Mine All Mine Page 5

  Let me tell you: flicking on the switch was a powerful gesture. It sounds corny, but in that moment before I flicked that switch in that darkened planetarium, with the silvery pin-pricks of light glittering overhead, I felt a rush of something like supernatural possession; something was moving through me and it turned me, at least momentarily, into someone else. Not the guilt-ridden sole survivor of the family Starks, not the kid who keeps switching schools, not the kid who feels the most alone when around other people, not the miserable Potap, cowering before a bag of drainage gravel. I didn’t have a name for this new person, but I felt bigger. Courageous. Better.

  And in that moment I had a superherolike epiphany. I had been given hyperdeveloped senses for a reason: I could use them for the power of good. I could use them for protection. As soon as I was old enough I got a job working as a uni in a parking garage and I worked those kinds of jobs—even nights during college—for the next seven years. Seven long years in the colonies: at Upper East Side boutiques, JFK terminals, downtown hotel lobbies, private parties, front desks in Midtown offices. I worked part-time for a minimal wage and no benefits, broiling in polyester slacks and blazers and knit ties, doing my best to ignore the condescension of the professionals and bar-tenders and first-class passengers, the resentment of the custodial staff. Of course, there was the constant threat of violence, too. A shoplifter or pickpocket is a more unpredictable, hazardous character than professional talent. They don’t know what they’re doing. They make mistakes; they don’t have exit strategies; they think the only way out is a knife slash or gunshot.

  It was hard, unprofitable, demeaning, dangerous work, but I kept up with it for seven long years, without complaint or blemish, because I knew one day I would get a shot at the big time: being a pulse.

  When I got that chance, three years ago, and was interviewing with Po-Mo, I told him that I couldn’t stop that burglar from taking what didn’t belong to him: the lives of my family. But I stopped Eugene L. Sikes, all right. And I will stop anyone else who tries to come into my goddamn room and take my goddamn MacGuffin. You can count on it, I told him. Sure my scores are great, but that’s not why you should hire me. Look at me, Mr. Polizzi-Molanphy. Look me in the eye. And listen to this.

  I wasn’t just born to be a pulse. My life was spared—and my family died—so that I could be a pulse. And I swear to you that I will never lose a single MacGuffin. I will never let anyone take what doesn’t belong to them.

  Now, as I rock uncomfortably on my feet in front of Po-Mo, I assure him that I remember.

  “Good. I’m glad. And do you remember who this person is?” he says, throwing a stack of bound papers at me. Opening it, I see that it is my file.

  OTTO J. STARKS

  119 Orchard Street, No. 7, New York NY 10002

  (212) 523-6803

  Professional Clients Philip Morris18

  Lockheed Martin

  Hatakeyama Museum, Tokyo

  Übersee-Museum, Bremen

  Adrian Sassoon, London

  Dept. of Defense19

  Albert Sarraut, Phnom Penh

  Archaeological Museum, Sarnath

  Sotheby’s, NYC

  Cloudsplitter

  Museum für Völkerkunde, Basel

  Musée Guimet, Paris

  Bodleian Library, Oxford

  Christie’s, NYC

  Galleria degli Uffizi

  Orley & Shabahang, NY

  Personal Clients

  Suge Knight

  Richie “Hammer” Lizardo

  Ganz Collection

  François Pinault

  Guilford Montcalm Tennant

  Earl Fistbeiner, Jr.

  Elton John

  Miuccia Prada

  Liliane Bettencourt

  August von Finck, Jr.

