The Assistants(64)

Margie chuckled and shook her head. “Yeah. You can say that again. Even I wouldn’t have taken it this far. That took serious guts, man, I’m talking real cojones.” Her face had a sweetness to it that I’d refused to acknowledge earlier. “Cojones,” she said. “That’s urban slang for ‘big balls.’”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

She chuckled again. Margie had the body build of a linebacker and the social skills of a construction worker, but underneath all that was a big soft sweetie pie. A heavy-beating heart.

“No hard feelings?” she said.

“None.” Finally, I picked up the envelope and thumb drive, and held them both in my lap. It was weird to realize it, but I really didn’t have any ill will toward Margie. I was sort of glad she’d threatened and scared the hell out of Emily and me that day at Michael’s. If she hadn’t, there’d have been no website—and that was real. It was honest.

If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be sitting in Central Park with Margie Fischer thinking these thoughts, not feeling entirely sorry for what we’d done, I would have been sure they’d consumed ayahuasca. But it was the truth. What we’d accomplished with the site meant that much to me.

“Now, remember,” Margie said, “Robert has a lot more to lose than you do. And for what he’s done, he could go to jail for a long time, maybe even longer than Emily. He’d have to be crazy not to cut you a deal.”

I shoved the envelope and thumb drive into my messenger bag. “I appreciate this,” I said. “But I’m still not sure if I could bring myself to blackmail Robert. He did spare me, you know?”

“Your daddy issues baffle me.” Margie checked her black Casio calculator watch from 1989 and climbed up to a standing position. “But I suppose it’s your call.”

She wiggled each of her arms into the straps of her now-empty knapsack. “I will say one thing, though. I’m proud of you girls. I was so pleasantly wrong about you.”

She nuzzled the underside of the bronze husky’s snout before leaving me alone with him.

—

BACK HOME, I ordered delivery from Pies ’n’ Thighs because, frankly, I needed all the comfort a greasy fried-chicken dinner could provide.

I used to be so good at eating alone—truly, it was perhaps my best skill. But tonight the apartment felt mortally empty, and it was really getting to me. Gone were Emily’s shrouded insults and sarcastic jibes at my every fashion choice and facial feature, gone were her Jimmy Choos left in the middle of the floor for me to trip over and the drawers she left open for me to slam into. I missed her. I had to dip my chicken leg into my macaroni and cheese just to keep myself from crying into it.

I asked myself: could I blackmail Robert to rescue Emily?

This was Robert. He was the first man to give me a shot, to take a chance on me. There were worse jobs out there than a full-time position at the Titan Corporation. It wasn’t his fault I didn’t have the drive to angle my way into a better job title in six years. Robert had treated me with nothing but respect for all the years I’d worked for him; he’d never said an unkind word to me. Which was more than most assistants could say about their bosses. The man taught me how to shoot a gun, for heaven’s sake. Plus, I just liked him, plain and simple. And you can’t beat that with a stick.

But Emily was Emily. Sure, she could be a real pain, and if anyone actually deserved to go to jail for what had occurred, it was probably her. But truthfully, when you looked at the big picture, the amount of money Titan lost to us was so minuscule compared to what it had—to what Robert had.

And this new development was no minor detail. Robert was technically, beyond the shadow of a doubt, guilty of criminal activity. Just like Emily was. Just like I was.

Pot calling the kettle black? Maybe. We were all blackened with guilt.





28




IT WAS NINE A.M. the next day, Thursday, and Emily could have been anywhere. She could have been carted off to Rikers Island or the Tombs; I had no idea. But I knew exactly where to find Robert. Like I said, it was nine a.m. on a Thursday morning—he was at the rich people’s gym on East Fifty-Fifth.

So that’s where I went.

Luckily, the desk clerk at the rich people’s gym and I had a three-year-long phone relationship—scheduling workouts for Robert, canceling training sessions for Robert, reserving machines for Robert. Her name was Kimberly and she looked exactly like she sounded. Effervescent, always. Tan. Blond. Pretty, if you like that kind of thing.

I marched right up to her and introduced myself.

“We finally meet in person!” she said with the overzealousness of someone required to sit in one place all day while other people got exercise.

She could have passed for nineteen, but I’d have put money on her already having a bachelor’s degree in one of the fine arts.

“I need to speak to Robert right away,” I said. “It’s a private matter. An emergency.”

She didn’t hesitate. “You go on in, honey. I hope it’s nothing too serious!”

That’s how easy it was to cross the threshold of the gym Madonna sometimes twerked out at.

I’d always wondered what the inside of this gym might look like. Would the equipment be constructed of pure gold? Would the air not contain that sweaty-foot undertone of other gyms? Would there be a selection of muscular Oompa Loompas you could hire to do the actual exercising while you enjoyed a manicure and sipped an organic vegetable juice?