”
“A new job?”
“Of sorts. And if I take it, it’s going to mean a lot of changes. For Sam especially.”
A new job. New security.
It’s adding up to something big, and it must be something related to my assignment. But that doesn’t matter now. Not when I’m this close to finishing.
“Changes for Sam,” I say. “What does that have to do with me?”
“I want you to take care of her.”
“She’s got a lot of people taking care of her.”
“I know she has friends,” the mayor says. “I’m talking about something else.”
Just then there’s a loud click, and the room goes black.
“What’s happening?” the mayor says.
I shift in the darkness, my body prepping for danger.
“Happy birthday!” Sam calls from the dining room. The kitchen door hinges creak.
“Here it comes,” the mayor says. “Embarrassment on a platter.”
He quickly stands and stubs out the cigarette. He stashes the ashtray back in the drawer.
The mayor is arm’s-length away from me in the dark. I can sense him there, hear his breathing.
He puts his hand out and touches my shoulder. He whispers in my ear.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he says. “But please keep it between us for now.”
Sam walks out in a flickering halo of candlelight, a cake in her hands.
“What a wonderful surprise!” the mayor says.
It’s dark on our side of the room. Candlelit on the other. Shadows in between.
Sam begins to sing.
The mayor leads me toward her, his arm draped casually across my shoulders. Our bodies are close together, so close that I could put my arm around him.
I do.
Finish it. Right now.
I reach across his shoulders with my left arm. My watch arm. I could click a button on the side of my watch dial, then press the back of the buckle into the soft skin on the side of his throat.
We are fifteen steps away from Sam.
Take care of her, the mayor said.
But that is not my job.
In fact it is the opposite of my job.
The mayor’s sweater is thick, but his neck is bare above it. My arm is on his sweater. I could reach higher. A few inches is all it would take.
Then it would be done, and I would be away from here. From this family and their conversations over dinner, from questions of trust and care and whatever else is going on here.
I would be away and I would be finished.
Ten steps from Sam.
The mayor sings, and I sing, too.
We are arm in arm now, rocking back and forth, singing together.
I could reach higher. Shift my wrist.
He would stumble. I would catch him. Sam and I would stand over him, and one of us would call for help. It would come quickly, but not quickly enough.
Five steps from Sam.
The mayor hugs me tight against him. I only need to shift my arm—
But I don’t.
I sing instead. I smile like they smile.
I emulate.
Before I know it, the song is over and the mayor puts his arm down.
I do the same.
He walks toward the cake, his face illuminated by candlelight. I see how he looks at his daughter. I see how he smiles at her and she smiles back.
I should not care that he smiles.
Men smile as they lie.
Jack’s father smiled and betrayed his country.
My father smiled and then Mike appeared.
Now the mayor is smiling, and I am here.
Nobody is innocent. That’s what I’ve been taught.
I’ve also been taught that assignments are simple.
Finish.
That’s all I have to do.
The mayor pulls out his camera and takes a picture of the cake for his blog. He shows me the picture. The frosting glows ghost white in the photo.
Finish.
It’s all I have to do, but I cannot do it.
The mayor blows out the candles as Sam and I applaud.
“Let’s take a picture together,” he says. “The three of us. I want to remember this night.”
He reaches for me, but I am already moving away from him. I do not want to touch him again. I do not want to smell the way he smells. I don’t want to see how he looks at Sam.
“I have to go to the restroom,” I say.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I SLIP INTO THE BATHROOM DOWN THE HALL.
I lock the door behind me and splash water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror.
Something’s wrong.
My mind is playing tricks on me. I’m thinking about guilt and innocence, when that is not my job.
My phone vibrates, the double vibration that signals a secure call request from Father.
It’s his job to think about these things. My job is much easier.
Finish. Then this will be over. You will pass the test.
A second vibration.
I do not take the call. I turn off my phone.
I formulate a plan.
I will offer to do dishes with Sam, get her working in the kitchen, then make an excuse to go back out and spend time with the mayor.
I need him alone for two minutes. Alone and off guard.
