Formerly Fingerman (6 page)

None of the names were particularly savory in Anfernee's mind. They lacked pizzazz. Why was it so hard for these people to come up with something clever? How was he supposed to attach himself to
The Domino Theory
? It didn't exactly scream nickname-friendly. The Ace of
The Domino Theory
? No. The Big Daddy of
The Domino Theory
. Sorry. The Dominator of the . . . oh why bother?

Eventually, in the tried-and-true manner of an oversized bureaucracy, it was decided by the higher ups that the Mafia-catching budget would be split equally among the various factions. Essentially giving the green light to any and all agents who came up with an idea. All they had to do was convince their supervisors.

Brittany didn't have a catchy name for her plan. It was the one omission of her pitch. Not that she hadn't tried to come up with something clever—
Operation I Spy Wise Guy
,
The Badfellas Commission
,
The Godfather IV: Uncle Sam's Revenge
. Nothing sounded right. She knew it was important to Anfernee and was hoping to overcome this obvious shortcoming by adding plenty of drama to her presentation, perhaps crying if necessary.

“Anfernee, Carmine Mastramouro is ‘the guy.' Frank's going to kill him.”

“You think?”

“Trust me. I've been watching Fortunato. I've got audio of his meetings. I've got pictures of his associates. I've established motives. All I need now is permission to pull the trigger and I'll destroy this guy.”

Anfernee considered her for a second.

“Do you have a name for this mission?”

Brittany had chosen her bulky sweater today for just such an emergency. Who needed flop sweat staining their pits as their brain thumbed through possible name files, grasping for anything that would pull this one out of the burner—puns, movie titles, names of old boyfriends and pets, anything. And suddenly, like a TMZ reporter on deadline, it just appeared in front of her eyes.

“
Project Fancypants
.”

It was so easy she had overlooked it for the last two weeks. And now it came out of her mouth as if she had been sitting on it forever, just waiting for the right time to drop this brilliant bomb.

Anfernee silently considered the name.
Project Fancypants.
It was bold enough that the brass would be impressed with his team's brazen determination, but vague enough that he could claim it was a simple surveillance mission that went out of control in the hands of a renegade agent who was definitely not him. And he already had the perfect nickname in the case of success—“The Tailor of
Project Fancypants
.” Bingo.

Anfernee nodded. Just a nod. Not a notarized approval letter. Later, Anfernee could plausibly be able to say he had merely stretched or yawned and had been misinterpreted. Unless she actually caught Frank Fortunato. Then his nod would take on an entirely different meaning.

Brittany quickly scooped up her presentation materials and headed out to start work as Anfernee sat silent and still, wary of giving any further indications of his thoughts.

“Thank you, Anfernee! You won't regret this.”

“And then you were at Overthink for three years. Nice company.”

The heat in Geoff Pedretti's sunlit corner office was on the verge of aggressively uncomfortable. Geoff had apologized for the temperature earlier, but a suspicious person might wonder if it weren't some sort of bizarre test to weed out the weaker candidates. Of course, compared to doing time in a synthetic chicken suit on a city street in a globally warmed September, it was practically cool. Brad waited patiently as the CEO and chief creative officer of Red Light District Advertising perused his résumé again, as if there were some secret code hidden within the meticulously designed piece.

Sitting in this office, Brad felt like he had been granted a temporary visa back to his New York. The New York he knew and loved and missed so desperately. Mmmmm, New York advertising. The walk through Red Light to Geoff's office had been a luxurious indulgence. The supporting staff there were different from the ones at Overthink, and yet so very much the same.

Hello skinny-jeans-chunky-glasses-web-designer-guy. Hi super-casual-account-exec-who-still-looks-like-an-uptight-suit-in-his-jeans-guy. What up, secretly-ambitious-asexual-intern. Oh, we've never met, but I know you all too well. And I already love you.

True to their archetypes, no one had said a word or cracked a smile as Brad passed by. Fine with him. It felt good just to be back in the hive. He'd win the other bees over later.

