The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller (17 page)

Rule #11: Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.

I’m quoting Hemingway because last night I had more drinks in one sitting than I’ve had my whole life. I tend to avoid alcohol because I have seen it make monsters out of the men who were supposed to be my guardians, and, let’s face it, it makes you fat and stupid over time. But in light of the Bendini situation, I decided to drown myself in snake oil like an outlaw on the eve of a showdown he’s certain to lose. It was at the pinnacle of my nihilistic rage that Alice showed up, looking for a booty call. I was the world’s biggest prick. Not only did I burn that bridge, but I blew it to kingdom come. I feel bad, but it was the only way. Got to just rip off the Band-Aid. When she looks back, she’ll hate my guts and there won’t be any regret because my name will simply go on a plaque in her mausoleum of fucked-up men who failed her.

But that’s not why I’m quoting Hem. After nearly killing the bartender and stomping out through the rubble like some kind of hillbilly Godzilla, I decided it would be an excellent idea to call Bob at 2:00
A.M.
I thought it was an even better idea to leave him a message telling him I wanted to be relieved of my duties and that he should go fuck himself—or something to that effect. It is now 5:00
A.M.
and I’m facedown on the kitchen floor, hoping it was all just a
bad dream. Then my phone rings. Bob wants to meet me at a diner in Battery Park. He hangs up before I can say anything other than, “Yes.” He does not sound happy. The picture is complete when a black Town Car that might as well be a hearse pulls up to my building to take me to Battery Park.

When I arrive, Bob has a telltale bulge in his jacket. My guess is he’s packing something small and light so as not to alarm me. Wants me to think it’s “for snakes and such.” But
I am alarmed
. He is also wearing a Kevlar vest. Mind you, it’s an Israeli-made undercover police vest—very thin and difficult to see under normal clothes. Also, this diner is located near the water and is fairly obscure. It is surrounded by rail yards and other empty industrial places—great for killing someone and dumping them in the river without a lot of witnesses. And let’s not forget the two gentlemen posing as police officers sitting in the police cruiser drinking coffee outside. Nice touch. I know they are professionals because most New York cops are not that fit. Also, hitters have a look. Many of them gobble steroids like PEZ, and they end up with that muscle face you see with juicers. These guys are your garden-variety, ex-military (special forces or whatever), bulging-at-the-seams neck breakers.

I know there are more.
If Bob were taking precautions with me, and he clearly is, he wouldn’t come with only two for backup. My guess is the kitchen staff, waitress, and maybe even the homeless guy taking a shit in a Folgers can outside are all waiting to bag and tag me like a baboon on
Wild Kingdom
. This is it. This is how it’s going down. I’m going to do something I never want you to do: I’m going to confront Bob. As they say on
Jackass,
don’t try this at home. It’s a hundred times more dangerous than any of your assignments will be, and you would be an idiot—a dead idiot—to try it. The only reason I’m doing it is because I’m fairly certain this is going to end badly and I’ve decided I’m not going down easy. Why should I?

“John, I wouldn’t have expected something like this back when you were fourteen, let alone now.” Bob is attempting, unsuccessfully, to contain his anger.

“This is a unique situation, Bob.”

“So you got frustrated and now you want to quit?”

“Frustrated doesn’t quite capture how I’m feeling about this job. All due respect but to say this is irregular is putting it lightly.”

Bob slams his hand on the table, knocking everything to the floor. Now I have to be ready for anything.

“Stop patronizing me with that bullshit tone. We’re talking man to man here!” he yells. Bob never yells.

“As long as we’re talking man to man, may I say that this assignment has been dog shit from the beginning, and you seem to have your head up your ass? Furthermore, I’m not fucking lifting another finger until you get your shit together. If you don’t like it, you know where you can shove it. Does that meet your John Wayne seal of approval?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

I laugh in his face.

“Am I embarrassing you in front of the low-rent janitors you hired to field dress me? That fucking ape over there can’t even pour a convincing cup of coffee.”

I stand and throw my coffee mug at the thug pretending to be a waiter. He ducks and it shatters on the wall behind his head. He glares at me. Bob does nothing, which only makes me want to take this further.

“That’s right! I’m talking about you, donkey show! Go ahead and pull that hardware you got behind the counter so I can pop your empty fucking balloon of a head!”

He doesn’t move a muscle, waiting for slave master Bob to give him a command.

