The Intern's Handbook Read online

  While she dozes, I go to work snooping her place. I find her laptop in her workbag and fire it up. The password screen appears, and I slip my thumb drive into the USB port. I have some password hack programs that I bought from Russian gangbangers for a king’s ransom, and they are pretty damned effective. However, Alice’s laptop has an unusual amount of security encryption protecting her log-in screen, even for an attorney. After three and a half hours of hammering her system, I’m still not in. I’m beginning to get a bit anxious because I have only about an hour left on the Ambien I gave her.

  While I wait, I move to Plan B and install a small, wireless transmitter on her laptop motherboard. This device will track every data event that happens on her laptop through her processor. The transmitter is virtually impossible to detect, unless someone knows exactly what to look for. The only problem is it sends me a raw data dump that takes time to sift through. But this proves to be a sound move, because my encryption breakers are still not into her hard drive when I hear her stir. I quickly shut down her laptop and put it back in her bag.

  “Did I pass out?” She is groggy, trying to focus.

  “Yep.”

  “Did we . . . ?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Such a gentleman. Wow, my head feels like it’s going to explode.”

  “I guess Tequila and Jäger might be a good recipe for an incendiary device.”

  She laughs, then holds her head in agony. I might have overdone it with the Ambien. My bad.

  “Look at me. I’m a real classy date.”

  “I had fun.”

  “Me too. The parts when I was conscious anyway. What time is it?”

  “About three-thirty.”

  “Holy shit. Do you mind if we have hot sex another time? I think I might need to barf in the not so distant future, and I don’t know you well enough to ask you to hold my hair back.”

  “Rain check.”

  She kisses me and I am on my merry way.

  12

  * * *

  THE MOTHERFUCKER

  After leaving Alice’s place, I go home and take a very cold shower—yes it does work—and drift off to sleep, kicking myself for squandering a free pass to knock boots with a woman whose beauty and intellect are matched by what I am guessing is a profoundly depraved sexual appetite. But I feel better about it the next morning when I open a packet of data downloaded from my transmitter. I’m in luck. It looks like Alice answered a few e-mails after I left. I pour myself some coffee and click on a message in her in-box. An encrypted e-mail program begins to load. Then I see the logo in the upper right-hand corner of the screen:

  Motherfucker.

  - Special Agent. Organized Crime Unit.

  Motherfucker!

  - Cover name: Alice

  Cheeky little monkey. Alice is just about the best cover name there is, if you’re into that whole literary thing. And if you’re into the whole rap thing, you could say playa been played. In addition to operating under my nose without a scent, she’s been assigned to Bendini, Lambert & Locke to find out which partner has been selling witness protection names to the street. After being there more than a year, she has a suspect: Bendini.

  Invariably, every job throws you a curveball. Sometimes, like this one, it doesn’t break and hits you square in the jaw. I like to call it The Motherfucker. And you learn to take it on the chin, so much so that when you don’t take it on the chin, you get very superstitious. Everyone knows that this work attracts bad luck like flies on shit. Bad luck likes the taste of your blood, sweat, and failure. It’s the universe telling you, “Hey, asshole, I see what you’re doing. And if you think I’m going to make things easy for you, think again.” It comes with the territory, so put a six-pack on ice for The Motherfucker because you’re going to become BFFs. And now it’s time for me to suffer one of the biggest Motherfuckers of my career: Alice, the curveball.

  It’s not a curveball because Alice is a fed and I didn’t know about it. Undercover people are undercover for a reason—because they’re good at it. I’m not psychic. I may have eyes in the back of my head, but they don’t have X-ray vision. All of the bullshit TV shows and movies that portray people like us as omniscient are written by gutless nerds who never even got into a grade school scrap. I don’t care how long you’re out here on the razor’s edge, sooner or later you’re going to get cut, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. So the revelation that Alice is a junior G-man is only part of what makes this a Motherfucker.

  The fact that she is pursuing the same case as me, for different reasons, obviously pushes the Motherfucker needle into the red. What blows the cylinders is her pursuit of a social relationship with me. This is a Motherfucker because I am staring at the abyss of questions that is Alice, and it’s impossible to tell just how deep the rabbit hole goes.

  I get paid to be paranoid, so of course I’m into triple golden time with Alice now. Bob has mentioned to me from time to time that he suspected the FBI might have infiltrated our ranks. Since this is my last job, of course I have to suck on that thought now. Thanks, Bob! Fuck it. I have to keep my head clear. Alice is here because, like me, she’s the best at what she does. Which makes sense because this Bendini thing is a big fucking deal. Of course the feds are involved. Selling names on a witness protection list is like bailing out banks and paying a record bonus to the fucking executives that made the banks fail. These are the kinds of crimes that make careers. And think about it from the FBI perspective. Word gets out that snitches ain’t safe and you can say good-bye to snitches forever. What would a bunch of dudes in wing tips with fifty-year-old haircuts do without snitches? Those guys couldn’t blend into a JCPenney long enough to take down a ring of mattress tag cutters.

