The Intern's Handbook Read online

  “Good answer.”

  This is working out better than I expected.

  As we begin work going through a fresh batch of files, I can’t believe my luck. I need intel and access, and Alice is my golden ticket. She is one of Bendini’s favorites, so I can use her to move closer to the center of his circle and eventually get a closer look at all of the partners. The only problem is, it’s all I can do to keep from constantly looking at her. This is dangerous territory. Alice is pretty, but pretty I can handle. It’s the raw sexuality that, like some exotic oil, seeps out of the invisible cracks in her conventionally beautiful facade that worries me. Oh, and let’s not forget that she is brilliant, interesting, and has the kind of dark, twisted sense of humor I like. I just have to work through it. Sleeping with office colleagues tends to make you a D-list watercooler celebrity. Suddenly all of your coworkers become that hair-plugged creep and his merry band of star fuckers on TMZ, making cracks about your office love affair over caramel macchiatos.

  * * *

  Rule #5: Don’t shit where you eat.

  Bob has a saying about office romances: “If you fuck their brains out, you might as well blow their brains out.” To this day, I can’t prove it, but I’m sure Bob whacked a girl I was seeing on Job #17—“Eva.” She had nothing whatsoever to do with my assignment. She did work in the same office, but in a separate division twenty-eight floors above where I was working. And we never even saw each other at work, so it wasn’t like our little tryst was an egregious security breach. I met her at a coffee shop down the street—a rare gem that served real Turkish coffee. It wasn’t until after our second date that we even realized we worked in the same building. But Bob found out about it because his mission in life is to crawl up your ass and watch your every move in an effort to, as he says, “minimize human error.” I think he does it to live vicariously through us, because he sold his youth to some cigar-chewing war dog on Parris Island.

  Basically, like Bob, you are not allowed to be human. And dealing with Bob’s controlling bullshit is, without question, the most difficult part of this job. I would rather shoot my way out of a pitch-dark subbasement with one exit and a pellet gun than have to deal with that anymore. I remember the conversation we had about Eva. He said he was concerned that I was “distracted.” I reminded him of the sixteen flawless assignments preceding that one. He said I was getting cocky. I reminded him that I was twenty years old and needed something other than my AR-15 to cuddle at night. He said, “Get a pro, like everyone else.” And he handed me a slip of paper with a phone number.

  That was the last time we spoke about Eva. He had not told me flat out to stop seeing her, so I did the stupid thing and ignored what I now understand was a warning. Two weeks later, after the assignment was finished, I tried to call her several times. Eventually I went to her apartment. The smell hit me when I walked up to her door. I know that smell. It’s sweet and sickening. A bottle fly—a huge, lazy black sucker that will travel hundreds of miles to dine exclusively on rotting flesh—buzzed past my ear and crawled under the door.

  I stared at that door for a long time, imagining what Eva looked like in there, bloated with her face twisted in some final expression of agony and terror. And I thought long and hard about killing Bob. But when I walked out into the street, I felt like I was surrounded by buildings that seemed to be closing in on me, mocking me with their power, reminding me that they could crush me like an ant. At that moment I realized how insignificant I was, how utterly vulnerable and exposed. I would never kill Bob, but he had the power to erase me and what little identity or existence I had managed to carve out after all these years.

  So I called the number on the slip of paper.

  I know what you’re thinking. Sex with prostitutes is not only disgusting, but it’s a sign of failure, an overt confession that you no longer have the sand to attract even the most desperate of potential mates. And you’re right. But not in the way you think. The truth is that when your whole world is already a total fabrication and you’re a liar to everyone you meet, intimacy with an emotional cripple who has no feeling from the waist down is a primordial kick in the nuts. Fucking for real gives you hope that you can love someone, or be loved, on any level. Faking it will empty you like a gutted fish. As soon as I learned this, I burned the slip of paper.