“Nice work, Bob. You can’t even find human beings anymore.”

“John, do you want me to kill you? Is that why you’re acting like such an asshole?”

I sit back down. Bob’s tone surprises me. It’s almost conciliatory.

“I want you to do what you came here to do and quit jacking me around,” I huff.

Bob waves his hand casually and everyone leaves the diner.

“Okay.”

Bob reaches into his jacket. I pull my Glock 18 and point it at his face. He laughs.

“You think I would actually try to pull a weapon from my jacket? Maybe you’re the one who’s got his head up his ass, John.”

Bob takes an envelope from his jacket. Empties photographs onto the table. I glance at them. Surveillance photos of Locke, the third partner on the firm’s shingle.

“I’ve had the other two partners on twenty-four-hour rotations since your assignment began.”

Bob’s right. I am the asshole. Guilty as charged.

“These were taken less than twelve hours ago. He’s selling WPL names to a capo from a Brooklyn mob family.”

“You’re sure about him?”

“Yes. But now I’m not so sure about you.”

I shove the photos at him.

“Then put a fucking bullet in my head and kill him yourself.”

“Believe me. I thought about it. My partners strongly suggested it.”

“But you told them I deserve another chance. Because no one but me can pull it off.”

My arrogance is only amusing to Bob now as he quietly revels in the egg on my face.

“No, John. I have plenty of people who can pull this off. I told the partners you deserve another chance because I owe it you—for years of dedicated service.”

“Bullshit.”

“I have no reason to bullshit you. You’re my most valuable asset. I told them to go fuck themselves and if you screwed the pooch they could retire me as well.”

“So what are we doing here, Bob? This is not the kind of place where people dole out second chances.”

“We’re here because I think we have some heat on us from the feds and I’m having the office fully cleaned.”

“What? Any specifics?”

“No, let’s just say my Spidey sense is tingling. The point is our whole operation is at risk, and I need my best button man to deliver.”

“It’s going to be a bitch trading horses at the firm.”

“Stay put for now. I don’t want you to call attention to yourself.”

Bob gets up to leave.

“Hey, Bob, thanks for looking out.”

“I want you to do something for me, John. Something you would never have dreamed of doing in all the years I’ve known you.”

“What?”

“I want you to trust me.”

“I trust you, Bob.”

“I don’t need to hear you say it, John. I just need you to believe it.”

A
s soon as I get to the office, I brush up on Locke’s CV, and things begin to make sense. He’s a criminal defense attorney and he has won 99 percent of his cases. The man is an animal and he eats prosecutors for breakfast. Also, not surprisingly, he abhors the press and has never granted them an interview. He is truly the man in black, lurking behind the scenes, occupying the shadows and keeping the streets full to bursting with USDA prime criminal scum. His client list is encrypted, so I have to rely on reports from hundreds of obscure legal journals to get a handle on who
he
handles. Not surprisingly, a fair number of Mafia types owe him their freedom.

But that’s not enough for him. Guys like Locke get greedy and power hungry and all they give a shit about is winning. So he gets his hands on the witness protection list and sells names to clients, friends of clients, the highest bidder, etc. Now he can stack the deck for his clients and keep his win percentage in the stratosphere. This translates to millions for him and for the firm. The icing on the cake is the tidy profit he turns by selling the names. That, my friends, is what we call win-win. And, of course, the firm wants the money to keep flowing in, but they don’t want to know where it’s coming from, so they don’t ask.

I’m beginning to think Locke could give Bob a run for his money. He might be a civilian, but he’s dangerous, powerful, and his connections are probably the who’s who of organized crime. Waxing
him with a cup of coffee ain’t going to happen. I’ve got to find a way to ambush the bastard when he’s not surrounded by an army of killers. Bob’s right. We’re rapidly approaching our expiration date on this assignment. I need a fast track to Locke and I need to get to him without arousing any suspicion. I need Alice. She’s on Bendini’s team, but as an actual employee, she has much greater access than me, and I’m not about to try to reel in another asset this late in the game. Of course, Alice would sooner kick me in the nuts right now than help me in any way. I need to get back into her good graces. I wonder what wines go best with a generous helping of crow?

United States Department of Justice

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Washington, D.C. 20535

Location: Alice (censored) Residence/Bedroom, East Village, Manhattan

Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).