  Immunities (short list) • all naturally occurring neurotoxins from agotoxin to zaxodoxin

  • all batrachotoxins, including 100% immunity to Phyllobates terribilis

  • all cyclopeptides, monomethylhydrazines, coprines, muscarines, ibotenics, psilocybins

  • anesthetics, intravenous and inhaled and ingested, including:

  - propofol

  - barbiturates

  - midazolam

  - nitrous oxide

  - isoflurane

  - xenon gas

  - etomidate

  - benzodiazepines

  - ketamine

  - enflurane

  - sevoflurane

  - gamma-hydroxybutyrate

  - tsusensan

  - iocaine powder

  - burundanga• paralytics, including but not limited to:

  - vecuronium

  - mivacurium

  - atracurium

  - succinylcholine

  - Perrelet

  - norisol

  - nixolophan20

  - pancuronium

  - rocuronium

  - cistracurium

  - curare

  - picotine

  - grisogonol

  Notable Busts

  Simon McCord21

  Crummy Markovich

  Rona “the Body” Bedzilnik

  Zed22

  Marty & Benji Estrovece

  Deacon Breedlove24

  Pituitary Jones24

  Dallas Spicer23

  Boki Fujiwara24

  Frito Kriskstein24

  Frankie “Nickels” Bozzuto and Tony “Kong” Mavrogordo25

  Now, as I stand in my boss’s office and look back over the file, I can’t help smiling in fondness for the good old days when all the top talent feared me, when I had a perfect retention record and was getting top gigs all over the world, but that sends Po-Mo the wrong message. He interprets it as cavalierness.

  “Is there something funny? Am I missing it? Maybe I don’t have the greatest sense of humor—maybe I’m not getting it, Starks—but you tell me, is there something funny about losing almost thirty million dollars for Janus clients in nine months? Does that sound like a knee-slapper to you?”

  “No, sir,” I say, abashed.

  “Me either. Look. You know I like you. You’re one of the most promising pulses I’ve ever seen. Despite what Detective Nunes thinks—”

  “Who’s he?”

  “She,” he says. “Cheryl Nunes. In charge of the investigation.”

  “What happened to Fritzy?”

  “Off the case.”

  “What do you mean off the case?”

  “He was moonlighting.”

  “Doing what? Killing baby ducks?”

  “Seems the city wasn’t paying him enough to investigate; the Rat Burglar paid him better not to.”

  “I hadn’t heard this.”

  “So far it’s an internal affairs matter. The chief doesn’t exactly need any more bad Rat Burglar press after all Fritzy’s bad arrests, does he?”

  “So Nunes is his replacement?”

  He nods. “Going back over Fritzy’s ground. Which includes you—”

  “Me?”

  “—but when I think back on that interview, when I look at that file, when I think of those busts—and when I think of Frankie Nickels cooling upstate—I like to think that you’re not . . . involved in the thefts.”

  “Involved?” I say, feeling something screw down in my gut. “What does that mean?”

  “I prefer to think that you’re just having a bad spell. I prefer to think that maybe you’re fatigued for...personal reasons. Or maybe for . . . pharmacological reasons.”

  I think: oh no. Here we go again.

  “I’ve told you a thousand times, haven’t I? Haven’t I told you to quit with the pills? Didn’t I tell you that no one—not even you, Starks—can take all that juice? Didn’t the guys in tox tell you the same thing?”

  “Yes,” I say sheepishly.

  “Didn’t they tell you dozens of times?”

  I nod.

  “Haven’t they been telling you that for months?”

  I nod again.

  “Did you do it? Di
d you quit?”

  “Yes,” I say, stupidly.

  “You know I read the tox report, right?”

  “Oh.”

  “Starks, empty your pockets, please.” Onto the table I unload a logspill of bottles and hypodermics and a few torpedo-shaped suppositories. “What is all that?”

  “Flintstones?”

  Po-Mo picks some up and rolls them in his hand. “Isoflurane? Grisogonol? Phyllobates terribilis? What is all this for?”

  “Headache,” I say hopefully. “Runny nose?”

  “You got anything in here for recovering thirty million bucks? I know you’re a college guy, Starks, so I’m sure you can follow this.26 Janus gets clients because we have an impeccable record of MacGuffin retention. Good news for us is no news. But when something like this happens”—and he throws a newspaper clipping whose headline I have time to see says something about the Rat Burglar and the dearly departed Khmer reliefs—“it’s the opposite of good news. And when it’s the same talent rolling the same pulse...”

  “The media has my name?”

  “No. But they have Janus’s, don’t they? Do you know what they’re calling us?”

