Boy Nobody (10 page)

Good to know.

But we’re not done quite yet.

There’s another security detail to pass through. Two guys in dark suits who aren’t cops, and clearly aren’t temporary hires.

These guys are heavy hitters. I can tell the difference.

The first one is out of position, too close to the elevator. If something bad came through the elevator doors, he would be in trouble.

The second is situated better. He’s across the hall with his back to a wall. He’s in a good position to see what’s going on. This one is not distracted. He scans faces, waistbands, hands. He’s a real pro.

I’m impressed.

We pass by him and he nods to me. A nod, the universal greeting of military and law enforcement around the world when they recognize one of their own. He recognizes something in me, or his senses do. He’s nodding to one of his own tribe.

I almost nod back.

It’s so automatic that I barely catch it in time.

One nod and it would be over. If this guy is as good as I think he is, I’d have a lot of questions to answer.

So when he nods, I pretend not to notice. I instantly pull my energy back by a degree.

This Pro is dangerous. I will avoid him if I can.

His partner opens the doors for us. No nod.

Just the entrance to the mayor’s residence on the penthouse floor.

I’m expecting the money shot from a New York billionaire. A grand room, the ceiling rising thirty feet in the air, a chandelier the size of a small car.

That’s not what I see.

I see a home.

Natural tones. Shelves of books. Soft lighting.

Make no mistake. It’s a huge space—the entire floor of a
building. But at the same time, it’s comfortable. You can sense that real people live here. Some spaces are just like that.

Snacks.

The word pops into my head.

It disturbs me, the way it sneaks up on me and enters uninvited.

Kids come home and have snacks.

Why am I thinking about this? This is not real. It’s something I saw on a TV show sometime.

No. It’s a memory.

Twelve years old. My last year of normal life in the world.

My snack. Oatmeal raisin cookies on a plate.

“Earth to Benji,” Erica says.

I look back at her. I can’t afford the distraction of memories now, not when I’ve got five days to complete the highest-profile assignment of my life.

It could also be my quickest.

It all depends on the mayor. Is he here tonight?

“Sorry, I was thinking about something,” I say to Erica.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “You’re thinking you’re out of your league. That’s what everyone thinks when they’re in the mayor’s house for the first time. Not cool, Ben. I need you
suavecito
.”

“This place? What’s the big deal?” I say.

“Exactly,” she says. “That’s the cocky guy I met this afternoon. Now follow me.”

Music carries down the hall from another part of the apartment.

We walk toward it. The hall opens into a large living room. Music blares. Bodies jump.

Erica’s energy turns excited, her shoulders swaying to the music.

“Isn’t this great?” she shouts.

She dances in front of me, a single serpentine move, all hips and attitude.

I gauge the reactions of people around the room. Are they looking at us?

Yes. And they look surprised to see Erica with the new guy. But more importantly, will Sam be surprised?

“Where is she?” Erica is asking a girl. The girl points.

Erica turns her back to me, her ass swaying with the music. She glances back to see if I’m looking.

I am.

She guides me down the hall.

To Sam.

We catch up to her in a huge, state-of-the-art kitchen. Someone obviously likes to cook in this house, and it might be Sam. She’s at the counter chopping vegetables with a large chef’s knife.

“Look what I found,” Erica says like she’s showing me off.

Sam takes in the two of us standing together.

There’s no obvious reaction, at least not that a normal person could detect.

But I’m not a normal person.

I see a tightening in her shoulders, a shift in the musculature of her face. Tension in the eyebrows where none existed before. I think I’ve plucked the right string.

She’s expertly cutting a cucumber, breaking it down into neat, diced squares.

“What did you find?” Sam says, no trace of a reaction in her voice.

“A lost puppy on the street,” Erica says. “I couldn’t help but scoop him up.”

She puts her arms around my shoulders like I’m her new toy.

“You decided to come,” Sam says to me.

“Not like I had a choice,” I say, motioning toward Erica.

