Formerly Fingerman (7 page)

Up on the fourteenth floor Tom moved quickly to the stairway door, passing the men's room on his way. The stairs were clear. No mobsters, no henchmen, no sneering men in skull-and-crossbones hats and curly mustaches. Yet. Whew.

As he headed back toward his post in front of the elevator, he stopped in front of the men's room. Man, he had to pee like you read about. If he was calculating correctly, they were still T minus about one minute until he had to make his move. Plenty of time. He slipped into the bathroom, fumbling with his zipper as he hustled toward the urinal.

Brad navigated the interior of the Red Light office on his way to the front door, mentally replaying the last ten minutes of his life. He came to the conclusion that his interview could not have gone better. It was the same feeling he had after the presentation he gave the day he got fired, only without the embarrassing ending. He took a moment to savor the feeling of being immersed in an agency once more. While fleeting, it was nevertheless inspiring. Who knew the vapid poseur culture of advertising could work as such a salve for the soul?

Yes, this pasty Tarzan with a hundred dollar haircut had swung from one vine, let go, done a few flips, posed for the cameras, grabbed another vine, and swung away. He was back.

It felt good to swing. Life had its ups and downs, but in Brad's world, the ups were worth the downs since usually neither was life-threatening. Sure he forgot when the vodka assignment was due, but if he hadn't he wouldn't have come up with the brilliant idea that skyrocketed him to interagency fame. So he blew the vodka thing only weeks later. A few weeks of unemployment was an easy trade for a deep notch in the bedpost like Red Light. There was always another vine. Would it be inappropriate to attempt a Tarzan yell? Probably. He settled for growling a quiet
Ungowa!
to himself as he worked his way through the kitschy office.

He exited Red Light's fourteenth floor office to face the elevator in an empty hallway and pressed the Down button. His phone began vibrating. Gracie.

He pulled it out and soaked up the moment. It was time to answer her call. Hitting the green answer button meant he had the go to tell her the good news. The great news. That he had fucking owned it and was back on top. They were back to really being the couple he had been pretending to be.

Oh, but wait. Why do that on the phone? You can't get a congratulatory (ahem)
hug
over the phone. Brad smiled to himself and declined Gracie's call for the last time. He would delay gratification for a few more minutes to share the news in person. God, he was so mature.

As he waited he allowed himself an indulgent thought.

Things are finally turning my way.

It was T minus nothing. Frank was headed into the building lobby. Carmine was headed down in the elevator.

“Showtime.”

It was so great when Brittany could say dramatic things that really had two meanings, even if she was the only one who realized it.

Brad almost didn't hear the elevator ding.

Standing in the hallway, he was too lost in his tiny dreams of success, picturing himself striding confidently into the Red Light office wearing the warm glow of self-assurance that radiates from those who know they're The Man. In his mind he had just shared a joke with the guy in the coffee cart outside (staying in touch with the little people), picked up his usual paper from the newspaper vendor (
Morning, Mr. Fingerman. How 'bout them Giants?
), and chuckled good naturedly at the people gathered around the three-card Monte hustler outside 1635 Broadway (Suckers!). Brad's future self made sure to say
hi
to the cute young receptionist who greeted him a little too warmly every morning. Probably a crush, but who could blame her?
Good morning to you too, Christy. But no thanks, I'm happily married.
Which reminded him. Hmmm, perhaps an upgrade to a platinum wedding band. And a well-earned man-cation. Nice.

Inside the waiting elevator Carmine cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. Coming or not? Brad snapped to and glided on in.

Brittany scanned the monitors and focused herself on the exquisite timing they had all agreed on.

“Perfect, Tom. Just stay cool. Everybody's in position.”

The flush broadcasted over Tom's microphone to everyone on the walkie network. He had raised his mic hand to respond to Brittany when the AutoFlush sensed that he had moved away from the urinal. It wasn't his prostate after all. It was the jumbo coffee he poured down his gullet on his way to work, after oversleeping. Which took more than the T minus thirty seconds he had hoped to spend peeing. Damn those late night infomercials.

