His face stiffened. “The guy on the bench, asshole, who was he?”
“I told you; he was just a connection. Why don’t you take that thing out of your ear so you can hear better?” I reached for the curly cord dangling beside his neck, but he grabbed my hand and twisted.
“Ouch,” I said, pulling it free. “So aggressive.”
“He was a kid who looked like he was about to piss his pants when you touched his shoulder. If that’s the type of candidate you plan on presenting, I might as well just kill you now and save us a week’s worth of wasted time.”
“I said he was a connection, not a candidate.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A connection is someone who can put me in touch with an in-demand candidate,” I explained, rubbing my wrist. “This isn’t an afternoon drive-by your boss wants done. She’s paying me for quality talent, and quality is hard to find. I need to work several channels to uncover the best people. That’s what today’s meeting was about.”
This, of course, was total bullshit. I already knew who I planned to present for the job and had three backups in mind in case any of my preferred options were already under contract, unresponsive, or just plain uninterested. You don’t pay a top recruiter to start looking for fresh candidates—you pay them for the years spent building their database so those candidates are already in their pipeline. But he didn’t need to know that.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “Just remember that I’m watching you.”
“And you should know that I’m also watching you. Mostly through the window of your car, as you sleep.” I leaned in close and whispered, “While I touch myself.”
He jerked back, trying to cobble together any kind of rejoinder before he gave up and bumped me with his shoulder as he walked away.
“There’s a spark between us, admit it,” I called after him. “Don’t try to fight this feeling!”
He hurried across the street and got into his car without ever turning around. I smiled and went inside.
And later that night, while he dozed behind the wheel, did I go up and tap on his window? Press my phone against it while it played “Can’t Fight This Feeling” at top volume? Draw a heart in the frost on the glass, then plant a kiss right in the middle as he looked on, bleary eyed, confused, and, yes, more than a little disgusted?
Of course, I did.
REO Speedwagon 4ever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The $10,000 was in an envelope, tucked into the inside pocket of my coat. It was half of what I withdrew yesterday, after making a transfer from one of my other accounts. The Swiss bank where Trish deposited my first payment was one of many. I learned early on that it was best to spread my funds around in not only multiple banks but multiple countries. Most of the banks were located near a charity to which I’d make regular anonymous donations. Homeless shelters, libraries, various medical research facilities and clinics. The proximity kept people from wondering too much about where the money was coming from, and the donations themselves were another way I helped myself sleep at night.
I had some concern that after our chat last night, Guy #2 would up the intensity of his surveillance, maybe start each day with a pat-down on the sidewalk that would reveal my envelope full of cash. Those fears turned out to be unfounded.
He was waiting across the street, the pile of discarded cigarette butts next to his car window larger than the day before. When he saw me, he stepped out onto the curb, added a butt to the pile, and maintained his usual distance. That was good. I was betting on business as usual if this exchange was going to go off undetected. I blew him a kiss and feigned disappointment when he didn’t catch it or blow one back.
They knew my habits, so I assumed that ducking into the café down the street for a cup of coffee and a Danish wouldn’t raise any red flags, and it didn’t. He lit a fresh cigarette and watched me through the window. I ordered, grabbed my food and drink, and took a seat at a table near the front, providing him an unobstructed view.
I gave it ten minutes. Finished my Danish and read two articles in the paper, or at least pretended to. Then I stood and walked back to the men’s room. I left the paper on my chair and the coffee cup half-full, so as to indicate to any passersby that I would return. I tried to walk casually, but the harder I concentrated on looking natural, the more unnatural and suspicious I felt. I kept waiting for the bells above the door to jingle and to hear the gasps of the other patrons as Guy #2 rushed in from behind and tackled me to the ground.
I fought the urge to look over my shoulder and entered the restroom. Other than the far stall door being closed, it was clear. One of life’s little favors.
I entered the middle stall, locked the door, sat on the toilet seat and said quietly, “Sergei?”
“Da,” came his reply from next door.
“Slide it under.”
A yellow envelope, the kind with the bubble lining for shipping fragile packages, emerged on the floor from the stall next to me. I scooped it up and checked the contents: One black Android smartphone.
“This has all the specs we talked about, right?”
“Da,” he said again. “Your Pokémon secret is safe.”
I smiled. I was starting to like this kid. When this was over, I’d have to find a real contract for him. I slid the envelope filled with cash back under in return.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” I said. “You wear a hat and a different jacket than yesterday, like we talked about?”
“Da.”
“Good. Wait five minutes after I leave, then zip up the coat and pull the hat low, but not too low. Walk outside and hang a right at the first corner. Don’t look around.”
“Okay.”
I stood, tucked the phone into my outer coat pocket, flushed, and opened the stall door just as Guy #2 walked in.
My breath caught in my throat and my eyes grew wide. It required a conscious effort to reduce them and breathe normally.
“Hey,” I said, walking to the sink. He didn’t reply. His eyes were focused on the stall where Sergei was hiding. I smoothed the flap over my coat pocket holding the phone, to make sure no bits of yellow envelope protruded. In my mind, the bulge stood out like a bowling pin against my hip.
“You shit that quickly,” he asked, “or do you always piss in the stalls?”
I turned the water on and pumped some soap from the dispenser, more aggressively than I probably needed to, then started washing and said, “Are these the kind of questions that keep you up at night?”
He ignored me and kept looking at Sergei’s stall door, which I prayed would remain closed until we left the restroom. I finished washing and grabbed a handful of paper towels from the stack beneath the mirror. “Coffee goes right through me. I love it, but my stomach doesn’t. Feel bad for the poor guy next to me. But by all means, let’s keep talking about it and make him even more uncomfortable.”
