The Bouncer

by David Gordon

“Hold it right there, Joe,” Adrian said, and Joe stopped. “There’s something I should explain. This vial, you may be shocked to learn, doesn’t really contain perfume.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “I’m told the virus is extremely nasty and spreads very nicely via the air.” He glanced over his shoulder at the High Line beneath him. It swarmed with tourists on this sunny day. “So if I drop this, on purpose or because I get shot, well, at first it won’t be that bad. Maybe one unlucky soul gets bonked on the head. But within a couple of minutes, I’m told, at least a few dozen will breathe the stuff in. Perhaps many more on a nice breezy day like this. So let’s say, to keep the math simple, like fifty? Those fifty will go about their lives—get on the subway, eat in restaurants, go to the movies—and by tomorrow each will breathe on fifty more. By the next day those fifty will each infect fifty, and since so many are tourists, they will get on planes and land in airports all over the country and maybe the world. How many does that come to?”

  Joe shook his head. “No idea. I suck at math.”

  “No doubt. You strike me as a man of action.” He waved the vial. “About one hundred twenty-five thousand. How does that sound to you?”

  “Extreme.”

  “Yes, well, I am an extremist, I’ll give you that. But considering how many people the United States has killed, or caused to be killed, worldwide, really it is just a beginning. Even this stuff”—he tossed the vial into the air, flipping it like a coin, and caught it—“was made in the good old USA, after all. And the reason there’s no cure is that your leaders haven’t figured that part out yet, or gotten a chance to see what happens when they drop it on some people with funny-sounding names.” He held the vial up proudly, like a prize. “Now how do you feel about your beloved United States of America?”

  “Ambivalent,” Joe said. Then he fired.

  The vial shattered, and Adrian startled as it fell from his hand, down to the crowd below. “Holy shit!” he yelled, peering over. He smiled wildly. “I have to say, I never saw that coming.”

  Joe kept the gun on him. One more bullet.

  Adrian laughed happily. “You were listening to that part about all the dead people?”

  “Kind of,” Joe said. “But you were so busy talking, I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I boiled that vial in the microwave last night for, like, twenty minutes. The most it will do now is maybe stain someone’s shirt down there. If you’re lucky.”

  A thoughtful look crossed Adrian’s face. Then he laughed, loudly, shaking his head. “But, Joe, why are we even up here then? I mean, if you had the money and you knew the bug was dead, why bother? What do you even want?”

  Joe took his phone out and, keeping the gun aimed on Adrian, held the camera up with his injured left hand. “How about a smile?” he asked.

  He snapped the picture, and Adrian looked perplexed as Joe selected one of the many missed calls from Gio and pressed send.

  Agent Donna Zamora was back in the basement. The investigation was ongoing, as they say, but while the vast machinery of law enforcement ground on, life began returning to normal. And normal for her was at her desk, checking to see if anyone who’d seen anything was saying anything of interest. The answer was not really, but she was enjoying the relative peace for once, when her phone rang. Not the tip line. Her personal cell. An unknown caller. She answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi there, is this Agent Zamora?”

  She recognized the voice, the smooth, educated tones, the Queens accent subdued but still potent, like a recessive gene. “Gio?”

  “Hold on. I’m sending you a picture.”

  “What?” she asked him, confused.

  A photo icon popped onto her screen and she tapped it. A face appeared. “Is this him?” Gio’s voice asked. She was staring at Adrian Kaan, the man her whole office, the CIA, and the local cops were hunting. He appeared to be outside with blue sky behind him. He was smiling, sort of. A sad smile.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “Is it him?” Gio repeated. “Yes or no?”

  She looked from the phone to the photo on her wall and back. “Yes,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Gio said, and hung up. The picture vanished.

  When Heather saw the blond chick from the park go by a second time, but alone now and carrying the money bag, she started to get nervous. When she heard sirens, she knew something was wrong. When she saw cop cars pulling up and being waved into the parking structure by the guard, with an ambulance behind them, she knew: she wasn’t going to see her husband again. She put on her turn signal, and a flustered cop waved her along. As a fire truck turned onto the street, she pulled away, waving and smiling thanks at the cop, who waved back.

  Driving to the airport, she felt a strange mixture of grief and pride. Her husband was lost to her, but he had died fulfilling his destiny, and she was carrying his child. She put the radio on, waiting to hear the news. She heard nothing.

  Even days later, when the virus should have been slaying thousands, she heard nothing, she read nothing. She found a small story on the Post website about a robbery in the mall, foiled by a brave security guard, who chased away the bandit. Fortunately, no innocents were hurt. And then, as she lay on the beach, behind her shades, with her microscopic baby growing in her still perfectly flat belly, her feelings changed, and she felt only burning rage and a cool, delicious desire for revenge.

