Formerly Fingerman (19 page)

“Besides, Christopher is a generic name that doesn't stick out. Stump is memorable. That reminds me, don't use it while we're here. When we're here, I'm Christopher. You never know who's IM-ing or e-mailing with their friends back East. They mention it innocently and it gets passed on and before you know it, we've got a couple of bullets in the back of our heads.”

Ah, right. The whole bullet in the back of the head thing. Brad was so fired up about the bookmark idea, he had almost forgotten what he was running from.

Brad and Stump spent the rest of the morning creating concepts for the bookmark. Brad came up with a few hip looks (as hip as you can get with geriatric models) and Stump wrote some decent copy. Turns out the words really were the easy part.

Brad suggested sushi for lunch and then remembered he was in Way-Away-from-New-York-or-L.A.-Land, so they settled on the Assure cafeteria on the third floor. They were in luck. The day's special was chicken fingers. Sort of like sushi.

The Assure cafeteria was nicer than you would expect for an office park building. Hot lunches with new menu specials daily. Premade sandwiches and wraps on the refrigerated shelves. A continuously busy brick pizza oven. A grill churning out thick burgers and fries. And the token unused salad bar that ended up serving as more of a museum dedicated to green leafy vegetables and the creamy dressings that drown them. Something for everyone. It was a key element in some efficiency expert's comprehensive plan to make Assure run as smoothly as possible—keep your employees on the premises. Car trips to Chili's take longer than elevator rides to the third floor. And not as many people get drunk at lunch.

This was the only time Stump sat down the entire day. Brad assumed it was because standing and constantly sweeping the room for furtive movements or sniper scopes would have been a little out of character for Christopher Flint on his lunch break.

“So how is it that you never seem to sleep?”

“I sleep.”

“I never see you sleep.”

“Why would you see me sleep?”

“You never shower. Or shave.”

“I shower every day. And shave. You just miss it.”

Well, that was true. Stump didn't stink, and he never had so much as a two o'clock shadow. Brad couldn't figure it out, and instead of trying he finished his meal and went back to work.

“Thanks for understanding, Brian. I know this must be hard for you.”

Brittany prepared for this conversation by imagining she was Julia Roberts in some new movie about a tough, independent woman who plays by her own rules and has to make a difficult choice. She hadn't worked out what the character did for a living or what that tough choice was, but she knew it affected her movie boyfriend and she could see the way her movie self would grimace/smile when she realized that, despite her fondness for her true love and his teen-idol dimples, she had to break up with him or some terrible, yet-to-be-determined thing would happen, probably to children. It was sort of charming and hard to hate in an opening-weekend-box-office-gold kind of way.

“Umm, okay. So then, we're definitely off for next Thursday? I want to make sure I can sell your ticket.”

Next Thursday? Poor Brian. He just didn't get it. She was talking about a major life change and he was worried about unloading her seat to
Sleep No More.

Brittany saw herself as brave for instigating this preemptive breakup. Also thoughtful. What kind of life would Brian have with paparazzi following them around snapping pictures at inopportune moments, the rags throwing him in the Worst Beach Bodies issues just because they needed filler, and all the other pressure that comes with being a celebrity boyfriend? It would be too much. And such a stereotype. Unless he had some sort of plan to turn his incidental coattail riding into fame of his own, their relationship was doomed. She had to be strong for both of them.

“We're off for next Thursday. I'm headed back to Tucson Thursday. And then when I come back, we'll be off forever.”

“All right, then. Thanks for calling.”

“Take care, Brian.”

They had only been seeing each other three weeks and that only involved two dates, but Brittany wasn't taking any chances. The road she was headed down lead to stardom, and she didn't need any baggage when she got there.

Sal smiled as he listened to the girl let the boy down via a wiretap his crew had set up. Didn't really even seem like the breakup was worth the effort. He was pretty sure he had heard the guy mutter “Oh, some girl” to whoever was in the room with him as he hung up the phone.

But what he was positively sure he heard was that the FBI agent responsible for the witness that claimed to have seen Frank murder Carmine was going to Tucson next Thursday. Jackpot.

Frank was going to be so proud of him.

That afternoon, Brad and Stump hammered out a couple of traditional brochure layouts as a backup to their more creative attempts in alternative media. As uninventive as the work was, Brad felt better losing himself in the task. Nice to be back in the saddle, even if it was strapped onto a broken down donkey instead of the wild palomino he had been riding five weeks ago.

They printed out their work, laid it all out across Brad's desk, and picked a few favorites. Brad knew they had something relatively good because he started to feel the urge to show Alan. He felt like showing off. That was the litmus test. Stump must have felt the same way, but demonstrated a painful lack of understanding of how advertising worked.

“We should stop by Alan's office on our way out and show him this stuff.”

“Are you crazy? We can't show him now. It's way too soon.”

“But we're done.”

“He doesn't need to know that. Mike D. said we have a few days. If we're done too fast, they'll expect it that way every time. I'm not letting them know how good we are yet.”

Stump raised his eyebrows at the brochures and bookmarks they had created to sell diapers to the elderly.

“
This
is how good we are?”

That certainly put a fine point on it. Brad realized he had fallen victim to ad-guy myopia. The stuff was 4A. Good
for a
brochure to help people who are worried about soiling their golf pants.

“I don't want to work here.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, you'll get me another job?”

“No, okay, you don't have to work here.”

“Where will I work?”

“I don't know.”

“How will I get a job?”

“Uhh, interview?”

“But Brad Pitt doesn't have any work experience. What job could Brad Pitt possibly have?”

“Maybe you could be a movie star.”

“It's not funny.”

“It's a little funny.”

Brad stared at their work, now disgusted as he realized it comprised the entirety of his new portfolio.