“Be right there, Brittany.”

“Wait, that's not you?”

A cold tingle quickly walked its prickly fingers up the back of Brittany's spine as she stared closer and closer at the feed from the camera in the elevator. There was Carmine standing next to a guy who was not Tom. This was not her plan.

“Who is that? Why is he there? What's he doing? Can we get him out of there?”

Brittany and her fellow van mates watched helplessly as the elevator doors closed.

One team member raised his eyebrows and actually cracked the tiniest smile.

“Not anymore.”

There's nothing worse than a smug underling agent.

“Tom, how did he get past you?”

“I'm in position, Brittany.”

He sounded as if he were walking briskly.

“No, Tom. You missed him.”

“Oh . . . Oops.”

Now was the time for Plan B. She needed a Plan B.

“Stop the elevator. We have to get him out of there.”

“That would compromise our entire operation, we can't—”

ZZZZZZPPPTTTPPZZZPT.

Every monitor in the van went black as all three agents clasped their hands to their headphones before whipping them off. The squeal of feedback was audible even as the headphones hit the floor.

“What just happened?”

Smoke filled the interior of the truck. Mr. Smug didn't look so smug anymore.

“Uh, sorry.”

Tom wasn't the only one who picked up a jumbo coffee on the way to work this morning. But of the two, Tom was the one who didn't spill his barely touched, Trenta Pike Place Roast on the computer that every camera and mic was running through.

“Holy. Shit.”

As the video system flamed out and smoke poured through every nook and cranny of the van, passersby could hear the three plumbers within coughing and cursing, and one of them finally screaming, “ALL UNITS GO GO GO! TAKE HIM DOWN! I REPEAT TAKE THE TARGET DOWN!” into their walkie talkies before bursting out of the side door.

All units go
. Tom heard the call and jumped to action, jamming his finger into the Down button over and over as quickly as he could. Maybe this was his chance to make up for the bathroom break.

On the street several agents disguised as regular Joes and Janes sprang into action. The coffee guy whipped out his gun. The newspaper vendor hopped over a stack of magazines and ran for the entrance. The three-card Monte dealer left an eager German chump midgame to follow the other two undercover agents into the building.

Brittany and her crack team made it into the lobby only to find it completely empty. Frank was nowhere to be found. Plan B was a bust. The Agent Formerly Known As Smug posed a theory.

“He's gone. Maybe he isn't going through with it.”

Fat chance. Besides, Brittany had too much riding on this to take that risk. Plan C. What was Plan C?

“The stairs. He took the stairs. He didn't want to do it in the lobby. We have to check every floor. Let's go.”

They hit the north-side stairs running. As they raced up, story by story, agents peeled off to individual floors. Brittany barked orders as she raced ahead of them all.

Brad and Carmine's elevator was quiet. Brad stood next to the doors and did his best to contain himself, but how often does a guy like him have days like this? His restraint didn't last more than two floors. He looked over his shoulder and caught Carmine's eye.

“Just had an interview.”

Carmine widened his eyes to affect the smallest possible courtesy reaction.
B. F-ing. D.

Brad considered singing the chorus of “The Bitch Is Back” but decided that wasn't quite the tone he wanted to set. He really wished he could think of some other relevant, comeback-related song, but he came up empty and decided to just keep it simple.

“Went great. I mean really amazing.”

Carmine forced himself to nod.
Whoopee
.

“Think I'll stop by home and tell my wife about it before I go back to work. Give her the good news, if you know what I mean.”

Oh, yes. Brad was feeling it. Carmine wasn't.

As Brad smiled and congratulated himself on being a handsome devil with a bright future, he noticed something on his left shoe. A scuff of dirt. The one flaw in his perfect day. He knelt down to wipe it off as the elevator dinged to a stop on the fourth floor. Two black shoes stepped into the open doors.

Brad worked on the scuff mark, secretly grateful that someone else was entering the elevator. Maybe
they
would be interested in Brad's remarkable interview.