  50

  The next time Donna heard from Gio, it was the following day, and he called over the office line, patched through from the switchboard. He wanted to meet. She had been thinking about getting some air during her lunch break anyway, so she agreed to meet him by the water, a discreet distance from her office. She was on a bench, finishing her salad, when he appeared.

  “Hi,” he said, sitting at the other end. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty good so far,” she agreed, and sipped her water.

  “The reason I wanted to see you is that I came across this and thought you might be interested.” He handed her an object wrapped in a paper towel. It was an artfully produced plastic case of oblong shape with beveled edges and a number on it. She knew the description by heart. But it was empty. “I hear it used to have perfume in it,” Gio said, “but that got destroyed. Completely.”

  “Where did you find this? Who gave it to you?”

  “I can’t recall,” he said. “But I’m told that a cleaning person found it in an apartment overlooking the High Line.” He told her the address and apartment number. She knew that building was being systematically searched, but there were a hundred apartments, plus stores, offices, and so forth.

  “That’s a funny coincidence,” Donna said.

  “How so?” Gio asked.

  “Adrian Kaan, number one most wanted on the terror watch list? He was found on the roof of that building.”

  “No shit? Did you get him?” Gio leaned in, smiling innocently.

  “Somebody did,” Donna said, and touched his forehead. “With a single bullet right between his eyes.”

  “Nice shot.”

  “Very nice. And whoever it was left three more terror suspects dead in the parking garage, too. Freed up a lot of space on my wall.”

  “That’s terrific. Sounds like somebody is a very good citizen.”

  “Well, a very dangerous one at least.”

  “Speaking of good citizenship,” Gio said, removing a cigar from a case in his pocket. “Do you mind?” he asked, pausing. “You’re done eating?”

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Speaking of citizenship,” he repeated, flicking his lighter and puffing, “I admit I came here hoping to ask a favor.”

  “What a shock.”

  “Nothing crooked,” he said, waving the cigar. “I’d never ask that. I have too much respect for you. It’s for a friend. You see, this poor kid, his name was Derek Chen, he was from Queens like me. Anyway, he was killed, tragically, in an incident that I believe yo
u were involved in, too, a robbery at an illegal gun show. Anyway, his family are friends of mine, and I know it would help them to, you know, get some closure, if they could see the official forensic reports, specifically the one showing that the shots that killed him were fired by one of the redneck gun nuts you guys took into custody.”

  “Why doesn’t the family just file a request? Once the case is closed they can get a copy of everything.”

  “That could take months. Plus all those legal headaches. Like I said, I think seeing that report now, like today, would really speed up the grieving process and let them start healing.”

  Donna nodded. “I think I can accommodate that.”

  “Great! Thank you so much,” Gio said, and stood up, shaking her hand. “Oh …” He paused. “And with so many terrorists eliminated this week, can I tell my friend Mrs. Greenblatt it’s okay to open her club? We’re off red alert?”

  “Yeah.” Donna waved him off. “She’s back in business.”

  “Thanks. She’ll be thrilled.” He turned to go.

  “Hey …” she called after him. He turned around. “Your pal Joey. Will he be back working there, too?”

  “Where else would he be? He’s the bouncer.”

  51

  It was a quiet afternoon, still early, and Joe was in a back booth, drinking coffee and reading The Trial, by Franz Kafka, when Agent Donna Zamora walked in.

  “Hi, Joe.”

  “Hey!” He smiled and put his book down. The little finger and ring finger of his left hand were taped together. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” She sat across from him.

  “You want anything? Drink? Lap dance?”

  She smiled and he smiled back, that same gleam in his eyes. “Nah,” she said, “I’m driving. And anyway, my chest is a little sore.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, some bastard shot me with a beanbag gun. But I’ll get even.”

  “I don’t doubt it. What about a coffee?”

  “Any good?”

  “It’s strip-club-bar coffee. It tastes like burned shit.”

  “Maybe later. What happened to your fingers?”

  “I caught them in an elevator door.”

  “Ouch, clumsy. Well, I really just stopped by to say hi …”

  “That’s sweet of you.”

  “… and to deliver a friendly message.”

  He sat back, sipped his coffee, waiting, smiling. She leaned in.

  “Your nation owes you a debt of gratitude,” she said. “More than it’ll ever pay.” She paused, but his smile remained unchanged, his eyes on hers. She continued. “But you are a private citizen now, and as much as I might appreciate your unique talents, remember, if you happen to hear about any crimes or possible crimes being committed, just call us and leave it to the professionals, okay?” She looked at him. Her question hung in the silence.