I’ve still got time. It will be at least ten minutes before the Pro comes through again. That’s enough.
I will finish, and then I will call Father to let him know that it is done.
I turn off the water. I ready myself.
There’s a knock at the bathroom door.
“Benjamin,” Sam says, “let me in.”
Do not let her in.
I wipe my face.
“Benjamin.”
Do not let her in.
I open the door, and she comes in. She closes the door behind her.
“Are you all right?” she says. “You’re acting funny.”
“I’m fine.”
“Why do you look so uncomfort
able?”
“Because we’re in a bathroom.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says.
She leans back against the door. Anger flares inside. Anger at being trapped, at being dissected by this girl.
“I’m not the one who’s lying,” I say.
“What are you talking about?”
“You asked your father if you could invite me over tonight.”
I’m speaking too fast, not thinking first. Not planning my next move.
“My father said that?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t have a chance, Ben. You asked me first, remember? That’s not lying.”
I think about it, and she’s right. She didn’t lie.
“Why did you want me here in the first place?” I say.
She steps toward me. I try to slow my heartbeat, but I cannot.
“The truth?” she says.
“Yes.”
“Because of Erica. You two are hitting it off. It’s pretty obvious.”
“So what?” I say.
She pulls at a thread on the edge of her dress.
“Maybe I’m starting to have feelings for you,” she says.
I look in her eyes. She’s telling the truth.
I’m suddenly in a different place and time. I’m ten years old, walking down the stairs in our house in Rochester. I hear plates clinking in the kitchen. When I walk in, my mother and father are already sitting down and eating breakfast. There’s an empty plate waiting for me in front of my seat.
My seat.
I always sat in the chair across from the window that looked out on the backyard. It was my special place at the table.
“What about you?” Sam says.
“What about me?”
“Do you have feelings for me?”
I take a long breath.
“I—” I try to say something, but I can’t.
“Why do you have to be so tough?” she says.
I am in danger here.
The thought forces its way to the front of my consciousness. I am in danger, and so is my assignment.
“Here’s the thing, Ben. It’s sort of terrible timing.”
“Why is that?”
“Things are a little complicated right now. With my ex.”
“If he’s an ex, why is it complicated?”
“We have this on-again, off-again thing. It’s been going on for a few years.”
“Is it off or on right now?”
“Something in between.”
“That does sound complicated.”
“I didn’t know I was going to meet you,” she says. “And even after I did, I didn’t think you gave a crap about me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re hard to read.”
“You seem to be doing a pretty good job of it.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
She reaches toward me and I flinch. Just the tiniest bit, but enough. She notes it with a gentle smile.
She says, “I think you’re tough outside, but you’re soft inside.”
“And you?”
“I’m soft everywhere,” she says.
Her face is inches from mine. The danger zone. If someone is this close to your face, they can harm you. This close, you cannot see their hands. They could be doing anything, preparing anything, holding anything.
She says, “I’m soft once I trust someone. That’s what I should have said.”
“And you trust me?” I say.
“Starting to.”
This is usually the moment in the assignment where my success is guaranteed. I build trust with the mark until I win them over. Then I can act with assurance.
But this is different. Things are happening that I did not plan.
“I think something’s wrong with me,” I say.
Because my mind is thinking the wrong things. I should be thinking about finishing my assignment, but I’m thinking about the curve of Sam’s neck, the corner of her lip, the way her breasts swell against the fabric of her dress. I’m thinking about the way she laughs when we’re together.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she says. “It’s the opposite.”
She leans toward me, her lips close to mine, close enough that I feel her breath on my face.
“Your dad’s going to wonder about us,” I say.
“Let him wonder,” she says.
I step back quickly.
“Seriously. We should go back in,” I say, and I push past her out the bathroom door.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I LIE TO THEM.
“I’m not feeling well,” I say.
“Is it my cooking?” Sam says. She tries to laugh, but I can see she’s worried.
I brush off her concerns and the mayor’s. I refuse his offer of a ride home.
My excuses are weak, but they are enough.
They get me out.
They get me away.
To the street. To fresh air.