  So they’re bringing out the big guns. Rightfully so. They needed to take a page out of the CIA comic book and whisker themselves up a proper mole. And here she is—an eating, drinking, fucking chameleon who’s going to burrow into the oak paneling of Bendini, Lambert & Locke until she brings the house down. And she has the hots for me, the guy looking to blow the house up.

  The question is, what the fuck am I going to do about it?

  The first step in dealing with The Motherfucker is to find a quiet place to allow your well-hung brain to operate on the problem. My brain, as usual, is a kung fu movie with two rival styles beating the shit out of each other in a long, bloody turf war: my style and Bob’s style. Bob would say kill her. Get her out of the way. She could potentially blow up the entire assignment and maybe even HR, Inc. If you’re a reactionary control freak who used to suck up to meathead drill instructors by bouncing quarters off your bed, then that kind of dull-edged, superficial thinking is the tits.

  But if you’re a predator, that kind of thinking is 100 percent counterproductive. First of all, she just became an even bigger asset than she was before. Not only is she going to be one of Bendini’s associates—giving her the kind of access I could have never gotten no matter how many dicks I sucked in Wills and Trusts—let’s not forget she is also investigating him with all the resources of the U.S. government behind her. She’s going to gather intel on him so fast it will make my head spin. She’s like a cheat in an RPG that jumps you ten levels of play. She’s a fucking Easter egg. I get closer to her; she gets me closer to Bendini. Fast track. She’s going to open doors for me, and if it turns out Bendini really is our guy, I’m going to slam his head in one of them.

  My plan becomes twofold. First, I need to know everything she knows and when she knows it. Like Bob suggested, I need to set up a 24/7 revolving tail with wiretaps and a total infestation of surveillance bugs. But since having Bob find out that Alice is a federal agent will sort of butt fuck my plan before it ever gets off the ground, I have to lie to him about Alice’s importance in the game and scramble the surveillance on my own.

  Second, it’s time to break Rule #5: Don’t shit where you eat. I need to get as close as I can to Alice. Access. Trust. It’s not just about having sex and sh
aring a toothbrush. Believe me, you will be trained in the art of doing the nasty, and it will become one of your greatest assets in the field. When people get addicted to fucking, it’s like any other addiction. Their IQ goes down a few notches. They should just call it “having stupid” because that is what it makes you.

  But we’re talking about a seasoned federal agent on a deep-cover assignment. Love is the only thing that will truly inspire trust and deliver the access I need. Even federal agents become blind as bats when it comes to love. It’s primordial, and people pursue it with greater fervor than even basic sustenance. When they are deep in it, even the most intelligent, vigilant people get careless. If I’m going to pull this off, I need to get Alice’s guard down by starting a real romance with her. Or at least what seems like one.

  This is not going to be easy—mainly because I’m potentially dealing with two separate women here. There is Alice, the cover name character invented by the FBI. Then there is the FBI agent playing the part of Alice in her deep-cover assignment. That person could be anyone. Sound familiar? Am I in any way similar to my cover persona? The bottom line is that we’re both driving the Bullshit Express, and I’m wondering how far we can go before we run off the rails.

  The only way to ensure success is to deploy the one thing that just about every woman wants: romance. Sure, Alice is working deep cover on the biggest case of her life with ramifications that could shake society to its very foundations. But that doesn’t mean a girl has to stop putting meat in the bear trap to bag her soul mate, does it? Romance, versus casual sex, is the only reason Alice would endeavor to shit where she eats. Problem is, to say I am capable of romance is like saying the spider is capable of spending a weekend in Cabo with the fly and enjoying a couple’s massage. I have no love in me. I don’t know what it is because it has never been given to me in any way, so I literally have to invent that emotion within myself. I’m sure you can relate, as we are all at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to weaponizing romance.

  This is where film literacy comes in, boys and girls. Remember what I said before about using movie characters (not Tom Cruise) to model behavior and help you better assimilate yourself into normal society? Everything you ever wanted to know about how to feign love and manipulate an asset is just a download away. I recommend you ease your way into it with the following movies, which are like the Cliffs Notes of the genre: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, Pretty Woman, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (okay, that one’s for me). They will tell you everything you need to know. If you are a guy, you have to embrace all things that go against your nature: thoughtfulness, sentimentality, caring, listening, and purchasing expensive gifts. If you are a girl, you have to embrace all things that come naturally to you: emotional cannibalism, psychological manipulation, and insatiable greed. Back to animals. Men = confused and desperate for pussy. Women = powerful because they have the pussy. The quest for love is shockingly similar to tracking a kill.