Geoff looked up and smiled.

“Great people at Overthink. Shame about the lawsuit.”

“Yeah.”

“They still have that little blonde receptionist?”

“Actually, she was the one that sued.”

“Boy, she was a real piece of ass.”

“Well . . . yeah.”

Geoff continued to smile at Brad the way retirees stare at grandchildren before offering some freshly baked cookies or admitting they don't recognize them.

He was taking Brad in. Twenty-five years of interviewing people had made Geoff believe that he was a pretty good judge of character. He wasn't. He had passed on several of the brightest candidates to come through his office for reasons as simple as a stray collar (not organized), a makeup covered zit (what
else
is she hiding?), and a Boston accent (you can't trust foreigners). Many of these candidates had gone on to great success at Geoff's competitors, but he was enough of an egomaniac to ignore this trend. He believed in his gut. Forget Golden Pencil awards, recommendations from friends, amazing portfolios. He looked into a person's eyes.

He was, after all, the mind behind the
Actually, that
is
a banana in my pocket
Moxoto mobile phone campaign. He knew what it took to be great.

Geoff found Brad's eyes to be particularly revealing. He sensed what he thought at first was a deep and profound desperation. A lost soul in need of approval. A man who was giving life one last chance before visiting a bridge and telling some passing stranger “It's not worth it anymore.”

The only thing was, Brad wasn't sweating. Not a drop. Not like a desperate man should be. Geoff always turned the heat up for interviews. He thought it was a swell way to see how candidates handled pressure. An imposed anxiety. It was a great means of scaring up the highly resonant fumes of loser. But this Brad fellow was having none of it. Geoff started to question his initial judgment. Perhaps that wasn't desperation in Brad's eyes. He looked again and revised his original assessment.
Well, well, well. This kid is a cold-blooded killer. Ice in his veins.
Exactly who Geoff was looking for. After all, that's what marketing was all about. The testicular fortitude of a veteran lion tamer. The oversized cashews of Seal Team 6. Stuttering John–caliber cajones. Someone who could look a client in the face and tell them, “You're wrong and I'll prove it to you.” It was maybe the worst way to handle an account, but Geoff had been rewatching the entire run of
Mad Men
and was considering a change in the way his company did business.

Brad had prepared for every possible question Geoff could have asked. The one thing he didn't prepare for was silence. Thank God he had remembered to put his cell phone on vibrate. A call going off in this vacuum would sound more obnoxious than farting while having your pants tailored. He could not have been more uncomfortable as Geoff continued staring/smiling at him. Was this a challenge? Was Geoff looking for some other response? An offer to set him up with the litigious receptionist, perhaps?

Finally, Geoff shook himself out of his trance and affected a look that said
I care.

“Tell me about yourself, Brad.”

That was all Brad needed. He launched into the pitch he had been over so many times in the bathroom mirror. He opened with a joke about how much he loved work—“Maybe a little too much, ha ha”—followed quickly by a serious but concise review of his experience, awards and accomplishments, and finished with a fascinating anecdote about a project he worked on that required a certain creative acumen that only a clever chap like Brad would possess.

“Well, that is very impressive. Let me talk to my people and bounce your portfolio across a few department-head desks. I think we might be able to work something out.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Brad, it was great meeting you. And sorry about the heat. That was my little test.”

Brad took the wink that followed to mean that he should kind of pretend to understand what that disclosure meant. He stood and shook Geoff's meaty hand while looking confidently into that Stepford smiling face one more time. And then it was over.

A man in a dark suit and sunglasses stood in the hallway on the fourteenth floor of 1635 Broadway trying very hard to look as if he were supposed to be there when his earpiece crackled with Brittany's voice.

“Number five, how are we?”

The man in the suit raised his cuff to his mouth and spoke quietly into the hidden microphone.

“We're all clear. Over.”

“Tom, are you still wearing your sunglasses?”

The man in the dark suit paused for a second to review his situation and then, realizing his surveillance faux pas, whipped his sunglasses off and jammed them into his jacket pocket.

