by Joe Nelms
He had not only kept it together but also sold the shit out of that ridiculous choir campaign Mike D. insisted on presenting. And Jack loved it. Shook Alan’s hand. Patted him on the back. Used his first name. Mike D. had tried to worm his way in there for some credit, but Jack froze him out. D., as in Don’t even think about it. Jack knew who the creative genius was around here.
Alan was the man. Things went so well with the first campaign, he took a risk and floated Brad’s idea of a new product line. Jack bit. He dug the idea. He bought the entire program without changing a thing. He was going straight to the board with the whole project. This could mean millions for the company.
Alan had not only pulled off the impossible in less than forty-eight hours by delivering a spot-on campaign but he had even thrown in a genius, alternative revenue–generating idea. Jack had mentioned the word “promotion.” It may have been in reference to a coupon they were going to offer at certain grocery store chains, but Alan let himself believe it might be an upgrade in his title or a better parking spot. Ah, success.
Immersed in self-satisfied silence in the elevator, savoring the glory of his magnificent win, Alan smiled to himself. Then he remembered that he hadn’t pressed a floor button and had been standing there without going up or down for almost five minutes.
“Just a little bit longer.”
Stump nodded. The office was as empty as a conversation between two runway models. Except for Brad and Stump. Alan had gone upstairs an hour and a half earlier, and they were still waiting.
Stump stood guard at the window, looking out over the parking lot. Brad sat at his desk staring at his old comps and discarded ideas. Sooner or later Alan would come down. He would have to pass by their office to get to his own, and they would be able to find out whether Brad’s big gamble had paid off. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but sit and wait. And think.
Now that Brad didn’t have the challenge of reinventing diaper advertising to distract him, there was nothing on his mind but the unknown killers sent to track him down and kill him. On video. Obsession would be too mild a word to describe his thought process. As his mind raced with possibilities, he wondered if instead of concepting ads for diapers he should transition to wearing them. Who knew what would happen when he came face-to-face with his would-be killer? Hopefully, he could keep it to some quiet pleading and crying, but no sense in not being prepared.
Brad watched Stump at the window. What did that guy know anyway? He picked up the paper this morning. Didn’t he read it? Did he have no opinion on it? Why hadn’t he brought up the top story? And what about the previous reports? Was he so used to reading about all the people slaughtered on the way to Brad’s house that he simply took it all in stride? Or was he hiding it? Yes, of course. Stump hadn’t even brought the paper in this morning. Just like the times he claimed it was stolen or the paperboy must have overslept or it was a slow news day so they didn’t publish anything. Of course. Stump had been protecting Brad from seeing the ugly truth. The bastard.
“Do you think someone is going to try to kill me to keep me from testifying?”
Stump had been through this before. As trial dates got closer and closer, witnesses became more and more preoccupied with their own mortality. And for good reason. There was no point in trying to talk them out of believing there were killers after them. There were. That’s why they were in the program. So he tended to be completely honest with them. Except for the part where he threw out the paper that mentioned other witnesses getting killed.
“Probably.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Stump lifted his palms a little bit away from his body and raised his eyebrows at Brad’s reflection in the window as if to say I’m doing it.
“But what if they send fifteen guys?”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s not how they work. And they don’t need fifteen guys to kill you. They usually only need one.”
Oops. That didn’t come out like he meant it to.
“But I can handle whatever they send. If they can find us. Which they won’t.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Your job is to tell the truth.”
Brad definitely did not like the way that sounded. He had been under a lot of stress lately and had certainly worked himself into a lather today, but that last comment sounded like it might have had an extra meaning or three.
“I’m going to tell the truth.”
Stump looked out at the landscape. All quiet out there.
Brad couldn’t let it go.
“What did you mean by that? Why wouldn’t I tell the truth?”
“I never said you weren’t going to tell the truth.”
Brad stared at Stump’s back. A guilty conscience can be a powerful thing. And sometimes it can look a lot like righteous indignation.
“Do you think I’m lying about what I saw?”
Stump kept his gaze out the window.
“Because I saw everything. I saw Frank Fortunato kill Carmine.”
Stump resisted the temptation to turn to look at Brad’s face as he spoke.
“I saw it with my own two eyes. I saw Frank in the elevator. I saw him with the gun. I saw him pull the trigger. I know what he was wearing. I know how he moved. I know what he said before he murdered Carmine. I saw every detail and I’m going to testify in a court of law and Frank is going to go to jail until he’s executed and I’ll be a hero.”
Stump considered calling Brad out on his bullshit, perhaps lecturing him a bit on the subtleties of Facial Action Coding and/or weak storytelling but then stopped. He racked his focus to the reflection in the window of the office door. Uh-oh.
“Hello, rat.”
Stump whipped around to find Sal standing in the doorway, gun pointed calmly at him. Brad swiveled around to see Sal.
“Shit.”
If he had spent his time walking down to the product supply closet instead of interrogating Stump, Brad would be well prepared for this moment. As it stood, he was just going to have to trust his sphincter with his dignity.
