CLEANING UP ALAN METCALF’S GARBAGE. That’s what ruined my life.
I entered the New York City job market with a BA in medieval literature and a minor in music theory. Absolutely nothing of any use to any human resources director anywhere. I might as well have majored in Ping-Pong.
So when I saw an opening for a management assistant at the local FBI office, I jumped at the chance. True,management assistantwas just FBI-speak forsecretary. But still. I’d seen all the movies. I was sure it was going to be exciting, being assigned to a real live FBI special agent GS-5 who worked in domestic terrorism.
Even back then, Alan Metcalf was gruff and aggressive,overly ambitious, and out for blood. But so were the Knights of the Round Table. I felt right at home.
Eventually, I applied to be an agent myself. It took a few years and several months at Quantico. But then I was promoted, assigned to white-collar crime. Metcalf always bragged that he was the one who first saw my potential. In truth, he was annoyed about losing me as his assistant. He was pissed the day I told him my promotion had come through.
Many years later, Metcalf came to me for a favor. A big one. He wanted me to share the name of a certain confidential informant I had worked with.
Both of us knew he shouldn’t be asking for this. You don’t just swap out informants like playing cards. There’s a whole legal protocol involved. Still, when I said no, he was furious.
Through court records, Metcalf found the guy’s name and accidentally disclosed it to the wrong people. A massive security breach. The poor informant had to be whisked away to witness protection. The FBI lost a cherished source. And to save his own ass, Metcalf accused me of outing the guy.
Oh, well. Ancient history.
Today, I’ve got an important decision to make. What do I wear to an interview for a job I don’t think I want?
In the back of my closet is an old Halloween costume from my salad days, a sexy nun outfit with a convertible butt-flap. That could be fun if I were absolutelysureI didn’t want the job.
Am I?
I settle on jeans, a well-worn sweatshirt, and simple gold hoop earrings I know will be way too small to set off the FBI metal detector. It’s the perfect outfit for an undercover surveillance assignment if I want the job.
Do I?
I keep coming back to one simple question: Do I want to go back to work for a man who refers to the most harrowing event in my life as abygone?
Before I can begin to wrestle with that Talmudic question, my phone rings. I assume it’s Metcalf’s current assistant calling to confirm my appointment with her boss. I can picture her now—a young woman (it’s always a woman) Metcalf hired using the same criteria as he did with all the others before and after me: a solid liberal arts background, a tendency toward hero worship, and a minimum bra size of 34C.
But it’s not Metcalf’s assistant du jour calling. It’s my friend Vicky. We met when we were kids. Of all my friends, Vicky’s the one I’ve known and loved the longest.
“Still on for dinner Wednesday?” she asks.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Great. What do you feel like having?”
It always amuses me when people ask this. How do I know what I’m going to be in the mood for on Wednesday? I’m still wrestling with what to defrost tonight.
“Anything. Your call.”
“Maybe that Italian place again?” she suggests. She meansLuciano’s, an elegant little spot in the West Village with lobster ravioli to die for.
“Perfect,” I say. And everything would have been perfect if I hadn’t added, “Hey, you’ll never guess who I saw yesterday when I was—”
I stop mid-sentence.
“Who?” Vicky asks.
What was I thinking?
Vicky was privy to the whole Metcalf saga ten years ago. She hates him almost as much as I do. This is not the time to open that can of worms. Thinking fast, I pull a name out of our collective past. “Uh, Liza Zurndorfer.”
“Liza?”
“Remember her, from elementary school? We used to call her ZZ? She looked great.”