Some of the dirt he had scraped off floated up to Brad's nostrils. He let loose a tremendous, soul-shaking, eye-watering sneeze. No one said, “Bless you.”

“Yup, I think things are finally looking up for me.”

The scuff mark was a stubborn one and not coming off easily, but Brad wasn't about to give up. He had been patient, paid some humiliating dues, and kept his secret shame from his wife long enough for everything to work out perfectly. He would be damned if half a square inch of dirt was going to taint this brilliant canvas of a life he had just put the finishing touches on. He was on his way back to the top of the heap. Back to the official New York of Brad Fingerman. His new job now merely a matter of administrative formality that would trigger positive reactive measures across the rest of his existence. Money. Esteem. Confidence. Potence. He might even tell Champ to go fuck himself. Not really, but it felt good to imagine saying stuff like that.

In fact, if the scuff mark had come off easily, Brad would have stood up, turned around, and seen Carmine's eyes go wide like saucers at what was waiting outside the elevator. Brad would have seen a look of recognition in those saucers. And then he would have seen a wash of realization in them. A look that said something unavoidable and terrible was about to happen. But Brad was busy with his scuff mark, so instead he only heard the last two words of Carmine's life.

“. . . Holy crap.”

Not understanding the true sentiment behind the statement, Brad naturally assumed it was about his amazing tale of good fortune, that he had cracked his elevator buddy's cold veneer. “I know. It's great, right? It's like my friend Owen told me, if you keep a positive outlook . . .”

FUMP-FUMP-FUMP-FUMP-FUMP.
The silenced gun above Brad's head fired five shots directly into Carmine's heart.

“. . . sometimes you get lucky.”

The black shoes moved away as Brad finally cleared enough dirt off his shoe leather to be deemed acceptable for his victory walk home. He stood up to continue the conversation with his new friend. Instead he found that Carmine looked decidedly worse now than he did for the first ten floors of their ride.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Carmine continued staring ahead as he slid down the back wall of the elevator, streaking blood behind him. Down the hall, footsteps faded away as a stairwell door slammed shut.

“. . . Whoa.”

The elevator doors began to close when a herd of footsteps swarmed the hallway and a firm hand stopped the elevator.

“FREEZE! FBI!”

Brittany and three other agents stood ready to pounce just outside the elevator, guns drawn. It took about 0.8 seconds for Brittany to understand what had happened.

She had failed.

They were too late. Carmine was dead and Frank was gone. There was no video or audio of the crime. Her father might have referred to her situation as FUBAR.

Brad finally broke the tense silence.

“. . . What the fuck?”

It was an innocent enough question and perfectly justifiable considering Brad had not been privy to Plans A, B, or C. But innocent or not, it sparked a reaction in Brittany that even she didn't expect. They hadn't seen Frank on their way up. And she needed to bring someone in, even if it meant thinking up a different name for the mission. Project Innocent Bystander, for example.

She grabbed Brad and slammed him against the elevator wall.

“You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

There was more, but it was all lost on Brad. He was reeling as he watched his luck go from a royal flush to snake eyes in the time it took to clean off his shoe.

Tom had waited for the elevator for only a brief moment before deciding to take matters into his own hands. Brittany had said all units go, after all. They might call him a maverick, but he wasn't waiting for any stinking elevator. He ran to the stairwell on the south side of the hallway and headed down two and three stairs at a time, gun drawn and ready for action.

By the time he got to the second floor he was exhausted and still hadn't quite figured out exactly where all units were supposed to go. He paused to catch his breath. It was then that the yelling from a floor or two above echoed down the cement stairwell. He turned to start back up when a man in a great hurry whipped around the corner and headed down toward him. Tom thought fast.

“Hey Buddy, have you seen a bunch of FBI agents around here?”

“Uh, no, sorry.”

As Frank Fortunato tried to push past the charged-up agent, something clicked in Tom's government-trained mind.

“Sayyyy. You're Frank Fortunato.”

“I get that a lot. Excuse me.”