The phone rings, and it is Pooley on the other end when I answer.
“What did you find?”
“Very little, so far. Archibald Grant has disappeared; no one has seen him in days.”
“Then whoever hired me has tossed his middleman.”
“Looks that way.”
My mind is racing. “What next, then?”
Pooley blew out a long breath. “I’m going to dig some more, see if I can’t find a trail from Grant to someone else.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“Hey . . . why should you be the only one who gets to climb out from behind a desk?”
I smile. “You be careful.”
“You got it.”
I am on the road again, back in my element, the present. I am heading to Ohio, what they call a battleground state, where Abe Mann will spend an unprecedented three days on his tour . . . Cleveland, then Dayton, then Cincinnati. Electoral votes in this state have swung an election in the past, and glad-handing is necessary and expected. I try to imagine what Abe Mann will be feeling at this point in the campaign. Fatigue? Irritation? Or will he feel renewed, as I do now? Back in the present. Yesterday behind me.
In Cleveland, I eat lunch at a restaurant called Augustine’s. It is upscale but strives to be better than it is, like a scarred woman who puts on too much rouge to cover her blemishes. The food is bland and tasteless. A young couple at a table next to me is talking about the upcoming election, and without turning my head I can hear every word they say. Or rather I can hear every word
“I consider myself socially liberal but economically conservative. Winston Churchill once said, ‘If you’re young and a conservative, you have no heart. But if you’re old and a democrat, you have no money.’ ” The man across from her chuckles. “But I’m being serious here. I feel like we pay way too much in taxes, and for what? More Washington waste?”
“So you’re voting Republican?” the man asks.
“No, I’m still undecided. I want to hear what the candidates have to say at their conventions and then . . .”
Her voice continues on and on, like a comfortable hum, and it strikes me that this woman is the same age Jake would be. Now, I know I shouldn’t turn my head, I know I definitely should
CHAPTER 5
MY first paying job for Vespucci was to kill a woman. He was waiting in my apartment on a Sunday afternoon, after I had spent the day walking around the Harbor with Jake. His face was grave, serious.
“Do you know what a fence is, Columbus?” He had been calling me “Columbus” since the door swung open at the abandoned Columbus Textile warehouse the morning after I had brained Mr. Cox.
“No, sir. Not any other way than what I think it is.”
“I am a fence. A fence is a middleman. A go-between. Do you understand?”
I looked at him with what I am sure was a blank expression.
“I am hired by certain people for the purpose of assassination. They give me a target’s name. It is my job as the fence to find out as much information about the mark as I can. Then I, in turn, assign the job to one of my professionals. The professional never meets the client. That is my job. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Good, Columbus. You are . . . a quick learner.”
“And I’m your professional?”
He chortled a little. “Not yet, no. You are . . . how should I say . . . an understudy, like in the theater. You will learn your role and be ready to fill a position as necessary. You will be paid only if you kill a mark. And once you’re paid,” he said, a broad smile appearing across his face, “well, then, I suppose you are a professional.”
I moved to the kitchen and took down a box of crackers from a shelf. But I only fidgeted with the box, turning it over and over in my hands like a pig on a spit.
“What if I’m not interested in being one of your professionals?’
He cleared his throat, covering his mouth with his fist, and the smile left his face. “God gave you free will. I do not presume to take that away from you. However, I have looked into your eyes, Columbus. I have seen the orphan childhood; I have felt your hands turn into fists. You are a killer. A . . . how is it . . . a natural killer. The warehouse didn’t make you a killer. You were one before you ever lifted that sewing machine above your head. I only helped show you what you are.”
I set the box of crackers down on the counter in front of me. There was a ringing in my ears, and I’m not sure if it was fear, or the fact I had heard the sound of truth delivered by this dark Italian in my kitchen.
“Hap saw something in you . . . saw this quality. He saw it . . . instinctively. He thought you could do this job after one conversation with you.”
“He works for you, then?”
“I have many people who work for me.” He studied me for a moment, appraising me. “I have a feeling. I have a feeling I would have found you anyway. There is a level to . . . how do you say . . . to fate? Yes? It causes paths to cross in ways we cannot understand.” He stopped, waving his hand, like he had stumbled down a dark road and now wanted to reverse direction. He handed me a manila envelope, the kind you might find in any office storage closet. A ten-by-thirteen plain manila envelope, heavy and rigid. “Read this,” he said, “then we’ll talk. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
With that, he put on his hat and shuffled toward the door.
I spent hours poring over the contents of that envelope, exhilarated, like a person entrusted with a singular and dangerous confidence. The first sheet held a name printed in big black letters across the top: MICHAEL FOLIO. There was an address: 1022 South Holt Ave., and a description: six-two, 200 pounds, medium build, sandy hair, wire-frame glasses, no tattoos, no birthmarks. And there was more: “Michael has a facial tic that causes his upper lip to curl at the right corner. He has no relatives except a sister who lives in British Columbia, Carol Dougherty. She is married to Frank Dougherty, a plumber, and has two kids, Shawn, ten, and Carla, eight. They have not corresponded with Michael in over seven years.”
The next page gave a detailed description of Michael’s office: “He is a litigator in the law firm Douglas and Thackery. His office is on the fifth floor of a five-story office complex known as The Meadows. The firm has 25 employees. They are: Carol Santree, receptionist. . . .” This type of thing. The third page provided a blueprint of the office with a seating chart as to where exactly each employee sat. The fourth page gave a chronological list of precisely where Michael had been over the last thirty days: “8 a.m., target leaves house, moving West on Holt. He stops at Starbucks on corner of Holt and Landover. 8:15 a.m., leaves Starbucks continues west on Holt, follows until he reaches Highway 765, then turns north.”
This description continued for the next thirty pages or so. It began to dawn on me the time and energy and