  “But I am a professional,” he said with a grin, pointing at his T-shirt. “See, it says right here, I’m security.”

  She laughed, the moment passed, and she stood. “Then I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Joe Brody.” She put her hand out and he shook it.

  “I definitely hope so, Agent Donna Zamora.”

  Their eyes met once more and then she left. He watched her walk out, and was just getting back to his book, when Kim sauntered up, robe over her sparkling G-string and matching heels.

  “Hey, Joe, the manager wants you.”

  “Right,” he said, laying the book down and standing. “Thanks, Kim.”

  “The Trial?” she said, turning her head and reading the upside-down title. “I don’t know, Joe, I’d spend the money on a real lawyer, not do it yourself out of a book. Remember my ex-boyfriend?”

  “Which one?”

  “The jealous asshole crackhead? He tried dealing with the cops on his own, and he ended up in a dumpster. They’re still missing some parts.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said, “I’ll remember that,” and walked back to the manager’s office. He knocked.

  “Yeah?”

  He went in, and when the manager, a retired felon who looked like Santa, but with a boozer’s Rudolph nose, saw it was Joe, he just nodded and went back to doing the books. Joe shut the door and then crossed to another door in the opposite wall. He opened that one and exited into a narrow alley, really just an airspace between two buildings, full of cigarette butts and old bird shit, closed off at both ends. He crossed the alley and knocked on a rusty metal door. It swung back, revealing stairs to the basement.

  “Hey, Joe,” Nero said, and held the door open. “Go right in. They’re waiting.”

  “Thanks, Nero,” Joe said, and headed down.

  Nero shut the door behind him. The basement was a low-ceilinged, windowless room with cinder block walls and a cracked concrete floor. Weeds sprouted through here and there. In a circle of folding chairs sat the same people who had met with Gio at the salt and sand shed the week before. The one new face had a ring through its nose, a heavyset white guy with a shaved head and a bunch of piercings. He had a small blowtorch lit and was heating a long, narrow bit of metal that he held with a thick glove. Gio saw Joe.

  “Here he is, the guest of honor. You ready, Joe?”

  “Ready.” Joe took off his T-shirt and dropped it onto a chair. Gio gripped him by the right arm. Alonzo, the black gang leader, stepped up and held Joe’s left arm in his muscular grip.

  He whispered to Joe, “Just want to say thanks, on behalf of Juno’s people.”

  Joe nodded, but before he could speak, Gio put a wooden pencil in his mouth. “Here, bite on this.”

  The bald, pierced guy walked over, holding the now glowing red brand in his gloved hand. While everyone watched in silence, and Gio and Alonzo held Joe still, he pressed the burning metal into the flesh, high on the left side of Joe’s chest, on his pectoral muscle. Joe writhed, moaning, and spit out the pencil. The two men held him tight. Then, while Joe breathed heavily, the guy treated and bandaged his burn.

  Gio hugged him, kissing both cheeks. “Congratulations,” he said.

  Alonzo hugged him, too. Uncle Chen was next.

  “I’m sorry about Derek,” Joe said. “I can tell you he died fighting, on his feet.”

  Uncle Chen nodded, then squeezed both of Joe’s hands in his.

  Next, Menachem the Hasid grabbed Joe by the cheek. “You did it, boychick. We’re proud of you,” he said, and kissed him.

  “Thanks, Rebbe.”

  “And you!” He grabbed Gio. “Kid, you’re a genius.” He winked at Alonzo. “Am I right?”

  Alonzo grinned and patted Gio’s chest. “He’s a motherfucking visionary.”

  The others all lined up, shaking Joe’s hand, or gripping and dapping, or hugging and kissing him, depending on the dictates of their tribe. A few smiled and called him “Sheriff.” When the burn healed, a small scar would remain, a brand in the shape of a five-pointed star, to mark who he was among those in that room and to their people. It was a sign for those who could read it. It was a badge.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Doug Stewart, the world’s best agent, who has stuck by me through thick and thin, and all the great people at Sterling Lord Literistic, especially the intrepid and tireless Szilvia Molnar. I also want to thank Rivka Galchen and William Fitch for their early reading and eternal friendship. I also want to express my thanks to Otto Penzler for his insightful and sharp-eyed editing and for adding my book to such a high, wide, and dazzling shelf; as well as to everyone at the Mysterious Press and Grove Atlantic. And, as always, I would like to express my infinite gratitude to my family for their infinite love and support.

 

 

 
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