He took my hand again, winked at me, and we continued walking.
I didn’t ask what he had thrown in. In fact, I didn’t say a word. I just squeezed his hand and we continued walking.
I was twelve the time that I passed by the cellar in the middle of the night—on my way to grab a new box of bagel bites from the basement freezer—and heard the angry voices. I had to press my ear to the door. Sam and Dominic were in there arguing, something about the police and fingerprints and Dominic wanting “out” and Sam telling him there is no “out,” that they were in this together. In a harsh tone that Sam never used on me, he accused his best friend of being f**king sloppy. Sam never swore. The stairs creaked loudly as I scurried back to the kitchen, where I pretended to heat up a glass of milk.
That’s where Sam found me.
“What did you hear?” he had asked in that cool, even tone of his, his gray eyes severe. I never lied to Sam and my instincts told me not to start then. “You and Dominic talking about the police and fingerprints.”
With a deep inhale, his hand lifted to his mouth to cover it with a rub, smothering a curse. “Sometimes you might hear things that you shouldn’t hear.”
I nodded slowly.
“It’s important that you never repeat those things. Ever. Or everything that we have here—you, me, this house, your life—it’s gone. You’ll be taken away. You’ll live in an orphanage, where people won’t appreciate you for who you are. You’ll have no one to love you. You won’t be in gymnastics or acting. Do you want that?”
Pursing my lips tightly, I shook my head.
“Never talk about things you may hear or think, okay?” Sam warned.
I nodded again. “Just like that night at Nicoll Bay.”
I remember his eyes widening, as if startled. As if he was surprised I noticed or remembered, or both. “Yes. Just like that. People will use information to hurt us. You don’t want that, do you?”
“No.” I leaned in to wrap my arms around him in a hug. Sam was the only dad I knew. He loved me, even though I didn’t see him very much on account of his busy schedule. But he made sure to attend every gymnastics competition and every school play. He always sat in the front row and he was always the first one on his feet—his arms loaded with flowers—to tell me what an incredible little actor I was going to be. The idea of losing him pained me. I would do anything not to lose him.
When Dominic’s wife came to our door a week later in hysterics, looking for her husband who’d been missing for days, I stood beside Sam and watched quietly as he hugged her and wiped her tears, as he shook his head, his face full of concern, telling her that we hadn’t seen him since the Fourth of July party, three weeks earlier. When she hazarded a glance at me, I bobbed my head up and down in concurrence.
That was the first flat-out lie I’d ever told for Sam.
After she left, Sam patted me on the back and whispered, “That’s my little mouse. Quiet as can be.”
I beamed. Making Sam proud always made me feel warm inside back then.
A hiker found Dominic’s body at a national park in Maine, months later. His gun lay next to him. The news report cited a suicide. All Sam said was, “It’s a shame.” No shock in his eyes, no tears down his cheeks. Not until the funeral, that is. That’s where he let loose. Apparently, Sam has his own acting abilities.
Me? I said absolutely nothing.
And now I’m here.
The elevator dings as it reaches the seventeenth floor, and I need to clench my muscles to stop from peeing as I roll the suitcase out. You can do this. The last time was fine.
Yet something about this delivery feels different. The guys I delivered to before were different. That hotel wasn’t as classy. And this bag is just too damn big. If it’s completely full, then . . .
I try not to think about it, zoning in on the door numbers and the exit signs and camera at the end of the hall. By the time I reach 1754, my pep talk has lost all it’s worth and I’m back to clenching my muscles.
Two quick knocks followed by a long pause and a third knock, per Sam’s directions. My stomach leaps into my throat as I see something pass behind the peephole. I’d had to take my sunglasses off in the lobby because walking through a hotel with them on is just plain suspicious. Thankfully, with heavy makeup and the hair, most people wouldn’t recognize me if they passed me on the street.
The door opens to a tall, balding man in a tan golf shirt who matches the picture I found in the draft email. He goes by Bob. A very basic, very fake name. He doesn’t even bother to conceal the Beretta strapped to his hip.
This is where I leverage the acting skills that got me into Tisch in the first place.
With a friendly smile, I offer, “It’s so good to see you again!” That’s the scripted line, and I’d made sure I memorized it to a tee. Big Sam relies on various forms of safeguards. That’s why, even with burner phones, we never talk openly. That’s why even his draft emails, never transmitted, are worded carefully. That’s why there are several very specific stages to these exchanges.
That’s why he continues doing what he does, smoothly defying the law.
Based on their appearances, these guys are the type to take precautions as well. I hold my head up as the man leads me through the spacious suite, past two little boys distracted with a boxing game on their Wii, and into a bedroom where a blond man in his mid-thirties lays on his king-sized bed, one arm resting behind his head while he surfs the channels.
Unremarkable green eyes finally peel themselves from the screen to take my face in and roll over my body. I want to shudder, but I smile instead and say, “Hello, Eddie.” That’s the name that went with the other picture. Not his real name either, of course.
“Hello, Jane. You a cop?” he asks.
“Isn’t that a made-for-television line?” I shoot back smoothly. It’s kind of disturbing, how easily I can fall into this role when I’m finally in it. I think it’s my strength with improvisation-style acting, coupled with an instinctive need for self-preservation. Whatever it is, I come off as confident and experienced. The two things Sam said I must exude. The two things I am most definitely not. “But if it makes you feel any better . . . no, I’m not a cop. You know who my boss is, Eddie.” Well, he knows who my boss is, but he doesn’t know that my boss is also my stepdad. Under no circumstances does that kind of information ever get revealed, a rule Sam drilled into my head long ago.
Without preamble, Bob seizes my purse and begins his search, flipping through my wallet, past the cheap, dummy driver’s license with the name, “Jane,” that I use for these occasions. A third identity. Another safeguard à la Sam. He doesn’t bother reading the information because he knows as well as I do that it’s a fake. Once done with my wallet, he empties the few other contents within my bag—a pack of gum, a pen, the Glock that Uncle Jimmy armed me with. Just for show. It’s expected, he told me. All the same, Eddie’s brow arches as Bob lays that on a side table. “You know how to use that?”
“What do you think?” Yes, I know how to use a gun. I’ve known since I was sixteen, when Sam casually suggested bringing me with him to the shooting range. As an avid hunter, he likes to keep up with his target practice and he goes every Saturday. I jumped at the chance to spend more time with him, likening it to a father-daughter bonding moment.