“Be careful,” Sam says. “She’s known for overfeeding her pets.”

“I’m not concerned,” I say.

“You should be. She’s got a cat the size of a Macy’s balloon,” Sam says.

“Don’t hate on my feline,” Erica says. “He’s a little pudgy is all.”

Sam puffs out her cheeks, and Erica doubles over laughing.

Sam looks from Erica back to me, the tiniest hint of anger in her eyes. She goes back to chopping.

“What are you making?” Erica asks her.

“Israeli salad,” she says.

“My favorite!” Erica says, snatching a cube of tomato out of the bowl. “It’s like
pico de gallo
with a different accent. I just need something to wash it down.”

“Soda is on the kitchen table,” Sam says. “And the stash is—”

“In the stash drawer,” Erica says. “Got it.”

She goes to a pantry the size of a walk-in closet, opens the third drawer down, and removes a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil. She pours two fingers into a glass, then tops it off with lemonade.

“You’re going to drink oil?” I say. “That’s a new one.”

“It’s tequila,” Erica says. “Sam’s little trick. Pretty good, huh? It’s like the CIA of booze.”

“I’m afraid to ask what’s in the vinegar bottle,” I say.

Sam turns to me, the chef’s knife in her hand.

“I could tell you,” she says. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

I look at the knife. The blade is wet, shiny, and dangerous. I calculate the striking distance from Sam to me. Six tile-lengths on the kitchen floor.

I’m within five.

I subtly take a step back.

Most people would not notice my adjustment, but Sam tracks me with her eyes.

“Are you scared of knives?” she says.

“Only if they’re pointed at me,” I say.

She puts the knife down.

“Maybe I should have asked if you’re scared of me,” she says.

I smile.

“I’m more scared of your father. What happens if he finds out we’re drinking in his house?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Sam says.

“So he’s here?” I say.

“Somewhere,” she says. “He runs and hides during these things.”

But where is he hiding?

“Anyway, don’t worry about the booze,” Sam says. “It’s not like the cops are going to come. They’re already here.”

“Buzzkill,” Erica says. She takes a big gulp of spiked lemonade.
“Delicioso!”

A group of girls passes by, and Erica lets out a whoop.

“I have to say hello to these bitches,” she says with a grin. “Don’t go far, little puppy, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just pinches my ear, then drifts off toward the music with drink in hand.

“You made a new friend,” Sam says.

“I guess so.”

“That was quick.”

She stares me down.

I want her to be a little jealous, but I don’t want to lose her. I need to be cautious with her now.

I say, “Is it okay that I came with her? I didn’t want to be the new guy here all alone.”

Sam waves me off.

“It’s fine. It’s a party. It’s not like we had a date or anything.”

“Not yet at least.”

She grins and hands me a glass of the spiked lemonade.

“Any chance of your father walking in on me drinking this? I’d hate to make a bad first impression.”

“You want to meet him, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t lie to me. I hate that.”

“I want to meet him. Why wouldn’t I?”

She looks away from me, sips from her own lemonade.

“But I’d rather meet you,” I say.

She looks back.

“Nice save.”

“It’s not a save. It’s the truth.”

“Maybe I’ll introduce you sometime, Benjamin. If you and I—”

“If we what?”

“Get closer.”

Closer.
The word sounds good when she says it.

But I don’t get closer to people. Not in the way she means.

I get closer to my target.

“You’d better find your date,” Sam says.

“You mean before she goes on a rampage?”

“Some women get angry when they don’t get their way.”

“How about you?”

“I’m half Israeli,” she says. “I get more than angry.”

“I’ll be sure to stay on your good side,” I say.

And I go back to the party.

But it’s not my date I’m looking for.

That’s what Sam said. He’s sequestered somewhere in the apartment.

I do a slow lap around the space.

I look around like I’m scouting for friends, but in fact I’m searching for the mayor and memorizing the terrain at the same time.

Two things I need to know:

How to get in, and how to get out again.

