asshole is?" he asked his date.
She bit. "No, how famous are you?"
"I'm not."
"Bullshit!" Alex exclaimed. "Our man here is like the most successful serial killer profiler in the history of the FBI!"
"No, no, that's certainly not true," Will strongly demurred.
"How many have you caught over the years?" Zeckendorf asked.
"I don't know. A few, I guess."
"A few! That's like saying I've done a few pelvic exams," Alex exclaimed. "They say you're the man--infallible."
"I think you're referring to the Pope."
"C'mon, I read somewhere you can psychoanalyze someone in under a half a minute."
"I don't need that long to figure you out, buddy, but seriously, you shouldn't believe everything you read."
Alex nudged his date. "Take my word for it--watch out for this guy. He's a phenom."
Will was anxious to change the subject. His career had taken a few nonsuperlative turns, and he didn't feel much like dwelling on past glories. "I guess we've all done pretty well considering our shaky start, Zeck's a big-time corporate lawyer, Alex is a professor of medicine...God help us, but let's talk about Mark here. What have you been up to all these years?"
Before Mark could wet his lips for a reply, Alex pounced, slipping into his ancient role as torturer of the geek. "Yeah, let's hear it. Shackleton is probably some kind of dot-com billionaire with his own 737 and a basketball team. Did you go on to invent the cell phone or something like that? I mean you were always writing stuff in that notebook of yours, always with the closed bedroom door. What were you doing in there, sport, besides going through back issues of Playboy and boxes of Kleenex?"
Will and Zeckendorf couldn't suppress a yuk because back then the kid always did seem to buy a whole lot of Kleenex. But straightaway Will felt a pang of guilt when Mark impaled him with a barbed et tu , Brute? kind of look.
"I'm in computer security," Mark half whispered into his plate. "Unfortunately, I'm not a billionaire." He looked up and added hopefully, "I also do some writing on the side."
"You work at a company?" Will asked politely, trying to redeem himself.
"I worked for a few of them but now I'm like you, I guess. I work for the government."
"Really. Where?"
"Nevada."
"You live in Vegas, right?" Zeckendorf said.
Mark nodded, clearly disappointed no one had keyed onto his comment about writing.
"Which branch?" Will asked, and when his reply was a mute stare, he added, "Of the government?"
Mark's angular Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. "It's a lab. It's kind of classified."
"Shack's got a secret!" Alex shouted gleefully. "Give him another drink! Loosen his lips!"
Zeckendorf looked fascinated. "Come on, Mark, can't you tell us something about it?"
"Sorry."
Alex leaned in. "I bet a certain someone from the FBI could find out what you're up to."
"I don't think so," Mark replied with a dram of smugness.
Zeckendorf wouldn't let it go and thought out loud, "Nevada, Nevada--the only secret government lab I've ever heard of in Nevada is out in the desert...at what's called...Area 51?" He waited for a denial but got a good long poker face instead. "Tell me you don't work at Area 51!"
Mark hesitated then said slyly, "I can't tell you that."
"Wow," the model said, impressed. "Isn't that where they study UFOs and things like that?"
Mark smiled like the Mona Lisa, enigmatically.
"If he told you, he'd have to kill you," Will said.
Mark vigorously shook his head, his eyes lowered and turning humorless. There was a reedy dryness in his throat that Will found disquieting. "No. If I told you, other people would kill you."
M AY 22, 2009
S TATEN I SLAND , N EW Y ORK
C onsuela Lopez was worn-out and in pain. She was at the stern of the Staten Island ferry, sitting at her usual home-bound spot near the exit so she could disembark quickly. If she missed the 10:45 P.M. number 51 bus, she had a long wait at the bus station at St. George Terminal for the next one. The
She bit. "No, how famous are you?"
"I'm not."
"Bullshit!" Alex exclaimed. "Our man here is like the most successful serial killer profiler in the history of the FBI!"
"No, no, that's certainly not true," Will strongly demurred.
"How many have you caught over the years?" Zeckendorf asked.
"I don't know. A few, I guess."
"A few! That's like saying I've done a few pelvic exams," Alex exclaimed. "They say you're the man--infallible."
"I think you're referring to the Pope."
"C'mon, I read somewhere you can psychoanalyze someone in under a half a minute."
"I don't need that long to figure you out, buddy, but seriously, you shouldn't believe everything you read."
Alex nudged his date. "Take my word for it--watch out for this guy. He's a phenom."
Will was anxious to change the subject. His career had taken a few nonsuperlative turns, and he didn't feel much like dwelling on past glories. "I guess we've all done pretty well considering our shaky start, Zeck's a big-time corporate lawyer, Alex is a professor of medicine...God help us, but let's talk about Mark here. What have you been up to all these years?"
Before Mark could wet his lips for a reply, Alex pounced, slipping into his ancient role as torturer of the geek. "Yeah, let's hear it. Shackleton is probably some kind of dot-com billionaire with his own 737 and a basketball team. Did you go on to invent the cell phone or something like that? I mean you were always writing stuff in that notebook of yours, always with the closed bedroom door. What were you doing in there, sport, besides going through back issues of Playboy and boxes of Kleenex?"
Will and Zeckendorf couldn't suppress a yuk because back then the kid always did seem to buy a whole lot of Kleenex. But straightaway Will felt a pang of guilt when Mark impaled him with a barbed et tu , Brute? kind of look.
"I'm in computer security," Mark half whispered into his plate. "Unfortunately, I'm not a billionaire." He looked up and added hopefully, "I also do some writing on the side."
"You work at a company?" Will asked politely, trying to redeem himself.
"I worked for a few of them but now I'm like you, I guess. I work for the government."
"Really. Where?"
"Nevada."
"You live in Vegas, right?" Zeckendorf said.
Mark nodded, clearly disappointed no one had keyed onto his comment about writing.
"Which branch?" Will asked, and when his reply was a mute stare, he added, "Of the government?"
Mark's angular Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. "It's a lab. It's kind of classified."
"Shack's got a secret!" Alex shouted gleefully. "Give him another drink! Loosen his lips!"
Zeckendorf looked fascinated. "Come on, Mark, can't you tell us something about it?"
"Sorry."
Alex leaned in. "I bet a certain someone from the FBI could find out what you're up to."
"I don't think so," Mark replied with a dram of smugness.
Zeckendorf wouldn't let it go and thought out loud, "Nevada, Nevada--the only secret government lab I've ever heard of in Nevada is out in the desert...at what's called...Area 51?" He waited for a denial but got a good long poker face instead. "Tell me you don't work at Area 51!"
Mark hesitated then said slyly, "I can't tell you that."
"Wow," the model said, impressed. "Isn't that where they study UFOs and things like that?"
Mark smiled like the Mona Lisa, enigmatically.
"If he told you, he'd have to kill you," Will said.
Mark vigorously shook his head, his eyes lowered and turning humorless. There was a reedy dryness in his throat that Will found disquieting. "No. If I told you, other people would kill you."
M AY 22, 2009
S TATEN I SLAND , N EW Y ORK
C onsuela Lopez was worn-out and in pain. She was at the stern of the Staten Island ferry, sitting at her usual home-bound spot near the exit so she could disembark quickly. If she missed the 10:45 P.M. number 51 bus, she had a long wait at the bus station at St. George Terminal for the next one. The
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