The Intern's Handbook Read online

  I bought a few books on color theory, and sure enough, brown sparks the smallest neurological response of any color in the spectrum. It also elicits feelings of reliability and security, traits that are critical to gaining access and trust. So I built my wardrobe around this pillar of blandness, never straying too far. Brownish gray, brownish green, brownish black, etc. All of these colors are easily found in the sale rack of every department store because people do not intentionally buy clothing that will erase them from the universe. And when you put an entire outfit together with these colors, it’s like you are a chameleon wearing the perfect camouflage for every background in existence.

  For hair, go to Supercuts. That cut-by-numbers place is the Mecca of ordinary. And I highly recommend getting glasses, because people tend to make more of a connection to you when they can clearly see your eyes. What you need are nondescript, ubiquitous frames—thin, dull metallic finishes and clear glass. Go to LensCrafters—totally forgettable glasses in about an hour.

  Back to the fashionistas. They had a CEO who was producing and trafficking child pornography out of his textile factory in Thailand. Did I mention that killing this piece of shit was my favorite job? Getting to work on his floor was easy because everyone in that business is lazier and more entitled than usual, and it’s amazing that anything gets done. The hard part was figuring out an enemy profile. Bob is big on killing folks in a manner befitting the target’s enemies. Bombs, guns, bludgeoning, poison, electrocution, knives, fire, drowning, etc. Assassins just have their preferences. The IRA would rather blow you to bits than stab you and have to smell the bangers and mash on your last breath. The cartels like beheading. Goodfellas like piano wire, ice picks, and the occasional live burial. Bob studies these things ad nauseam, no pun intended. But this case was different. Creepy pedophile fashion magnates with deformed pinky fingers are hated and reviled by many, but they don’t typically have high-profile enemies—at least no enemies with the balls or the money to put out a contract on someone . . . until now.

  So I got creative. I asked him if I could bring my eleven-year-old “nephew” Andy visiting from the Midwest to work so that I could show him around. I’ll be damned if he didn’t drool a little into his espresso cup. Of course, Andy was part of our crew. Guy had some kind of disease that stunted his growth. Looked just like a kid. Bob only used him for specialty jobs like this because eleven-year-old interns are most definitely going to be noticed anywhere outside a NASA think tank.

  When I brought him in, the CEO had arranged a “private tour.” Told me I could just leave the boy with him and he would take care of everything. He even had pink frosted elephant cookies and pineapple punch set out. Sick bastard must have been raped by clowns on a circus train at some point in his sorry life. Fifteen minutes into his Willy Wonka routine, our sawed-off operative injected him with enough Adrenalin and Viagra to blow up his cocaine-scarred heart and leave him with an erection that the coroner would have to get a logging crew to cut down. Now, that’s what I call a triumph in improvisational warfare. We put Uncle Plooker in front of his computer, fired up his private stock of kiddie porn, and slipped out with root beer Dum Dum suckers in our teeth.

  5

  * * *

  THE BULLSHIT EXPRESS

  I’m spending the day boning up on all the law clerk nonsense I learned at different legal intern jobs. It’s not difficult. Mostly you’re there to make sure the actual lawyers are not fucking things up royally with poorly written language, utterly incorrect language, language copied from other contracts but never customized for the new contract, etc. And let me tell you, you are always busy. Being around lawyers is like being in a classroom full of kids with severe ADHD and low blood sugar. They have learned to despise detail so much that they subconsciously, or consciously, ignore it. For the most part, they are gunslingers, painting the town red with broad strokes, and they rely on the help to make sure the ship doesn’t sink and take their house in Montauk with it.

  In addition to my crash course in wills and torts, I am also immersing myself in the warm bath of my new persona. Let’s recap on why orphans make great assassins. All of our lives we’ve never been given the opportunity to develop our own identities. Many of us never had a real name and we certainly never had real parents or any kind of connection to our genealogies or cultures of origin. We never even had a room of our own—the great diorama of developing personalities festooned with posters, photos, tchotchkes, and all of the icons and totems that represent our every feeling, hope, and dream. We are the blank slate. Aristotle’s tabula rasa. And we are the masters of being a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  Becoming someone else is one of my favorite parts of the job. It puts a silencer on my inhibitions and allows me to do and say things I would never say to people as my real self. That can be an extremely amusing exercise with the opposite sex. And it gives me a sense, although fleeting, of what a normal life might be like. It’s weird, but just having a taste of that has saved me from the rubber room on more than one occasion. As an added bonus, this well-developed skill will come in very handy when I finally molt out of my John Lago skin and slither into the real world of retirement.