  For Alice, I am going to take a few steps off the beaten path. I am positive she has seen the movies I mentioned above—probably several times. So, for the sake of authenticity, I will need to pull from something a little more obscure. Keep in mind, Alice is already interested. The difficult part is believability. After all, she is a federal agent and her bullshit detector is not to be underestimated. In other words, if I do my usual fuck them and then be too disgusted to be in the same room with them routine, she will bolt. I need her to feel that I love her. However, my love must feel reluctant, playing on the most popular subgenre within the romantic comedy genre—unrequited love. If Alice believes I love her but, for whatever reason, I am trying to deny myself that love, she will breach for me like a shark breaches for a bucket full of chum.

  For that kind of angst, I believe a foreign film is in order. I can guarantee you she doesn’t tolerate subtitles, so there is no real danger of her recognizing my method. One story that comes to mind is Cyrano de Bergerac, starring Gérard Depardieu. It’s actually the perfect scenario. Cyrano deeply loves Roxanne (Anne Brochet) but is so filled with self-loathing because of his hideous appearance (me, turned inside out) that he hides his love for her. In fact, he sacrifices his own desires to assist the handsome Christian in his quest to win her love.

  I realize that I don’t have time to take it that far. However, I will convince Alice that I have feelings for her but refuse to act on them because I am protecting her from the ugliness in my soul, etc. Of course, I will have to sell the whole package, but this will be a lot easier for me because my reluctance to love will be absolutely real. Maintaining the charade once it starts working on her will be the hard part but, with any luck, I’ll confirm that Bendini is the target and he’ll be dead before any of this becomes a problem.

  Tonight I’m going to trade in my body armor for a well-tailored black suit. Well, there might still be some body armor, but I’ll definitely be molting out of my brownish gray wallflower uniform. I’ll take Alice to an amazing dinner at some out-of-the-way French fusion place run by a brilliant, yet disgruntled chef who refuses to accept reservations or menu substitutions. Despite the line around the block, I’ll have a table and the chef will have prepared a meal that is never on the menu. I will crack jokes, make eye contact, and maybe even try a bit of hand touching. Of course, these are all movie moves, but too obscure to be recognizable. And when we go back to her place, I’ll give her the James Bond shagging of her life (Sean Connery style), and stick around for some—gulp—cuddling. And when she falls asleep on my arm, I’ll try not to chew it off and slink home (Coyote style). Hey, baby steps.

  United States Department of Justice

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  * * *

  Washington, D.C. 20535

  ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED

  SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING—INFRARED LASER MIC (150M)

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

  Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).

  Alice:

  Let’s go again.

  Lago:

  Are you trying to kill me?

  Alice:

  No, I’m just trying to fuck you. Again.

  Lago:

  I’m that good?

  Alice:

  Let’s just say I’ve never been with someone with your extensive training.

  Lago:

  You make me sound like an electrician.

  Alice:

  Now you’re getting me hot.

  Lago:

  I think I need to sleep.

  Alice:

  OH NO. If we aren’t going to fuck, we’re going to talk.

  Lago:

  So, if I fuck you, I’m saying I don’t want to talk to you. And if I talk to you, I’m saying I don’t want to fuck you.

  Alice:

  Pretty much.

  Lago:

  You’re going to be an excellent lawyer.

  Alice:

  So, we’re talking?

  Lago:

  Only because my dick is permanently stuck to your leg.

  Alice:

  What are you doing?

  Lago:

  Cuddling?

  Alice:

  Page one of the girl manual. Always cuddle after lovemaking.

  Lago:

  Sorry.

  Alice:

  It’s okay. My idea of cuddling involves a Japanese sex swing.

  Lago:

  I guess there is no manual for you.

  Alice:

  You are correct, sir. So, we’re talking?

  Lago:

  At least until I regain consciousness.

  Alice:

  Where are you from? And I know it’s not Peoria because I’m actually from there.

  Lago:

  You’re shitting me.

  Alice:

  Nope. Can’t you tell by my ample Midwest curves?

  Lago:

  Not going to answer that.

&nbs
p; Alice:

  Then answer the first question.

  Lago:

  Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I’m exhausted.

  Alice:

  So, we’re fucking?

  Lago:

  All right. Fine. I hope you like a good buzzkill. I was an orphan from the time I was an infant, and my first memories are from when I was eighteen months old. I was living with a foster family in New Jersey.

  Alice:

  Didn’t they tell you where you were born?

  Lago:

  They died in a car accident before I started to speak. When I was older, I asked social services for information. All they had were some partial birth records. Basically just the hospital in New Jersey where I was born.

  Alice:

  So you have no idea who your parents were . . . at all?

  Lago:

  I know nothing about my father. . . .

  Alice:

  What about your mother?

  Lago:

  Are you sure you want to know this?

  Alice:

  Yes. Come on. I can handle it.

  Lago:

  Okay. My mother’s drug dealer shot her when she was pregnant with me. The bullet grazed my chest when it went through. That’s how I got my first battle scar.

  Alice:

  This one here?