  The truth is that I am a killer. What I do is evil. And the fact that I brought a normal person into my carnival of madness is unforgivable. If I could apologize to Eva, I would. I can blame Bob all I want, but I am the one who opened that door. And by doing so, I killed her.

  * * *

  Rule #6: Don’t kid yourself.

  I see assassins in movies all the time saying the people they kill have it coming. That’s Hollywood’s way of attempting to make people like us “relatable” and “sympathetic.” Look at Grosse Pointe Blank. John Cusack actually says that to Minnie Driver.

  “If I show up at your door, chances are you did something to bring me there.”

  That may be true and it often is. Look at the partner I am trying to zero in on at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. He is selling out the names of people who, for better or worse, are helping the police bring in people even more evil than me—people who truly erode the foundation of society and destroy every form of innocence. Without question, that fucker has it coming. Problem is, God almighty is not going to strike him down with a lightning bolt. Unlike Job—who never did a damn thing wrong—this guy will not be attacked by a swarm of flesh-eating locusts on Central Park South. I will take his life, most likely in a brutal way that will damage me further and damage the people who have to clean up the mess. There is nothing good or noble or even cool about that. We are not antiheroes with a silver lining. And we are sure as hell not relatable or sympathetic.

  So don’t kid yourself. If you’re going to do this, you can’t ever try to justify it. You are the bad guy, and that is your role. Without you, there is no benchmark for judging good guys. We are the yin. Civilians are the yang. If you keep your role pure and undiluted by everyone else’s reality, then you will survive to the ripe old retirement age of twenty-five. Don’t ever forget that purity might save you from a bullet, but it won’t save your soul. Only a lightning strike can do that.

  * * *

  I spend the next week and a half working closely with Alice, gathering what intel I can. She is fairly liberal with office gossip but seems oddly cautious about revealing anything business-related. I am convinced it’s because she is threatened by me and wants to protect the associate job she just landed. So I decide to try to work the gossip angle, goading her to let me in on her secrets, convincing her that I give a shit. However, since we are fairly busy at work, and there are eyes and ears everywhere, I’m just not getting anywhere at the office.

  Because Alice has been somewhat persistent about seeing me socially, I decide to agree to have a drink with her and try to work something from that angle. If I get her juiced up, maybe she’ll open up more or even take me back to her place where I can more easily have access to her laptop. Due to the aforementioned issues in my past, I decide to run this by Bob first.

  “Do what you have to do, John,” Bob says impatiently. “We need movement. The Feds lost three more witnesses last week.”

  “Are they the client, Bob?”

  “You know I don’t discuss clients with operators. But I will say that this client is especially annoyed by delays. Hence my sense of urgency.”

  “Of course.”

  “Work the girl. She sounds promising.”

  “When you say work the girl . . .”

  “I mean whatever means necessary, John. You say she wants to see you socially. Do it. If she wants to fuck you, do it so well you get asked to do it again.”

  “But you’ve always said . . .”

  “Maybe you’re not hearing me, John. By any means necessary. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, Bob.”

  “And get a surveillance package going on her. I shoul
dn’t have to tell you that at this point in your career.”

  “Roger that.”

  On Friday morning, I see Alice and tell her I’d like to grab a drink with her. She is excited, and her excitement gives me an all too familiar feeling that I need to shake. From time to time, you are going to develop an affinity for an asset. That’s natural. You just need to constantly remind yourself that business is business and those types of feelings have no place in this particular business.

