The End Game

She had that thing. There wasn’t anything physically imposing about her-she was small, really, barely over 5’3”, maybe weighed a hundred pounds with a gun strapped to her ankle-but she walked like a panther, carried herself with a confidence that said she could sleep with you or kill you and it really made no difference to her which outcome won. In a different world, I suppose it would be a lot easier to just be with Fiona, but there’s nothing easy about being in a relationship with someone recognized as an international criminal, particularly when you’re a spy. Or used to be a spy. My own identity crises probably didn’t help the situation.

I spent the next ten minutes thumbing through cards. None of them appealed to me. I kept looking for one that said something along the lines of I love you, despite it all, but Hallmark didn’t seem to have that one available this season.

Things were getting dire. I called my younger brother, Nate, to see what he was planning on doing. He answered on the fifteenth ring.

“Bro, if someone doesn’t answer after five rings, that means they aren’t home,” Nate said. He sounded like he’d been sleeping. For days.

“What are you getting Ma for Mother’s Day?” I said.

“You don’t say hello?”

“I thought you weren’t home,” I said. “I was leaving a message.”

“What time is it?”

“Eleven thirty.”

“Crap,” he said. “I’m late.”

“Where do you ever have to be?”

“I’ve got appointments,” he said. “People depend on me.”

Nate has never had a real job. Doesn’t have a real job. Will never have a real job. He periodically drives a limo, which isn’t a real job. Driving all day and getting nowhere does not qualify as actual work. Even a hamster would agree. I suspect one day the IRS will want to have a long, involved chat with him.

“You driving to jai alai or the track?”

“If you must know, jai alai,” Nate said. “And then I have a few drops at Indian casinos.”

“You running people or bets?”

“I have a vested interest in the success of the sport and in the gambling industry as a way of helping the Native Americans.”

“It’s Mother’s Day, Nate,” I said.

“When has that ever mattered to you?”

“I’m just saying,” I said. “Listen. I’m going blind staring at cards. Tell me what you got Ma and I’ll let you go.”

“The same thing I get her every year.”

Dealing with Nate is often a delicate exercise. He doesn’t react well to authority. He also doesn’t think of me as authority, which compounds things. “Right,” I said. I picked up another card. This one featured a picture of a morbidly obese woman in a bikini. The inside said: I might be responsible for your stretch marks, but at least you’re not this fat. Happy Mother’s Day! “When did greeting cards get so mean?”

“Where are you?” Nate said.

“Target.”

“Aren’t you all domesticated now?”

“I even eat with silverware. You were about to tell me what you got Ma.”

“If you had a yard, you could get one of those blow-up pools. Get Sam to play lifeguard to the neighborhood kids. He was a SEAL, right?”

Nate was talking about Sam Axe, my de facto watchdog and partner, who was indeed a SEAL, but was now essentially Jimmy Buffett with a license to kill.

“Not likely. Listen. I need you to focus. What did you get Ma?”

“Maybe Fiona could take up baking,” Nate said.

“Are you done yet?”

“Oh, I could go all day.”

“Just tell me what I need to know and I’ll let you back to your life of leisure and won’t even tell Fi about that baking remark. Save us all a lot of problems.”

Nate said, “You’re the spy. Figure it out.” And then he hung up. I called him back, but after twenty rings I figured he’d made his point.

A woman wearing an outfit made entirely of pink and green terry cloth pulled her cart up beside me and started leafing through the cards. She was about my mother’s age, maybe a few years older, and she smelled vaguely of cigarettes and a floral perfume that immediately made my head hurt.

When you’re in a hot zone and aren’t sure of local custom, it’s wise to capture and interrogate someone who will give you the information you need to survive. Better to deal with certainty than to be the victim of assumed intel.

“Pardon me,” I said, and when the woman turned to regard me, I smiled at her with all the gusto I could manage. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Evelyn.”

“Evelyn, if you were my mother, what would you want for Mother’s Day?”

Evelyn pondered my question for a moment and then brightened up. “A Crock-Pot.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Or a toaster oven. Cost of gas these days, a toaster oven makes a lot of sense.”

“What about in terms of cards?”

“Something with Snoopy. I’ve always liked Snoopy.” She scanned the racks and then handed me a card with Snoopy grasping his chest with glee, little red hearts bursting all around him. On the inside it said, simply, Happy Mother’s Day.

“Would I need to add anything to this? Some kind of salutation?”

Again Evelyn pondered silently before answering. “Well,” she said, “you don’t seem like someone who really knows how to express emotions very well. So I’d say no.”