Sal was too far away for Stump to effect any damage with his years of martial arts training. Sal’s gun was out and cocked with the safety off, so there was no chance of Stump pulling his own weapon out of his ankle holster without getting shot six or seven times. And he was too far away from Brad to throw himself in front of him as a human shield. Sal had played it perfectly. There was nothing left but negotiation. Diplomacy. Begging.
“Let’s talk about this.”
Sal grimaced as he struggled to keep his gun trained on Stump while opening his camera app.
“All right look, I don’t have a lot of battery left, so we’re gonna have to make this quick.”
He tucked the phone under his arm, snuck a peek at the back of the picture of Brad he had in his pocket, and then looked Brad over.
“Brad Fingerman?”
“Yes, and . . .”
Stump rolled his eyes. All their training. For that?
“Great. Thanks.”
Sal tucked the picture back into his pocket and turned his attention back to the phone.
“Oh, hold on. I had it on still picture. There, video. Is the red light on? That means this is recording? I don’t see a red light.”
Brad looked at Stump. What the hell was he waiting for? An invitation? My good man, would you mind being so kind as to perform your sworn duties? I have an appointment to be alive in half an hour and I don’t want to miss it.
Or should Brad do something? Holy God. What if he jumped the guy with the gun? Created a distraction so Stump could disarm him? Did something/anything on his own behalf? Was there a stapler he could throw? An end table he could flip? A joke he could tell?
Sal lifted the phone to face Brad.
“I think this is autofocus, so we’re good.”
Stump’s mind raced, calculating the speed at which he could get a
cross the room and put a finger through Sal’s eye socket versus the time it would take Sal to move his attention away from his stupid phone and pull the trigger of his gun. It looked like negotiations were out. This was going to be another viral video and no amount of smooth talking or bargaining would get them out of it. He would have to act, and if he got gutshot in the process, at least he would go down swinging. He tensed in anticipation of springing the next time Sal blinked.
“Pitt! Flint!”
Stump froze. It was Alan. This could be the distraction he needed.
Alan popped his head into the office and flashed a big smile.
“You guys got a minute for some great news?”
“Beat it, shitbag.”
Sal kept his gun on Stump and gave Alan a quick once over.
“We’re busy.”
“Excuse me?”
Sal pointed the gun at Alan.
“I said we’re busy, asshole. Now, get out of here.”
This wasn’t the first time Alan had a gun pointed at him, so it didn’t have quite the effect Sal was hoping for. Instead of screaming like a Lane Bryant cashier and running to hide in a bathroom, Alan gritted his teeth and his face got very, very red.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Not that he would have answered Alan seriously, but Sal was tackled by Stump before he could get a word out. They tumbled to the ground and rolled around, each trying to gain a dominant position.
The newly reinvented Brad watched in horror as his bodyguard risked life and limb to protect the government’s most valuable witness. The result of this wrestling match would determine a great deal of the rest of Brad’s life. If Stump won, Brad could keep running, now fully aware that he was not nearly as well hidden as he had been led to believe. The choice to be made, of course, was whether or not to include Stump in that running. Certainly Brad appreciated the passion Stump was now displaying, grunting and straining to subdue the tubby hitman on top of him. But, restraining gunmen shouldn’t even be an action item on Stump’s to do list, should it? Brad was supposed to be unfindable. If it could happen once, it could happen again. Hmmm. He and Stump would have to have a long talk about all this before he made his decision on who rode shotgun with him into the future.
On the other hand, if Stump lost, well, that story pretty much wrote itself.
Dammit. Why couldn’t Alan have come down earlier? At least Brad would have known if he were going to be remembered as a brilliant mind taken too soon or a cheap hack who was going to be fired anyway. Oh God. Imagine that funeral. Who would come? Alan? Yo? J-pop-retro-punk-look-art-director-girl? No one? Would no one come? Would the program tell Gracie? Would she care? Would she come? Would she bring a date?
Is this how it ends? Brad Pitt dies and no one gives a shit?
He felt as if he should maybe cheer or yell encouraging words to Stump, but decided that might be bad form. Besides things were moving quickly and it looked like Stump really knew what he was doing.
Stump forcibly flipped Sal over and yanked one of his arms back to the point where it came a little out of the socket. Unfortunately, it was not Sal’s gun arm and that’s what he used to shoot Stump in the face. Stump died before he hit the floor.
Well, that settled the riding shotgun issue. Brad watched, frozen, as Sal shoved Stump’s body off of him and grunted his creaky bones back up to face Brad, irritated by the imposition of the attack.
“Why does everyone have to get involved?”
He noticed Alan still standing there, steaming. Civilians were so annoying.
“What are you looking at?”
Sal reached down for his phone and when he came up, found Alan’s hands coming at him. Before Sal could react, Alan latched on to his neck and squeezed like there was no tomorrow. Sal brought his gun up to shoot Alan in the chest, but Alan threw him against the wall, cracking several Mafia ribs in the process. Alan never lost his grip on Sal’s neck.
“You come into my office and interrupt my workflow?”
Sal tried to bring his gun up again, but Alan threw him into the door, breaking Sal’s other shoulder and popping the gun out of his hand.
“I AM TRYING TO GIVE MY COWORKERS SOME FEEDBACK!”
