The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller (13 page)
Read The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller Online
Authors: Shane Kuhn
Tags: #Fiction, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thriller
ASAHFP
S
aturday morning. Sitting in my new apartment. It’s a shit hole. Bob’s revenge for me losing my cover on the last one. Just got home from Alice’s house.
I did not kill her
. I was fully prepared to do it. There are some unsolved murder cases in her neighborhood—mostly young women. I was going to follow the pattern: strangulation, rosary in the victim’s mouth, some Old Testament verse about harlots written in lipstick on the wall. Fairly contrived, but then again, we’re talking about a serial killer—God’s own sexually transmitted disease. There’s nothing more despicable than an overgrown pervert mental patient fuck face who kills people for no real reason.
In fact, it was in thinking about the whole serial killer thing that I decided not to do it. In the end, Alice is not my target and I am not in the business of killing people other than my target. Bob has no problem with that, collateral damage and all. I do. Always have. Alice may be a federal agent, but she’s still just a bystander and she isn’t pointing a gun at me yet. Don’t get me wrong. I’m probably taking the biggest risk of my career and potentially my life by allowing her to continue to breathe. I guess it goes to show you that even a reptile like me has to have standards.
Plus, I now have an endgame, and she can’t possibly interfere with it. Actually, I have her to thank for it. On my way to her apartment, I was thinking about one of my favorite movies,
Scarface,
and
it occurred to me that I could whack Bendini much in the same way Tony Montana gets whacked in the end of that movie—a cartel-style, balls-out assault.
So, after she was asleep, courtesy of Ambien and a couple gallons of champagne, I loaded up a new and improved Russian Mafia password crack program and took a long look at the case files on her laptop. Mostly, I was looking for routine surveillance reports from Bendini’s home. Thanks to the FBI, I now have detailed schematics of his home and grounds, along with comprehensive data on his security systems and security patrol staff. I even know how many guard dogs he has and what breeds. If I knew any more about how Bendini moves, I would have to be Bendini himself. Knowing all of this, I can hit him cartel style and still stay within Bob’s program.
I ran it by Bob and he gave me his blessing. In fact, he loves the idea, because his clients are starting to get extremely cranky with him. And when those types of clients get cranky, you run the risk of getting whacked yourself. So I’m calling it operation ASAHFP—As Soon As Humanly Fucking Possible—and I’m already deep into preparations. It feels good to prep this hit because I need to clear my head and keep my eyes on the prize. This shit will all be a distant memory when I’m down in Brazil getting a new face—preferably one that looks a lot like 1968 Clint Eastwood if I find the right surgeon. But first I need to find a way to take out a dozen armed security guards—most of whom are former Navy SEALs and Special Forces operators, get past what is certain to be a bank-style security system, and whack the motherfucker before the sun comes up. Details.
United States Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, D.C. 20535
SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING—MOBILE PARABOLIC REFLECTOR MIC
Location: Laurel Place Restaurant, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn
Subjects: John Lago, Alice (censored), and Dorothy (censored).
Lago: | Nice to meet you, Dorothy. |
Dorothy: | Pleasure to meet you, John. I’ve heard a lot about you. |
Lago: | All bad, right, Dorothy? |
Dorothy: | You two make such a handsome couple. Maybe you should think about . . . you know . . . marriage. Start a family of your own? |
Lago: | Don’t they say lawyers shouldn’t breed? |
Dorothy: | Oh, John, you’re a real hoot. |
Alice: | Yeah, John, a hoot. |
Lago: | I’m here all week. Try the veal. |
Dorothy: | Okay, well let’s talk about what I found when I researched your genealogy, John. |
Lago: | I apologize in advance for exposing you to such misery. |
Dorothy: | Not to worry. We’re all loved equally by the Lord, no matter what our past holds. Speaking of which . . . |
SOUND OF PAPERS SHUFFLING. | |
Dorothy: | I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I was able to follow a potential lead based on your partial birth records. Obviously, your mother died before she was able to name you. So you would have been listed as John Doe. And, since we know that you were born prematurely, you would have been placed in the neonatal intensive care unit for several weeks. So I searched for babies born around the time you were born that fit these criteria. Luckily, there was only one male child born prematurely and orphaned at that time. I presumed that was you, so I used that information to find the person I believe might have been your mother. |
Lago: | Holy shit. |
Dorothy: | Do you want to know her name? |
Lago: | I’m not, uh, I’m not sure. |
Alice: | John, you wanted to know where you came from. She’s part of that. |
Lago: | Okay. |
Dorothy: | Her name was Penny (censored). |
Lago: | A bad penny always turns up. |
LAGO LAUGHS. | |
Lago: | Sorry. |
Dorothy: | She was only twenty-three. Poor thing was already clinically dead when they delivered you by emergency C-section. I’m getting the police report to see if her assailant— |
Lago: | If my father killed her? |
Alice: | Easy, John. |
Dorothy: | That is one possibility, John, so I am pursuing it. I can stop if you wish. |
Lago: | No. Go ahead. I want to know. |
