Formerly Fingerman (30 page)

Brad pulled himself together. Enough already. If this was to be his life, then he needed to accept that. So what if two months ago he was married in Manhattan with a great new promotion and one of the coolest jobs of anyone in his chosen profession. That was over. Someone had different plans for him. It was time to nut up and figure out his next step. Forget New York. Forget advertising. Forget his old life. There was no sense in trying to re-create what was gone. There were bigger fish to fry. He was now a nobody with nothing and nowhere to go. If he were ever to become a somebody with something and somewhere to go, he had to make something happen himself.

But first, he had to change the tire.

Brad popped the trunk and found it as tidy as the rest of the car. He pulled the pristine carpet up to find a full sized, Armor All-ed spare tire and jack. He moved the fireproof lockbox out of the way and started unscrewing the wing nut that held the tire in place.

Wait.

Why was there a fireproof lockbox in the trunk of Yo's car? Brad pulled the box out and sat back down in the front seat with it. It was heavy. And it was locked. Okay. So you're a paranoid conspiracy theorist with something of value you need locked away. Where do you put the key?

If anything, Yo was a practical man. He wouldn't have kept the key to this presumably valuable treasure trove in the same place as the lockbox. But if he kept the box in the car he maintained to perfection but never drove, the box was probably never touched either and meant to be used only when the car was used. Brad checked the key chain. There were a few smaller keys next to the ones for the garage, ignition, and trunk.

He tried the first. No match. He tried the second. Didn't work. He tried the third. Click.

Brad opened the lockbox and looked inside to find the meticulously laid plans of Dr. Yo.

“Whoa.”

The game had changed dramatically once again, so he dialed up Owen's number one more time in the hopes of getting some advice. He succeeded without even speaking to Owen. This time, when Owen's answering machine told Brad he knew what to do, he hung up and did it.

“I want every available agent on this. I want his credit cards tracked. Both identities, real and program. Also check Stump's cards just in case he's using those. Check the hospitals. I want roadblocks and face checks and cavity searches at every bus stop, train station, and airport if we can get them. If he's still alive, I want him.”

Brittany pulled every resource she could onto the case. As long as there was a glimmer of hope, she planned to use up whatever favors she had within the agency.

Two and a half weeks later, Brittany's key witness was still missing. Brad had called from a disposable phone bought somewhere in West Texas. Local agents scoured the highway, found the phone where he had tossed it out his car window, and that was where the trail had ended. No more phone calls. No credit card purchases. No sightings. Nothing at all.

She never officially told the press that Brad was dead, so Brittany didn't tell them he was possibly still alive.

She did call Justice and let them know the good news. They told her they were looking forward to meeting him and that things were going well with their preparation.

So, there was that.

Malcolm had been paid pretty well in his past life as an attorney in his dad's firm. Babysitting money. Now, as a judge he made $169,300 a year. Which wasn't great by local standards. Unless you still lived with your mother in the same rent-controlled apartment you grew up in before your parents divorced. Then it was pretty good.

Malcolm's two-bedroom, one-bath, three-story walk-up was that mythical apartment every Manhattan resident keeps a secret eye out for, hoping against hope that one day a long-lost cousin, old friend, or father who abandoned them when they were six will ring up and casually mention that they are moving to the suburbs and ask if you'd like to hop onto their dirt cheap, state-enforced lease. It never happens.

What does happen in these situations is guys like Malcolm save the money they don't spend on things like exorbitantly high Manhattan rents and mortgages for the bigger, more-impressive apartments they never moved into, dinners for the third and fourth dates they never had the nerve and/or inclination to ask for, starter wife engagement rings they never bought, exotic honeymoons they never went on, hefty private school and college tuitions for the children they never had, daughters' weddings they never paid for, oh-you-really-shouldn't-have anniversary presents they never bought, spontaneous all-inclusive vacations they never took, alimony for the divorce they never got, and oversized, second marriage, trophy-wife engagement rings they never even looked at. And they end up loaded.

Which is how he could afford to buy Lola such a nice tennis bracelet on their third date. He had never been so spontaneous, but there was something about this woman. Some weird electricity between them had altered his inner being, causing him to feel relatively swashbuckling. He found himself playing racquetball, sleeping naked, and considering R-rated movies. He was a new man.

Their fourth date had been dinner at Manhattan's most expensive restaurant, prime seats at the opera, and a drink afterward. Lola had hinted strongly that she would like to go back to his place and kept humming the Brazilian national anthem. But Malcolm wasn't quite ready to introduce her to his mother. She was probably already asleep anyway. So he politely declined and found Lola a cab.

Later, as he over-analyzed the evening, he realized the real reason she wanted to come home with him. In her usual turnaround of classic roles, Lola was invoking the third date rule. Technically, it was the fourth date, but it was obvious what was going on. It was time to get busy.

Looking back he saw that she had tried to invoke it on their third date as well. Wow. She must have really liked that tennis bracelet.

Malcolm made a life-altering decision. Their fifth date was coming up. He was going to have sex with Lola Marinakos.

Brad did eventually make it to Florida. The Keys, even. Down in the middle islands, he found a small, family-owned hotel that took cash and had parking in the back. He stayed in his room for most of the two weeks he spent there, ordering in from various restaurants around town and keeping to himself. He didn't use a phone. He didn't send an e-mail. He barely changed TV channels. Occasionally, when the loneliness was too much, he went to movies at the one theater in Marathon, getting there after the film started and leaving before it ended. Not that anyone in that sleepy town was looking for him. Like the rest of the Keys, Marathon was filled with people trying to escape their own past lives and worrying about someone else's problems just took energy away from worrying about your own, so why hassle with it? And, same as the rest of the year in Marathon, not much happened while Brad was there.