I note entrances and exits, doors, corners, blind spots. The weather is nice, so the windows are open. I step into an empty room and pop my head outside.

We’re on the twelfth floor. It’s a long way down.

There’s a concrete molding that runs along the outside edge of the windows. Nothing you’d want to stand on for long.

I pull my head back inside, and Darius, the Shaggy Giant, is behind me, looking at me like he’s got bad things on his mind.

“You thinking about giving me a push?” I say.

“I was hoping you were suicidal and I wouldn’t have to.”

“I am feeling a little sad today.”

“Go with it,” he says. “A little sad can become very sad. Especially when mixed with alcohol.”

“You’re a sweet guy. Sam was right.”

The muscles in his shoulders clench.

“She was talking about me?” He looks intrigued for just a second, then he covers it. “No. She’s not talking about me. Not to you. Nice try.”

“You’re right,” I say. “She barely mentioned you.”

Now his eyelid flutters.

High-strung guy. I don’t want to deal with him now, not when I’m here for the mayor. I’ve already pushed him enough to get the upper hand. Now it’s time to smooth things over a little. If something goes down tonight, I don’t want him to be the one who says to the police, “Did you interrogate the new guy yet?”

“You need a drink?” I say, offering him my lemonade.

“Did you spit in it?”

“That’s elementary school stuff. We’re in the big leagues now. I pissed in it.”

His eyes widen.

“I’m kidding. It’s perfectly fine. I just don’t drink.”

I hold out the cup. Peace offering.

He hesitates.

“You in the program?” he says.

The Program.

Mother’s image flashes in my head.

But he’s not talking about my program. He’s talking about AA. Alcoholics Anonymous.

“In and out,” I lie. “But I gave up the drinking. Couldn’t handle it.”

“Sucks for you, huh?”

He sips from the lemonade.

“Obviously I don’t have a problem,” he says. “But I’m careful about it. You know how it is.”

“Sure, sure,” I say.

“Unlike you,” he says. “You’re not being careful.”

“What are we talking about?”

“Sneaking into the party.”

“I didn’t sneak in. Your girl invited me,” I say.

“She’s not my girl. She’s her own girl—er—woman.”

“Your woman invited me. So whatever you told her after class didn’t work.”

“Hey, dude, it’s not personal. She sent me to check you out. I told her what I thought.”

“She sent you?”

“I don’t know how you Choaties did it, but we have a code here. We take care of our own. Especially Sam. She’s like royalty.”

This guy’s got it bad. It’s pretty obvious.

He takes another sip. More than a sip. Half the glass is gone.

“How did you get in with her so quickly?” he says.

“I’m not in.”

“You’re in the house. It’s hard to get in this house.”

“It took you a while to get here, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He stares at me. Or tries to stare. His eyes are fuzzing out.

This is the real reason why I don’t drink. Situational awareness is progressively diminished with substances in your system.

Plus, it just makes you stupid.

He takes another long gulp. Liquid courage.

“You,” he says.

He points at me again. He loves to point. I’m starting to think this guy is a one-trick pony.

“I’m watching you,” he says.

“You don’t need to watch me,” I say. “We’re on the same side.”

“We are?”

He sways a little on his feet.

“I’m not going to hurt Sam,” I say. “I promise you.”

He nods, and his guard goes down. “She’s been through a lot, you know? I try to protect her, but it isn’t easy.”

I pat his shoulder. It’s rock-hard from working out.

“I hear you,” I say, heading toward the door.

“You want your drink back?” he says.

“It’s all yours,” I say.

He holds it up in a silent toast.

“See you around,” he says.

Maybe not
, I think.

No hello. No comment at all.

She sees me when I step out of the room, and she lunges. Actually, her dress is a little short for lunging, so it resists. Especially around the hips.

“I have to find someone,” I say, trying to pull away from her.

“Someone more important than me?” she says.

“Of course not,” I say. “I just need to—”

“Two seconds,” she says. “I want to show you something.”