  11

  * * *

  MR. GOODY TWO-SHOES IS AN ASSHOLE

  After work, I wait to meet Alice outside a bar in the East Village. I’m assuming she wants to drink in hipster paradise because chances are nil that she will run into anyone from the office. The bar is one of those downstairs speakeasy-type places where it always feels like it’s three in the morning. As I wait for her among the tattooed bike messengers and website designers talking about sustainable farming and tantric sex, I think to myself that Alice is a woman with diverse interests and tastes. Normally, this would be a major turn-on for me. In this case, however, it makes her unpredictable, so I tell myself that I should approach this evening with the same caution and respect shown by a snake charmer removing the lid on his basket. I will let her be in control. And even though Bob has given me carte blanche to take one for the team, I am going to call that Plan Z. I don’t need any more distractions, albeit highly pleasurable ones, standing in the way of my objective. Since I can’t allow myself to lose my edge to booze, I take a truckload of dopamine stimulants and speed. As long as I don’t keel over from an aneurism, this will keep me razor sharp.

  When Alice arrives, a few things become crystal clear. Number one: she is really into me because she’s changed into a tight-fitting dress that would never fly at Bendini. Number two: she must live nearby, because there is no other way she would have had time to change. And number three: judging by the trail nod she just gave the bartender, she is no stranger to this particular saloon. So I am in for it tonight. Her normal sexiness has been ratcheted up several notches from smoldering to inferno and her bed is probably a short stumble down the street.

  “Let’s do a shot!” This is the first thing she says when she sits down.

  “Nice to see you too.”

  She has that look in her eye. The gunfighter’s squint. She is already thinking several steps ahead. I have noticed that when women decide they’re going to sleep with someone, their whole demeanor changes. It is as if they feel they can relax, let go, and reveal whatever they want about themselves—no matter how upsetting it might be to their male counterpart—because they know that men drool and shake like starved wild dogs at the mere scent of potential sex and all will be forgotten when the clothes come off. But even though she is exhibiting the same bravado that tends to infect men when they are about to get laid, her desire to drink heavily betrays her vulnerability. She needs liquid courage. Now I am really in trouble because I know that her feelings for me are genuine. If they weren’t, then we would already be back at her place.

  “Maybe we should start with a beer.” Just call me Buzz Kill.

  “Waiter!” She is not acknowledging my resistance.

  The waiter, looking very put out, walks up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Do you have Don Julio Añejo?” She winks at me.

  “Yes.”

  “Please bring Mr. Goody Two-shoes and I a shot each with beer backs.”

  “Okay.”

  He shuffles away. At least I have his terminal laziness on my side.

  “Tequila?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Mexican Scotch.” She smiles.

  “Well, at least it’s not Jäger,” I joke.

  “Lord no. You would not like me on Jäger,” she says dramatically.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I can’t keep my clothes on.”

  “Waiter!” I yell.

  We both laugh, but I’m thinking the faster I can get her wasted, the easier it will be to snoop her apartment while she sleeps it off.

  “You’re funny. Seriously, I would do a striptease on the bar.”

  The waiter comes back, fully annoyed now.

  “Yes?”

  “Two shots of Jägermeister,” I say.

  “So, cancel the Tequila?” he drones.

  “Absolutely not. We can handle both,” Alice blurts.

  The waiter smiles sarcastically and walks away.

  “He thinks we’re tourists.” I laugh.

  “So you’re basically saying you want to see me naked,” she says, her voice like a purr.

  “No, I want to see you do a striptease on the bar. Put it on YouTube. Get a movie deal. That’s all it takes these days anyway.”

  “With what I’m wearing under this dress, you’d get a million hits in the first hour.”

  “Now that’s all I’m thinking about.”

  “Why do you think I said it, dummy?”

  She puts on lipstick. Strong move.

  The waiter breaks the awkward silence by making it back to the table much faster than I expected. He silently drops the shots and beers and shuffles away.

  She raises both shot glasses.

  “To interns.”

  “I’m not drinking to that.”

  “Okay, let’s drink to you seeing me naked.”

  “You’re killing me.”

  We drink. She hits them both at the same time. Tequila and Jäger. Fucking awful.

  “Congrats again on the promotion. How is the Yalie douche handling it?”

  “He was passed out drunk in his Jag. Totally devastated.”

