Not long enough,I think. He eyes the empty seat at my table, hoping I’ll ask him to join me. I don’t.
“May I?” he finally says. Before I can reply, he pulls the chair out to sit and spills coffee on his sleeve. I try not to laugh.
“You’re looking well,” he says. He doesn’t mean it. He’d say the same thing to a leper. “This is quite the coincidence,” he adds. Lie number two.
“No, Metcalf,” I say. “Thomas Jefferson and John Adams dying within hours of each other on the Fourth of July?That’sa coincidence. You being here is not.”
“You know me too well,” he says. Wrong. I know theFBItoo well. I know that when they want something, nothing will stand in their way.
“So—to what do I owe this honor?” I ask.
He looks around cautiously to make sure none of the scruffy writers are eavesdropping on what an even scruffier middle-management government guy in a cheap suit has to say.
“We need you,” he says. “We have a surveillance assignment. And you’re the perfect person to help us out.”
Is he kidding?
“Love to help you out,” I say. “But I gotta go home and shampoo a rug.”
“Now, listen—”
“No.Youlisten,” I say. “I’m sure several of the ten thousand FBI agents out there would jump at the chance to work for someone with your level of integrity.”
Metcalf’s so vain, he probably considers that a compliment.
I return to my salad and spear a particularly crisp piece of bacon, hoping he’ll leave me alone. Or die. Whichever comes sooner.
“At least hear me out,” he says. “This is something you’d be great at.”
Am I curious? Of course. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let him see that.
“Whatever it is, Metcalf, I’m all wrong for it now. Fact is, I’ve got a new career I love.”
He laughs. “I’d hardly call what you have now acareer,” he says. “You’ve been teaching music to a bunch of overprivileged private-school kids you can’t stand. The only thing you love about it is getting summers off.”
“Look, I’m really not—”
“Which means you can get a job at a music camp every July, then pop over to Europe every August. You’ve got a friend from college living in Paris and an ex-beau in Rome.”
“Very good,” I say. “Now, for your ten-point bonus question: What was my mother’s maiden name?”
I can’t believe this guy. Does he really expect me to jump all over him with gratitude?
As Metcalf shakes his head, pondering his next move, his jowls sway like drapes. “Okay. You win,” he says at last. “Go back to your lunch. But let me just say: If you can see your way clear to letting bygones be bygones, this assignment is very important to us. Do this, and we’ll make it worth your while. And as far as yourreputationgoes…”
I put my fork down with a clunk. There it is. The magic word. Myreputation.
“Okay. Tell me about it.”
“Not here,” he says. “This job is way too under-the-radar, and there’s a lot of backstory. Come by my office tomorrow, and I’ll tell you everything. Around ten?”
“And what if I say no?”
“You won’t,” he says. He crushes his cardboard coffee cup and leaves it on my table. One final smirk, and he’s gone.
And once again, just like the old days, I’m the one who has to clean up his garbage.
CHAPTER 3
