The End Game

“Man, it’s like a digital class reunion. You should get on there. Man. So good to see you.” He reached over and pinched my stomach. “All trim and cut up, and here I am with this gut-real turn of the screw, eh, Westy? Not like the old days.”

If he touched me once more, I was going to break his wrist. “Who told you I was in town?”

“Oh, my mom ran into your mom at Publix a couple months ago. Told her you were a spy or something crazy.”

“Unbelievable,” I said, because it truly was unbelievable. International crime syndicates would pay hard cash to get a bead on my movements, and all they needed to do was corner Ma at Publix. Maybe they’d been shopping at the Winn-Dixie and because of that had missed their opportunity completely.

“Yeah, well, parents, right?”

“Right.”

An uncomfortable silence descended on Davey. As far as I was concerned, we’d covered all of the essentials of polite conversation and could therefore back away without residual injury, but I could tell that Davey was hoping for me to say something so he could start talking about himself, which would then lead to him giving me a business card and then maybe an offer to talk about my retirement portfolio, because guys like Davey Harris always knew something about retirement portfolios. The only thing I wanted to know was how a guy could go through life calling himself Davey.

The larger issue was that I could see Fiona walking up behind Davey, which meant that I was about thirty seconds from being in a situation beyond my control.

“What do you do these days, Westy?”

If he called me Westy again, there was going to be a problem.

“Kill people for the government,” I said.

“Can you imagine? Be like James Bond, back when he was cool? I just got the whole Connery DVD set a couple weeks ago. My opinion? Lazenby could have been the best Bond.”

“Look, David,” I began, but Davey cut me off with a dismissive wave, which made me think breaking his wrist would be a favor to a lot of people.

“Davey. Everyone calls me Davey still.”

“Right. David. No offense? But I don’t remember you. I don’t remember Gordon or Coop or DeWitt or any of the other guys you mentioned. I trust we went to school together, I really do, but I’m drawing a real blank here.”

“We went to school together for twelve years, Mike. How can you not remember me?”

I could’ve told him the truth. I could’ve said that I’d probably replaced him in my mind with weapons training manuals for every gun produced foreign and domestically for the last twenty years. I could’ve told him that I needed the brain space occupied by all the memories of him and Coop for the schematics concerning how one best uses duct tape as a weapon. Or I could have told him that I’d forgotten him because I’d spent the last two decades trying to forget all I could about this place.

But then Fiona walked up and solved all of my problems.

“He’s had a traumatic brain injury,” she said. She swept around Davey, grazed him with her hip, which actually got him to move his cart a couple inches, something I’d been completely unable to manage, and then stood next to me. “He probably hasn’t even mentioned me, has he?”

“No,” Davey said, “he hasn’t. A brain injury, Westy?”

“Traumatic brain injury,” I said.

“Your mom didn’t mention that. Man. That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona said, “but I need to get… Westy… home before his medication wears off.”

“Are you his nurse?”

This would be one of those days that would take me years to live down.

“Of a sort, I guess you could say,” Fiona said, and then she shook Davey’s hand in a very busi nesslike manner. “A pleasure to meet an old friend of… Westy’s. But we must get going so… Westy.. . can have his fun time taking apart kitchen appliances before his darkness takes over, as I’m sure you know.”

Davey had no idea what Fiona was saying, but by the end of the day, I suspected that anyone I went to high school with would have a fairly strong mental picture of me.

“Let me give you my card,” Davey said to Fiona, his voice just above a whisper, as if I couldn’t still hear him, as if he wasn’t standing directly in front of me, “in case he ever needs any help planning for his future. Does he have any kind of retirement set up?”

2

You have two choices when facing a hostile interrogation: Tell the truth or tell a lie. The problem here is that if you’re being interrogated by hostile forces, the end result is that you’re likely going to be killed regardless. So in the event that you find yourself on the pointed end of a knife, or looking down the barrel of a gun, or are simply sitting in a bathtub filled with water while one guy wearing a mask holds a video camera and another a plugged-in hair dryer, each awaiting your confession, well, you give whatever answer you think will buy you a few more minutes to formulate an escape plan.

“So, you didn’t have any friends, Michael?” Fiona asked.