  “I don’t really follow the news, boss. I mean, what they call news nowadays...”

  “I’ll quote it for you, then. From Doreen Doherty, Patriot TV.”

  “Come on, boss. Patriot TV doesn’t even count as news. It’s just tits and teeth—”

  “ ‘Janus, Inc., one of Manhattan’s Big Three specialized security firms, has lost another objet d’art to the Rat Burglar, who has been raiding its facilities with such ease and regularity it looks less like robbery and more like shopping. One industry insider from rival Invigilator Corp. confided in us that the Rat Burglar himself refers to the embattled Janus, Inc., as his favorite store—J-Mart.’ ”

  When I say nothing to this Po-Mo repeats it. “J-Mart, Starks! And you’re the employee of the year!” He exhales a ragged breath of disgust. “I don’t know how else to say this. The stock is down nine percent. We are in danger of not making our earnings projections. And when the media gets hold of the K’plua, well...The long and short of it is the board wants you out, Starks. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t do it?”

  “Because you know even though I’ve had a rough patch lately I still have it? Because you wouldn’t send me back out into the colonies after investing all this time in me? Because you’re more of a people person than a bottom-line guy?” When Po-Mo’s dark and stony expression goes darker and stonier, I try another tack. “Because it’s an administrative pain to fire me?”

  “An administrative pain? It’s a shitdrizzle, Starks. Shit. Drizzle. But that’s what the board wants. And even though you’re my guy, I’ve got to do it. Unless—” He rubs his face briskly with his hands as if scrubbing to get something—my failure residue?—off his skin, and says, “Unless...you’ve got something . . . up your sleeve.”

  In my head, in clarion surround sound, I hear the train-rumble of Herk’s voice urging me to say: I can get the Rat Burglar, boss. I can bring him down. And I’ll use a gun.

  But I can’t say it. I can’t kill anyone. I can’t even utter the syllables.

  “Boss,” I say, “please just let me test. Not for solo. Just for floater. I need this. I’m desperate. And I promise I’ve still got it, boss. I can prove it with the comps. You’ve got to let me try.”

  Po-Mo sighs with something like defeat, then waves his hands angrily in front of his face as if dispersing a cloud of pesky insects and says, “Just... go on, Starks. Get out of my office. Get out of my sight.”

  When I turn and am at the door, with my hand on the knob, Po-Mo says, “Wait. Freeze. Don’t turn around. What anomalies are on my desk?”

  I was hoping he might ask me this. It’s a test—a crude plastoperceptivity test—to determine the ability of a pulse to identify suspicious irregularities within a pattern that could indicate a foreign presence in a secure environment. It means he’s curious about my faculties.

  “Your name plaque is askew. Under some papers is a book on bilberry extract as a vision enhancer. One of the bulbs in your lamp is out. The cap on your Orangina is loose and the sticky-looking smear on your blotter suggests you might spill it again if you don’t tighten it up. Your stapler has a torn-up staple in it; it’s probably jammed. There are a few multicolored jimmies—you know, shots, sprinkles, whatever—on the carpet by your trash can, from which I might infer that you’ve gone off the diet, sir, and that you tried unsuccessfully to dispose of the evidence. And there is an e-mail from the directors on your screen regarding the status of my employment—”

  “What?” he says, alarmed, grabbing his monitor and looking at it hard, as if making sure it’s not transparent. “How did you see that?”

  “The reflection off your glasses, boss. I hope you don’t play poker with those suckers on.” Now he takes off his bifocals and stares at them in his hand, almost in shock, as if he had pulled a living animal off of his face. “Anyway, you’ve got an e-mail from the directors on your screen. I can’t read everything, but I see my name in the subject line along with the words ‘termination protocol,’ but you haven’t responded to it. At least not yet. Which I like to think means that you still have enough confidence in me to—”

  “That’ll be all, Starks. You can go. Make sure you submit your write-up on the retention failure before you go.”

  “Does that mean I can test for the Nakamura job tomorrow, sir?”

  “Can you give me one compelling reason why?”