  “He’s probably never lost at anything.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m a chick. His dad’s going to give him fifty swats with a dirty old fraternity paddle.”

  “His dad is a big CEO. This is going to be very embarrassing.”

  “It will be on the bee-stung lips of every skin job in Rye.”

  “Proud of you, Alice. You deserve it.”

  “Thank you, good sir. You haven’t done too shabby yourself. You took out those other intern plebes like a trained assassin.”

  I laugh, mostly about how I was literally considering killing them all to get the intern spot.

  “Yeah, well none of those tools know how to work. They think they’re going to just get it all handed to them, like everything else. Money and privilege cuts their balls off. Makes them passive,” I spit, realizing those fuckers genuinely put a bad taste in my mouth.

  “Go on. You’re on a roll,” she says, enjoying my working-class tirade.

  “They’re like male lions. Great-looking. Always getting the best-dressed award at the kill. But they rarely kill anything themselves. Lioness does most of the killing.”

  “Duh. Men are ALWAYS taking credit for the brilliant shit women do. Even in the jungle. It’s bullshit.”

  “Not me. I’m like the jackal. I fight for every scrap, like it’s my last.”

  “If I were to kiss you right now, would it taste like blood?”

  “Alice. We work together. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to shit where you—”

  She kisses me. It tastes like brown sugar and sex. I’m fucked.

  “I live nearby,” she coaxes.

  “Of course you do.”

  “I have an Xbox.”

  “Enticing.”

  “And cats.”

  “Stop it. I’m going crazy with lust.”

  I agree to go home with her. This makes her very happy but she orders another round of courage for good measure. I could use a strong drink myself. The tequila has latched onto the speed in my head, and they are crashing around my psyche like Tom and Jerry. So we drink some more. And the verbal foreplay flows like a full-bodied Barolo—darkly playful and mind-numbingly strong. By the time we are ready to leave, my arms are full of tiny red crescent moons where she’s been digging her nails into my skin every time she wants to make a point and, in my estimation, hold on to this moment for
dear life.

  I know what you’re thinking. The whole idea of James Bond pumping Pussy Galore for information is as much bullshit as the name Pussy Galore. If anything, a woman is more likely to lie to you the more she is invested in trying to land you as a boyfriend, spouse, sugar daddy, or whatever. Plus, the LAST thing a woman wants to talk about while basking in the caramel-colored light of multiple orgasms is work.

  “Was it as good for you as it was for me? Light me a cigarette and oh, out of curiosity, what are the Russian missile launch codes?”

  The good thing is that I’m not planning to ask her anything about work. Since she’s had time to go home, she undoubtedly took her laptop with her to do work over the weekend (she never stops), and it’s just sitting there, waiting to tell me what I want to know.

  When we get to her place and she starts to undress me the moment the front door closes, what I thought was a steely resolve begins to quickly disintegrate. After several minutes of deep-sea tongue exploration and rough trade groping, I am saved by the bell when she excuses herself to go to the bathroom to do whatever women do in the bathroom when they know they are about to have sex. Like Robert Johnson, I am now standing at a crossroads with the devil on one side and desolation on the other. Not only do I want to close this proverbial deal with Alice, but also I can feel that part of me actually needs this. This is a rare opportunity to mix business with pleasure, and to deny it goes against every fiber of my being. For a split second, I decide to give in to the dark side and go for it. Then I hear the water running in the bathroom, and the sound reminds me of when I couldn’t stop washing my hands after my first kill. That’s when I remember I already made my deal with the devil.

  So I move quickly to the kitchen to fix us a drink. I pour her a vodka martini with an Ambien chaser. She comes out of the bathroom, downs it, and proceeds to devour me like a female mantis. But she’s snoring before I can finish undoing her impossibly complicated bra fastener. I can disassemble, clean, reassemble, and load an MP9 Tactical Machine Pistol in total darkness in about twenty-seven seconds. I have never once successfully unfastened any woman’s bra.