“No.”

There was a heavy sigh over the earphone wedged inside his left ear.

“You know we have cameras and mics all over this building, right?”

“Pshh, yeah.” Duh.

“Just make sure no one gets by you, okay?”

“Affirmative.”

The man in the dark suit without sunglasses gave the hallway another once-over. All clear. But Jesus, did he have to pee. Probably just his prostate pushing his bladder around. It happened to Tom more and more often these days, especially when he spent a lot of time on his feet. He knew he should have it checked out, but he also knew what getting it checked out involved. It would wait.

An elevator dinged its arrival on the fourteenth floor, and Tom arranged himself in front of the opening door to make sure no one got off the elevator. An elderly couple on their way to a doctor's appointment started to exit when they saw Tom's stern face. Tom shook his head and told them, “Wrong floor.”

Tom appeared to be quite serious. The unrelenting pressure of having to urinate lent a certain gravitas to his statement. The couple froze for a beat before looking at the lit floor number inside the elevator. It was the right floor, but who wanted to argue with this visibly upset man?

“Sorry. Our mistake.”

Tom nodded and the old couple then backed into the elevator, letting the doors close in front of them.

Inside the surveillance vehicle disguised as a plumber's van parked outside 1635 Broadway, Brittany sat with two underling agents watching a bank of monitors set up to observe the route Carmine would presumably take this morning.

Brittany's research had been exhausting. She had called in every favor she had with undercover agents, informants, and reporters around the city. She left no rock unturned. There could be no mistaking what was going down today at 1635 Broadway.

Frank Fortunato's plan was to meet Carmine Mastramouro in the lobby and shoot him dead. Frank's bloated ego had convinced him that he could buy off or kill any civilian witnesses foolish enough to testify against him. And he probably was right. Which is why Brittany had brought her own witnesses.

Her plan was to catch him in the act, gun in hand, just before he fired. It was very theatrical and would make a compelling front page. And her case would be bulletproof. Captured on video from start to finish. FBI agents planted in the elevator banks to not only stop the crime and catch Frank, but to serve as impeccable eyewitnesses. The tabloids would refer to her as the new Eliot Ness. Her name would become synonymous with law enforcement. Hello, Oprah.

Her cell phone rang. It was the call she had been waiting for her whole career.

“Marinakos, go.”

“Target is two blocks away from 1635 headed south on Broadway.”

“Stay on him. Let me know.”

She hung up and hit the walkie button to talk to all the agents working for her.

“We're T minus two minutes from go time. Tom, can you check that north stairwell one more time?”

“Check.”

“Yes, check them. You know, make sure they're clear.”

“I meant affirmative.”

“Just do it.”

Tom had not been Brittany's first choice, but her department was shorthanded and she needed men. He wasn't the best agent she had ever met, but Brittany knew Tom could at least be counted on to follow some very simple instructions. Carmine would exit his therapist's office at eleven o'clock exactly. Same as every Wednesday morning. He would take the elevator down on his way to meet his boyfriend for coffee across the street. Like clockwork.

Tom's instructions had been to make sure the fourteenth floor was clear of any interference, basically busy work to keep his head in the game. Brittany knew Tom could be a little unfocused at times, so she had warned him there was a good chance that Frank would send backup
soldati
,
picciotti
,
sgarrista
. Basically everything but pirates. Tom assured her he would be on his toes with his eyes wide open. Once he had cleared the area, he was to wait for Brittany's signal that Carmine had entered the elevator a few floors above, hit the Down button, and wait to catch a ride down with him to the lobby, ensuring Tom would be there when Frank attacked.

Not that Tom could do anything to stop Frank. There would be other people there for that. Highly trained agents who would quickly subdue Frank and prevent any real injury. Tom's real job was to be the handsome guy with twenty-twenty vision and a squeaky clean record who saw it all. Perfect for the witness stand. But he better not be wearing those goddamned sunglasses.