Dorothy: | Okay. I do have some good news. Presuming I’m correct about all of this, when you were in the NICU, you were there with four other babies. From the time you were admitted to the time you were discharged, forty-seven people visited the unit. One of them might have come to visit you. |
Alice: | Oh my God, John. One of them could have been your father. |
Lago: | Interesting. Safe to say that if he did come to visit, he probably wasn’t the one that shot my mother. Whoever wanted her dead wanted me dead too. |
Dorothy: | I would say that is a reasonable assessment. |
Alice: | Do you have the actual names? |
Dorothy: | Right here in my hot little hand. I have it narrowed down to forty or so strong possibilities. Of course, even if your father did visit, he might have used a false name to protect himself. So let’s not count our chickens just yet. Anyway, if these don’t work out, we can gather some more information and refine the search. |
Alice: | John, this is so exciting. |
Dorothy: | Now there’s no guarantee one of them is his father. |
Alice: | I know but, if one of them is . . . Thank you, Dorothy. |
LAGO IS BREATHING FAST, SHALLOW. | |
Alice: | John, are you okay? |
Lago: | I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed. |
Dorothy: | John, do you know anything at all about your father? Anything that might help us narrow down the list? |
Lago: | Nothing. According to one of my social workers, my mother had a photo in her purse of her holding hands with a man. But the photo was covered in blood and they couldn’t make out who was with her. |
Alice: | Do you have the photo? |
Dorothy: | Yes, the photo could be helpful. |
Lago: | I’m sorry. This is . . . I need some air. |
Alice: | Wait, John. Don’t leave. |
PAUSE. SOUND OF ENTRY DOOR CLOSING. | |
—END TRANSCRIPT— |
OKAY, NOW I AM FUCKING PISSED
I
just finished work and I’m up in Scarsdale, casing Bendini’s house. Actually, it’s more of a compound that sits on nearly thirty-five acres in one of the wealthiest areas on the eastern seaboard. Yeah, he’s a rich lawyer, but give me a fucking break. This is stupid money. As I sit waiting in a small school parking lot on a hill above Bendini’s house, my night vision specs reveal approximately twenty armed guards patrolling the grounds. I think back to the
Scarface
plan, and Bendini’s place is perfect for it. The grounds are too expansive for such a comparatively small security detail to cover it all. As long as I make it to the house without getting devoured by the man-eating dogs he has patrolling the grounds, I can create a big enough distraction to pave the way for me to creep in and have my way with Bendini. After that, I’ll kill him. Bob’s right. Ha, ha. My jokes do suck.
A quiet walk around the perimeter of the house yields many disturbing revelations. In addition to the bodyguards roaming around, he does have many dogs, three iron fences—one with electrified razor wire, cameras up the wazoo—that’s Dr. Seuss’s word for “asshole”—and motion sensors covering every square inch of the property. If a housefly farts, the system will know it. But I like these little Rubik’s Cube problems. Makes the job interesting. Never underestimate the power of legit black ops to take your mind off your troubles.
And don’t be afraid to tackle the biggest security systems. It doesn’t matter how much money someone puts into it, there is
always
a way in. Human beings are not capable of setting up a system with zero errors. They would have to be aliens with superior intelligence or Norwegians to pull that off. And Norwegians don’t even lock the doors to their own houses, so they’re out. Armed with a shitload of night vision photos and copies of Alice’s case files, I set up shop in a nearby diner and start to work out some ideas. That’s when I feel the gun in my back.
“I’m gonna sit next to you and you’re gonna act like you’re really fucking happy to see me. Got it?”
“Yes.”
He sits. Goombah. Pockmarked mug. I could cave his fucking pizza face in with one palm strike and watch his brains ooze out his eye sockets if I wanted to, but I’m interested in what he has to say.
“What you got there?”
He’s referring to my photos and schematics on the table.
“Do I know you?”
“Don’t be a fucking smart-ass. You want the back of my hand?”
I’m trying very hard not to laugh.
“Okay, sir, calm down. I don’t want any trouble.”
“That’s more like it, you fucking pussy.”
I want to feel his spine as I pull it out of the base of his skull.
“What’s this all about?” I inquire innocently.
“I’ll tell you what this is all about.”
I see the other guy’s reflection flash in the chrome of the shake machine and—
WHACK!
—he hits me in the head with the butt of his pistol. The weight feels like a .357 snub. I go all Lebowski, sprawled out on the linoleum, dreaming of broads and bowling pins.
When I wake up, I feel like I’ve spent a week in a Mexican whorehouse. My mouth tastes like blood and fish guts. There is a miniature donkey in my skull, kicking my eyeballs like piñatas. And for
some reason my nuts are red-hot on fire. When they pull the greasy gasoline rag off my eyes, I see why. Goombahs have been Tazing my cash and prizes to get me to wake up.
Okay, now I am fucking pissed.
For some reason, I can take a beating anywhere else but in my junk. When I was in juvie, a kid kicked me in the nuts and I shanked him with a number 2 pencil. My sensitivity about my twig and berries probably stems from the innumerable molestation and full-blown rape attempts perpetrated by sweating, mouth-breathing foster fathers, uncles, grandpas, older brothers, and other trolls that the state put in charge of giving me a good Christian upbringing. You’ll note I said “attempts.” Many of those fine stewards of wayward youth ended up having to suck their government meat loaf through a straw. Anyway, I digress.