  I give him the only thing I can think of that he wants.

  “Boss, if I don’t take the top score by fifty points”—I can’t suppress a gulp when I say this; I always take first but I’ve never taken it by such a huge margin—“I’ll save everyone the trouble and resign. I won’t make a fuss. I’ll just disappear. But please, you’ve got to give me a chance. All I’ve ever wanted to do is be a pulse. Ever since what happened to my family. Ever since that day in the planetarium. All those years in the colonies. You gave me a chance then; give me a chance now. Please, boss. I don’t have anything else.”

  “If you’re late, you’re fired. If you’re early, you’re fired. If you breathe the wrong way—”

  “I get it. Thanks, boss. I won’t let you down.”

  I try to shake his hand but Po-Mo doesn’t move to accept it. Instead he says, “You know, Starks, a little birdie told me you were going to break cover to your girl. If that were true, it would make the administrative process of terminating your employment a lot easier. You know that, right?”

  I wouldn’t say I feel good. My stomach hurts too much for that, I am still the record-holder for permeability at Janus, and although other people probably can’t detect anything, my olfactory informs me that I still literally smell like shit. My own shit, no less. But as I exit Po-Mo’s office I realize, with joy, that I have escaped headquarters without suffering any of Schermer’s pranks. I am still employed. Soon—within an hour, I hope—Charlie will be coming over. Tomorrow I’m going to test for the floater position on the Nakamura job. I have a shot at the clean getaway. I’m still alive.

  It’s a good place to start.

  Reminder

  There was a time in my life, not so long ago, when I would have been amazed to be pulled rapidly to the ground, backwards, in a deep, gravity-compliant, limbo-like arc by a pair of pliers gripping my earlobe. A year ago, perhaps, an innocent age blissfully unacquainted with the grief caused by the death of a beloved pet, or the debilitating effects of a massive overdose of elephant laxative, or the specter of unemployment and insurmountable personal debt. But not now. Now I only note, with an academic detachment, the many varieties of pain involved in the transaction, the most salient of which is the scalding sensation produced by the textured teeth of the pliers clamping down on the tender fatty tissue of the earlobe, but there is also an awareness that instead of simply detaching from my skull, as I dearly wish it would, my ear is following the pli
ers with great alacrity toward the hard concrete of the sidewalk outside my apartment in Clinton Hill.27

  By a small margin I am coherent enough to discern an additional pain, a complex emotional one composed mainly of humiliation and amazement caused by the fact that I have once again failed to hear someone behind me.

  As my skull accelerates toward the asphalt, I think: what use are these ears?

  When I encounter the ground, and incur my second concussion of the day, I smile politely at my assailant and say, as cheerily as possible, “Hi, Deke. I was just coming to see you.” This does not have the pacifying effect for which I had hoped. Apparently this is an utterance that Deke hears routinely, and its familiarity has bred a contempt that is expressed instantaneously by the torque-heavy twisting of the pliers.

  Electrified by pain, and incapable of saying much more, I scream, in such a rapid-fire repetition that it sounds like a kind of deranged war cry, “Moneymoneymoneymoneymoney!”

  Deke, who must entertain so many agonized egurgitations that he has cultivated a dentist’s facility for interpretation, comprehends my meaning instantly and relaxes the pliers. He does not let me up, however; he holds me to the ground, pinned in a posture of absolute submission, hovering over me. Up close, I notice that he has the sad, calm eyes of the truly violent, eyes that have seen it all, done it all, and therefore know what’s coming, and how much it will hurt.

  Deke tilts his head quizzically, showing me his ear, flaunting it, I think at first, but then I am able to comprehend through the stupefying pain that he is making a gesture that is meant to invite speech. He is encouraging me to repeat myself, and I am only too eager to please.

  “Money,” I say, sticking to the vitals. “I have some. Will have some.”

  “How much?” he asks casually, as if inquiring about a menu special.

  “Plenty.”

  “How much precisely?”

  Reflexively I utter the figure that will be due the floater as commission upon full execution of the Nakamura job.