By the time Frank's trial was a few days away, Brad was rested and ready. Hiding out in the islands had given him plenty of time to reflect and plan, and he was quite sure of what he needed to do.

So he fired up Yo's car and drove to New York.

Malcolm was awake before dawn, but he didn't move a muscle. Hopefully, Mother would understand that he hadn't called, as this was a bit of a special occasion.

It hadn't been on the fifth date as he had planned, or even the sixth or seventh. But last night, number eight, Malcolm had finally mustered the gumption to release the hounds.

As the morning light began to creep in through Lola's bedroom window, he allowed himself the luxury of rolling over to look at his conquest. He marveled at her as she slept on her side, facing away from him. The paper-thin skin of her back piling up as it cascaded down onto her mattress. The butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, crisp and flirty in her late twenties, now a faded blob of fuzzy color that looked more like a Rorschach test question. Her hair ratty and matted under her head. Her angled, snore-preventing pillow, stained with the previous evening's make up. Lola farted in her sleep. Malcolm let the gravity of the situation sink in.

Last night had been spectacular. He had presented Lola with his latest purchase. A Birkin bag. He had read in one of the women's magazines that they were quite popular, and after a considerable amount of trouble and expense, he had tracked one down. Lola had been duly impressed with his gift, and he could tell she was about to say something laced with innuendo as she leaned forward and smiled through the haze of her third martini.

“Ooh, I'm getting a little tipsy.”

“Shall I call you a cab?”

“Oh, I'm just saying I may have had a little too much to drink.”

She smiled a smile that might as well have had “H-I-N-T-H-I-N-T” written on her teeth and it meant that what came out of her mouth next would be unequivocally forward. Malcolm was having none of that. The night was his and things were going to happen on his terms. He seized the moment, grabbed her hands, and looked into her eyes.

“I'm tired of slow dancing, Lola. It's time to
mach schnell
.”

He was pretty sure that was a Jimmy Stewart line. He followed it up with one of his own.

“Let's go back to your place.”

His arm was still a little sore from being yanked as she hopped up to leave. It was a bit of a blur, but Malcolm was pretty sure she had thrown a few hundreds on the table and told the waiter to keep it before dragging him out. That was fine. His shoulder would heal.

What was far more important was that he had finally inserted his penis into the vagina of a live and willing woman. The waiting and wondering of fifty-seven years was over.

Who's gay now?

Boy, if this ever came up at work and he had the confidence to say anything and somebody cared to listen, would they be impressed.

He rolled back over onto his back and smiled.

“So this is love.”

Thank God for Christian-radio talk shows. Rock music is fun to listen to and everybody loves to sing along to Motown, but for pure entertainment purposes nothing beats Christian talk shows on the radio. And, because it's never too late to get the word of God out and dissect it fifty ways to Sunday, they played and replayed the worst of them on at least three AM stations in whatever areas Brad drove through.

How to choose Christian lingerie for married couples? What do we get to eat in heaven? What team would Jesus cheer for?
There was no topic too great or too small for Bible-beating hosts who needed to kill an hour of sponsorless air time. Everyone that called in had an opinion they feverishly defended with scripture quotes, quasi-logical arguments, and general glossolalia before capitulating to whatever domineering host happened to be manning the mic. Trying to keep up with these nonsensical debates kept Brad from obsessing on how relentlessly boring his drive was and, more important, kept him from falling asleep at the wheel.

He traveled only at night and timed his drive so that he would make it to the Holland tunnel just before dawn. As he drove out of the tunnel and into the city he used to live in, he felt the satisfying buzz in his soul so familiar to Manhattan residents. It was good to be back.

Brad found a parking garage four blocks away from where he needed to be, left the car and, sticking to side streets as much as possible, made his way back to his old workplace. Thankfully, it was a cold morning and very appropriate to be wearing a hat and scarf.

He checked his watch as he got closer. Six fifty. Perfect. He hadn't worked at the Chicken Shack long, but if he remembered correctly, this was right when they mopped the floors, loaded in the produce, and usually forgot to close the back door. Brad rounded the corner and saw the rear entrance wide open. Things hadn't changed.

He walked up casually and looked inside. Chuck was in the walk-in refrigerator, yelling at some delivery guys for bringing too many onions. Brad crept past the dishwashing equipment and into the changing room where his locker had been. There on the hook, as always, was his old costume. He stuffed the chicken suit inside the oversized chicken head and dropped the whole thing into the trash bag he brought with him. On his way out, he grabbed a thick stack of fliers.

Brad walked out unnoticed as Chuck finished up with the delivery guys and got aggravated that some idiot had left the back door open again.

“You lost him?”

“I'm sure we'll find him. Eventually. Can't you get a continuation? Just for a few weeks.”

“Jesus, Brittany. Maybe.”

Tim Irakura paced for a few seconds and wondered why he hadn't gone into business with his father when he had the chance. Everybody loves Camaros. But instead, he was an attorney for the government in a case that could very well go down as the most embarrassing in the country's history. Was there a chance Brittany would actually come through? He exhaled loudly and resumed his role.

“Okay. I'll see what I can do. Middleton loves to hear motions. We can probably talk him into it.”

Tim hung up without saying goodbye.

Brittany had probably over-promised. Weeks of telling the assistant attorney general that she would have their star witness there on game day, days of claiming that she was just playing it safe keeping him sequestered until the last minute. And the whole time screaming at anyone with a fraction less seniority than her to get their ass moving and find her goddamn witness.

She was a little screwed. She hustled over to the courthouse in the hopes of doing a little damage control.

At the very worst, they could still move forward with her testimony, Brad's video testimony, and the surveillance footage. Jarvis had added time codes along with a couple of freeze frames with arrows pointing out the door Frank had shot through and the bullet holes in Carmine's chest. It looked totally official and, in her mind, very convincing.