Alan spat when he yelled. Sal’s face transformed into that confused look people get when they’re dying.
“I WILL NOT TOLERATE UNPROFESSIONAL BEHAVIOR!!!”
And then Sal was dead.
Alan released his grip and Sal melted to the floor. Alan stepped back and looked at what he had done. It was very disappointing for a man who was making every effort to avoid this exact kind of thing. He slapped a hand on the back of his own head as if he had forgotten where he had parked at the mall.
“. . . Dammit, Alan.”
He shot Brad a quick, ashamed look and turned to leave. When he got to the door, he turned back.
“Congratulations on the Crammers! thing. Jack loved it.”
Then Alan ran out of the office.
Brad sat in shocked silence, trying to make sense of the last ninety seconds. He was about to get killed and then someone tried to save him and they got killed and someone else killed the killer and now here he was, alone. Oh, and his brilliant idea had been not only accepted but resoundingly applauded as a career-making game changer. Except that his boss had become a murderer and blown both of their Witness Protection Program covers in one fell swoop.
Through the window, he could see Alan run through the parking lot, scale the fence to the golf course, and scamper off across the fairway. Probably safe to say that Brad wouldn’t be working at Assure any longer.
Brad had started the day with the resolve of a Persian soldier at Thermopylae and was ending it with a muddling of confusion and probably tears. All he had wanted to do was sell some diapers.
He looked back at Sal and Stump lying on the office floor in a bloody mess. The two sides of his life. The killer and the savior. Neither of whom could get the job done.
Now who was he supposed to lean on? Who was protecting him? He would have to make his own security decisions. Out here in Arizona where he knew nothing and had no history. Jesus.
The more he thought about it, the worse it got. Brad had no idea if Sal had come alone, or if other hired killers were watching. What if Stump was wrong and Sal was part of a team? What if there were more on the way?
Brad gathered himself and started to run out when he realized that Stump had the keys to their car in his pocket. He forced himself to rummage through the pockets of his dead former bodyguard until he found them.
On his way out he stopped to grab Sal’s gun. He had yelled, “Take his gun!” at too many bad cop movies to not pick it up. He probably wouldn’t shoot it, but he might point it in the general direction of anyone threatening him. Suddenly selling diapers didn’t seem that important. Or advertising in general, for that matter. What seemed really, really important was figuring out how to stay alive for the foreseeable future.
Brad jumped into his rental car and started driving without even thinking.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into his subdivision and was making the turns to get to his street when he had a painfully obvious realization.
If that guy with the gun found his office, wouldn’t he also know where Brad lived? What if that’s where the imagined team of henchmen were waiting for him? Should he really be going back to the house? On the other hand, everything he owned that he wasn’t wearing at the time was back there.
He made the turn onto his street and quickly found out that it was a moot point. His house was surrounded by fire trucks, ambulances, and neighbors who would no doubt later refer to Brad as a quiet man who kept to himself and was probably gay with the big guy he lived with. The model home was burnt to the ground. Firefighters had kept the surrounding houses safe, but Brad and Stump’s temporary housing was gone, gone, gone. He pulled into a driveway a few houses before his own and turned around before anyone noticed who he was.
Dr. Yo’s room was rented from a l
ovely eighty-six-year-old woman who lived about seven minutes from Brad’s subdivision. It was another layer of secrecy in Yo’s effort to stay off the grid. He had given the old lady a little help filling out the lease and, in the process, put her name in the lessee’s name space. The lease he signed had effectively leased Gertrude Abernathy’s apartment to herself. Gertrude’s eyes were failing and Yo had paid a year up front in cash, so she didn’t look too closely anyway. Considering even telemarketers couldn’t track Yo down, Brad thought it might be the one safe place to hide from the platoon of Mafia killers scouring Tucson for him.
He parked behind the house, scurried past the detached garage and up the stairs to Yo’s back entrance. The windows were dark and there was no answer when he knocked. Where the hell could Yo be?
Brad used the key Yo had made for him and let himself in, figuring he would hide until Yo showed. He sat down on the couch and soaked in the quiet stillness of the empty room.
Holy crap. He had just witnessed a double murder. And this time he really did see everything. And then Alan ran off to who knows where. Which meant Brad was the only witness. Again. No way he was testifying this time. He had seen how well that worked out.
Brad took a moment to ask the universe to hold on just a goddamn minute.
How was this fair?
Losing his promising career, his magnificent New York City life, and the mirage of a loving wife was supposed to have been his rock bottom. That would be anyone’s rock bottom, no?
The whole point of starting your life over was to make it better. This was not better. It was decidedly worse. He was now on the lam from being on the lam. This was not the picture Brittany and Stump had painted for him only a few weeks ago. Who approved this new extended rock bottom with the dead partner and the blown cover and the rapidly dimming hope for a future that involved breathing? Not Brad.
Brad wanted the afterschool special version of rock bottom. The one where a tough but likable authority figure stops you from throwing that rock through the window of the abandoned factory and then bonds with you over a story about when he was a kid growing up in the hardscrabble black-and-white-film days. Not the rock bottom where someone chases you forever and ever and very much wants to cast you as the lead in a low-budget snuff film.