  Tonight I’ll be taking a ride on the Bullshit Express. It’s one of my rituals when I prep for a job, and I strongly suggest you adopt it. I’ll go to a bar, buy anyone a drink, and start talking. When you buy someone a drink, they will almost always chat you up and ask you all about yourself, mainly because they want you to ask about them in return. People love to talk about themselves, especially white people. The Bullshit Express is how you field-test your knowledge of your cover dossier. You’ll be surprised at how well you do this when you have a real context. The more drinks you buy, the more practice you will get and the more you will find yourself adding to the story. This is a strong memorization technique that I like to call “owning it.” When you own it, you get to a point where you actually think it’s true, and then you are golden. Lies are, after all, the only things we tell ourselves that we truly believe.

  I spend a few hours casing the law firm building, a venerable, old money fortress holding court in the storied enclave of Central Park South. I pop into a local bar around quitting time. The dark wood paneling, $15 Heinekens, and $1,500 call girls lead me to believe there’s a good chance this is a Bendini, Lambert & Locke watering hole. This would be the best possible scenario for me to put my cover through the paces, so I roll in, looking for an ear to chew.

  Sitting at the bar, my favorite hunting ground, is a woman in her mid to late twenties with blond hair and brown eyes that make her beautiful in a Roman Holiday meets True Romance kind of way. Her features are somewhat conventional, but there is something exotic underneath it all, something dark and sexy that reminds me of a young Liz Taylor. Her expensive shoes and pocketbook, at odds with her underwhelming suit and briefcase, tell me that she is a working stiff with the right priorities. Not to mention she is a woman sitting at a bar alone. This is a baller move in any town, and only girls with serious chops even attempt it. I like her immediately. All aboard.

  United States Department of Justice

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  * * *

  Washington, D.C. 20535

  ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED

  SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING  —MOBILE PARABOLIC REFLECTOR MIC

  Location: Bull on Thames Pub, Central Park South, Manhattan

  Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).

  SUBJECT ALICE IS SEATED AT THE BAR.

  Lago:

  Is this seat taken?

  Alice:

  Do people really say that anymore?

  Lago:

  I say it. But I say a lot of things people don’t say anymore.

  Alice:

  Really? Like what?

  Lago:

  For me, music will always be on an album.

  Alice:

  I like vinyl. Have a seat. What else you got?

  Lago: />
  Truck versus SUV.

  Alice:

  Not bad. But that’s a little bit provincial. Give me a really good one and I’ll buy you a drink.

  Lago:

  One-night stand versus hookup.

  Alice:

  Mike! He’ll have what I’m having.

  Lago:

  What are you having?

  Alice:

  Wild Turkey. Neat.

  Lago:

  A highly underrated brand.

  Alice:

  And somewhat misunderstood.

  SOUND OF GLASSES PLACED ON BAR.

  Bartender:

  Two middle fingers. Enjoy.

  Alice:

  Thanks, Mike.

  PAUSE. LAGO COUGHS. ALICE LAUGHS.

  Alice:

  I’m Alice.

  Lago:

  John.

  Alice:

  You live around here? Wait, don’t tell me anything. Let’s just guess everything about each other. You game?

  Lago:

  Sure. Ladies first.

  Alice:

  Ladies first, huh? Definitely not from Manhattan.

  Lago:

  What makes you think—

  Alice:

  Stop! You’re going to give something away.

  Lago:

  All right. Carry on.

  Alice:

  I’m going to guess you’re from the Midwest but very well educated.

  Lago:

  And I’m going to guess you’re from the East Coast because you said I was from the Midwest BUT very well educated.

  ALICE LAUGHS.

  Alice:

  I may be a snob, but guess what?

  Lago:

  What?

  Alice:

  I’m from the Midwest.

  Lago:

  Bullshit. You don’t have the ass for it.

  SOUND OF ALICE HITTING LAGO.

  Lago:

  Ow! Damn! That was really . . . enthusiastic.

  Alice:

  You think that hurts? Keep talking about my ass, buster.

  Lago:

  Buster? You are from the Midwest. What are you doing in New York? Besides beating up dudes in bars?

  Alice:

  I came here for work. Finished law school recently. Go ahead. Get them out of your system.

  Lago:

  Get what out of my system?

  Alice:

  Lawyer jokes.

  Lago:

  I don’t know any.

  Alice:

  Bullshit.

  Lago:

  Not into them. Probably because I’m a lawyer too.

  Alice:

  No way.

  Lago:

  Way.

  Alice:

  What firm?

  Lago:

  [censored]. I’m just out of school as well, so I’m starting an internship there.

  Alice:

  Get out!

  SOUND OF ALICE HITTING LAGO AGAIN. SOUND OF LAGO GROANING IN PAIN.

  Lago:

  Okay. That one really hurt.

  Alice:

  That’s my firm—where I work!

  Lago:

  Really? Cool. For how long?