Day two is gone, along with the opportunity to finish my assignment, and there’s nobody to blame but myself. I let it go, and I do not let opportunities go. It is not in my training.
My training.
I should be moving toward my assignment, but I am moving away.
Even now I watch myself moving past the doormen, through the vestibule, down the street. I am moving past the cleaners and around the corner until I am out of sight of the police box.
I tell myself to go back, but I keep moving forward until I am away from the apartment and these people and the thoughts that confuse me.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and a sensation sweeps over me.
It’s been gnawing at me all night, but now it comes full force.
A familiar smell.
A smell like—
My father
was a warm man.
was kind.
was a professor.
My father held me on his lap when he sat at his desk working. I remember the creak of his leather chair, the casters beneath it that would roll loudly over wood floors.
I’d sneak into his office sometimes after school, kneel on the chair even though my mother forbade it. I’d push off from his desk and I would spin in my father’s chair, the smell of him all around me, pervading the wood and leather.
I remember the feeling of being in his arms, his voice vibrating through his chest as he talked to me, my head pressed against him.
I smell him now, the warm, clean scent of his aftershave.
I smell him, but he is not here.
A part of her, Sam had said about her mother. It is enough.
A part of my father is around me.
But it is not enough.
I have no choice but to—
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“LET GO,” A WOMAN SHOUTS.
What woman?
The woman down the street.
The woman in a down vest, brown purse on her arm, 180 degrees behind me in front of the fruit stand at the Korean deli.
The woman I did not see.
The woman being pushed by a dark-haired man in a nylon wind jacket.
The man I also did not see.
He stiff-arms her out of his way, and the container in her hands spills, sending a cascade of blueberries across the sidewalk.
He tramples over them on his way forward.
On his way toward me.
I see it now, the trajectory he’s on, the fact that I missed him advancing on me from behind.
No matter.
Choices:
Do I go back toward the mayor’s with the police box that might neutralize this threat?
Or do I go forward toward the unknown, toward danger, toward potential discovery about the nature of my pursuer?
One second to decide before my retreat is cut off.
I do not need the whole second. I choose forward. Or my body chooses for me.
I start down Columbus Avenue, heading south.
The avenue is nearly deserted this time of night, and it leaves me exposed on an open street. I’ve got no choice but to keep moving.
Unusual, his methods. If he catches me here, what will he do in public and on the street?
I don’t intend to find out. Not on his terms.
I want to be on Broadway, where it’s busier and I have more options. When I hit 79th Street, I turn and head west toward the avenue.
That’s when I feel it.
The Presence from the other night.
The Presence is somewhere in front of me while the man in the nylon jacket pursues me from behind. That means there are two of them.
And then another man pops out of an alley as I pass by and joins the man behind.
Three of them now.
Maybe my turn at 79th was a mistake. I don’t often make mistakes, but maybe the move was too predictable. There’s no time to dwell on it.
I adjust and they match me, keeping pace with my zigs and zags.
Three against one. The odds are in their favor.
I feel the faint rumbling of the 1 train coming in beneath my feet. Let’s see how good they are in the subway.
CHAPTER FIFTY
DOWN.
Into darkness. Damp concrete stairs and flickering light from below. Two men and the Presence on the street above.
I hit the platform of the local station, and I’m relieved to find it relatively crowded.
People coming from the Amsterdam bars and an event at the museum. More people heading toward late dinner in Midtown.
The rumble in the ground becomes a wind in the tunnel followed by the oncoming rush of a southbound local train.
I slide into the crowd without anybody noticing.
Not quite true. One person notices.
“Are you following me?” Erica says.
She sways on the platform, eyes heavy.
Shit. I do not need this.
“Where did you come from?” I say.
“I was partying with some friends.”
I glance at my watch. “The party ended early,” I say.
I study her. Red-cheeked, disheveled.
Is this a setup? Is she a part of a trap?
“The party ended early because I took off,” she says. “One of the guys got all date-rapey with me.”
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, please,” she says. “I can handle myself. The son of a bitch is going to be icing his lowboys for a few days.”