“You're welcome to look for another job. You'll need to fill out some paperwork and we'll want to check out the company. But it's your life. Do what you want.”

What Brad wanted was that primo job at Red Light he interviewed for a lifetime ago. It was the only thing he knew how to do. But his résumé was now a blank piece of paper. Soon it would be a piece of paper that read, “Brad sold diapers!” but he couldn't imagine that would be of too much assistance.

“I'm gonna take a dump.”

“Good start.”

Brad did not need to take a dump. The truth was he needed to get away. He turned and walked down the hallway as if he had somewhere important to be. He continued purposefully straight past the bathroom and made a left at Skinny-Jeans-Emo-Haircut-Guy's cubicle.

Brad needed to breathe. Alone. He managed a weak smile as he passed Uptight-English-Account-Planner-Girl's office.

He needed to get this stress out of his system. When he passed Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy's vacant desk, he stopped.

He needed to tell someone. He needed to talk. And there was Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy's cell phone. Just sitting there. The universe was giving him a sign. Probably.

Brad checked over his back before he nabbed the phone, shoved it into his front pocket, and kept walking. When he came to the elevators, he found one waiting for him. Empty. Perfect. He stepped in and hit the highest floor there was.

Ahhhh.

Brad watched the floor lights go up. The building was only nine floors, but that would do. He was headed for his own private conference room on the roof.

Ding. Dammit.

The doors opened on the sixth floor and Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy looked in.

“Going up?”

For the love of God.

“Yup, going up.”

“Great!”

Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy stepped in and hit the button for seven.

Really? You couldn't spare the calories?

Ding. The elevator slowed to a stop almost as soon as it started. Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy bounced on his toes in anticipation of spreading joy on the seventh floor. Finally, the doors opened.

“Have a great day!”

“You too—”

Brad was interrupted by the muffled “Single Ladies” ring tone coming from his front pocket.

“Oh my God! I have the exact same ring tone! We should go clubbin—”

Mercifully, the elevator doors cut Perky-Gay-Assistant-Guy off before he did the ring-tone math.

Ahhhh.

The view on the roof of Assure Worldwide wasn't quite as magnificent as the one on top of Brad and Gracie's apartment building. It was a sweeping view of the office park in all its redundant glory. Five identical buildings, each composed of red brick and dark glass. It gave you the feeling that someone had decided to save some money by reusing the same architectural plans for each new address. Brad's building sat on the south edge of the park, its rear parking lot butted up against a golf course. He headed around the structure that housed the stairs to the golf course side, pulled out the phone, and dialed a number he knew by heart.

He needed to have someone else share this burden. Why should he be in this mess alone? It was a risk and he knew it, but so was using a Kindle in the bath and that had always worked out for him. He just had to be careful.

Gracie picked up on the third ring. He couldn't tell if she was working or sleeping or confused by the Arizona area code he was calling from. He couldn't tell because she didn't say hello. She just picked up the phone.

Brad may have been brave enough to call Gracie, but he didn't have the guts to say a single word to her. And if he did what would that word be? Something nasty? Something conciliatory? Something admonishing? He realized he probably should have thought this out a little more before calling. Perhaps jotted down a few notes.

“. . . Brad?”

Whoa.

Brad hung up immediately. She had known it was him. Or is that how she answered the phone every time it had rung since he left? Was she heartbroken? Was she repentant? Did she want him back? Did she hate him? Did she want to make everything better? Did she want to start over or join him in Tucson or tell him she was wrong about everything? Did she know he knew?

He was dying to know the answer to even one of these questions, but his reptilian brainstem forced him to end the call before any deeper feelings were evoked or he was stupid enough to say something out loud. Like “Hello” or “God, I miss you.”

That was close. He was white hot with adrenaline.

What was he thinking? Why did he just do that? Hiding from the Mafia was hard enough on its own. What was with the unnecessary self-torture?

Brad dug his wedding ring out of his pocket. He had been carrying it around since he discovered it in his dresser drawer but hadn't found the perfect stretch of road to dispose of it yet. Not in all the nine miles of the South Nogales Highway between his home and the office.

The ring sat there in the palm of his hand, staring back at him. Daring him.

What are you looking at, pussy?

The band of gold was no different than the stupid phone call he just made. He got worked up every time he saw it and he had no idea why that was so pacifying.

Brad clenched the ring one last time and then hurled it as far as his moderately exercised arms would allow. It landed somewhere just over the golf course fence, in the rough of the fifth hole fairway. If he wanted to badly enough, and if there was a metal detector rental place around here, he probably could have found it, but he knew that wasn't ever going to happen. That ring was gone.

Brad dialed Owen's number.

“Hello?”

“What's up, you lazy shithead?”

“Dad?”

“Dude.”

“Brad? Holy shit, what are you doing?”

“Going crazy. I need to talk to someone.”

Owen was polite enough to not interrupt the silence that followed while Brad figured out something else to say.

“So, how's work?”

“Same. But there's some new guy who just doesn't get it.”

“He doesn't get handing out fliers?”

“He almost got into a fight with a cop. Some people aren't cut out for this kind of work.”

“Nope.”

“But, hey guess what!”

“You passed your test? You're gonna work for the city?”

“Yep. I start in a few days, and I already have my assignment. That's like going straight to the big leagues.”

It was so depressing to hear that life in Manhattan was moving forward without Brad.

“Wow. I'm really impressed. Congratulations.”

“Yeah. I guess it doesn't matter the new guy isn't Chicken Shack material. Not my problem anymore, right?

“. . . Owen, I didn't see anything.”

“Well, how could you? You're out of town. Trust me, the new guy is a loooo-ser.”

“The murder. I didn't see the murder I'm testifying about. I didn't see Frank Fortunato murder Carmine.”

There was that weird beat where someone pauses while they wonder what's wrong with the person they were listening to.