  Alice:

  I’m actually just finishing the intern program. Hoping to get an associate job.

  Lago:

  Good luck. I hear getting hired . . . for actual money . . . is next to impossible for most people.

  Alice:

  True. But I’m not most people.

  Lago:

  I can see that.

  Alice:

  You want to see more?

  Lago:

  Meaning?

  Alice:

  I think you know what I mean, counselor. By the way, no one ever says “counselor.” That’s just a TV thing.

  Lago:

  I think I know what you mean, and if I’m right either you’re a serial killer or I have some great astrological shit happening right now.

  Alice:

  Maybe both. Come on.

  Lago:

  Uh . . . Maybe not.

  Alice:

  Don’t you want to be my next victim?

  Lago:

  As much as I’d love to say yes . . . we’re going to be working in the same office and . . .

  Alice:

  Okay, okay. Please stop. You’re killing my buzz, and I don’t handle rejection well.

  Lago:

  I’m not rejecting you.

  Alice:

  I’m offering and you’re saying no, right?

  Lago:

  Yes, but not “no” in the pejorative sense.

  Alice:

  You’re going to be a great lawyer.

  Lago:

  Wait. Finish your drink.

  —END TRANSCRIPT—

  6

  * * *

  GET YOUR SHINE BOX

  Monday morning. It’s a brisk autumn day, my favorite time of the year. New York is spectacular. The summer garbage smell has finally drifted off to Europe via the Gulf Stream, replaced by the smell of wet leaves decomposing in the gutter. Sounds nasty, but it’s one of the best smells I can imagine. It’s musty, earthy, and it reminds me of the first time I felt okay knowing I was alone in the world and would be that way for the rest of my life.

  I was six years old and I was languishing in some home for wayward youth outside Reno, Nevada. The changing leaves would float down from the Sierras and land outside my window. I remember thinking that the leaves were more beautiful dead than they were alive. And I stopped crying about the things I would never have, because I knew they meant nothing.

  First day of my last job and it feels a little strange. I’m trying not to get sentimental about a life that has been defined by the size of its body count, but I can’t help it. It’s what I know. But I also know that the sooner I can just get this job done, the sooner I can get out of this business and get on with my new life.

  Now, let’s go kill someone, shall we?

  * * *

  I show up for work at Bendini, Lambert & Locke in my grayish greenish brown suit, matte black cap toe shoes, and LensCrafters specs. The building is your typical titans of industry monolith that burns old money in the two-hundred-year-old boiler. That reddish hue in the tap water is the blood of the Irish laborers that broke their backs to build the place.

  I’m waiting in the marble and platinum lobby, making detailed mental notes about every aspect of the main building security system, when I notice the receptionist looking at me—over and over again. She looks the way you would expect a receptionist to look at an office run by old, pasty white men who count their money more often than Ebenezer Scrooge. Pretty but severe. Double Z’s up top but with rail thin hips that just don’t anatomically match. Christmas bonus? Despite my petty judgments, I am, after all, just a man, and she’s checking me out, occasionally smoothing her dress or hair—preening like a tropical bird. Even though I would like to offer her the shagging I know she desperately wants, I don’t like it when people are focused on me, especially when I’m in character on the first day of a gig.

  But then she does me a big favor. She speaks. With a voice so annoying that dead men would rise up just to silence it. And I’m relieved, because that voice might as well be a can of ugly spray, emptying itself all over her.

  “So . . .”

  Sweet Jesus it’s awful, like a cartoon child after a round of hormone treatments. I note that she’s a smoker too with the witchy grit that rattles across her larynx.

  “ . . . You got into the internship program, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you.”

  I need to throw her off the scent, so I do the rudest thing I can imagine in the company of an attractive woman vying for my attention—I pull out my phone. And I bury my face in its colorful screen, like a crow mesmerized by Christmas tinsel. You know that face. It’s the social networking sneer you see on every app junkie getting a
fix. It’s one of the most loathsome cultural phenomena in contemporary society and I can see that she has gone from digging me to wanting to dig her nails into my eyeballs.

  “You won’t last a week.”

  No answer from me. This is the kind of conversation that could make me one memorable motherfucker.

  “Toughest internship in the city. Impossible to get. Impossible to keep. I’m surprised they let a hick like you in. Where you from, Peoria?”

  Actually, this is good. She is now underestimating me because she believes I am too timid to challenge her opinion. As long as I keep my mouth shut and smile, I will not make an impression on her. By the way, never smile and show your teeth. The pageant people have it wrong. Showing your teeth is always a sign of aggression. This is why Miss America is one of the most hated human beings on earth.

  Ding. The elevator door opens and my savior, a wretched little swollen zit of a woman carrying an iPad, looks around for me over her reading glasses.

  “John?”

  “That’s me.”