inside, Henry admits this doesn’t sound so horrible.
“Get ’em drunk, get ’em high, give ’em a foot rub. Who cares? The important thing is, I want you to work alone. No more Junior Agent garbage.”
“You really think I’m ready?” Henry can’t tell whether the bacon sizzle in his chest is excitement or nicotine.
“When I watched you pin-prick that old man I could see it in your eyes. It was love.”
“Love?”
“You love this job, don’t you?”
“Um, let’s not go that far.”
At the start of the next work day, there is a temp named Henry Holgate at America’s second-largest hamburger chain: Bust-A-Gut. He makes copies and fetches cappuccinos like a textbook admin. He makes three trips a day to the candy machine. Once in a while, the young spy plays lost and pokes his head around the office. He briefly catches a glimpse of the target coming out of a meeting and scurries away. She looks different than the surveillance photo , Hamler thinks.
“Getting the lay of the land, Henry?” his new boss says. The man’s skin is so smooth Hamler counts the pores. The boss has an obscure title like Assistant Vice Manager of Dairy Acquisitions. It takes Henry until lunch to realize his boss, Martin, is a cheese buyer.
“Totally,” he says with a laugh. “Copy room, coffee maker, mail room—the Big Three.” Secretly, Henry dances with the excitement of actual espionage work.
“You’re a hard worker, Henry. You’ll fit in great here at Bust-A-Gut.” His boss is dressed expensive—black shoes glowing.
“Thanks, it’s really exciting to be somewhere that’s such a big part of my life.”
Martin, deep-skinned and Latino with a tiny black goatee, looks Hamler’s chub up and down. Generously, he ignores the slick gel job hair. “I don’t buy that, Henry. You’re in too good of shape to eat burgers.” The boss’s eyes are a forcefully confident brown. He exudes a damn-near perfect presence except for those uncontrolled nasal snorts every few sentences.
“Monte Cristo is practically my middle name,” he says, rubbing a Santa belly, impressed with how good he is at lying. “Honestly!”
“Whatever you say, Henry.”
“So, I have a weird question,” Hamler says. He’s trying to organize a chain of command for his report to Tony. He doesn’t know what size fish Martin is yet. “How does cheese factor into what goes on here?”
Martin’s brown eyes bulge, wet and offended. “Eh, well, cheese is pretty important to our success. Frankly ,” his voice lowers as coworkers buzz in all directions. The office is a puzzle of moveable cubicle walls. Daylight is nonexistent in Bust-A-Gut’s home office—replaced overhead by long fluorescent bulbs. “There’s big talk of a Mozzarella Stick Burger. Revolutionary.”
“How is that revolutionary?”
Martin stuffs his tongue deep in his cheek until it pops out like a gumball. He leans in whisper close. “The bread,” his nose snorts, “will be fried mozzarella shaped like a hamburger bun. Ground beef, bacon, cheddar and….well, pickles and shit, all book-ended by fried cheese .”
“Wow, that’ll knock people out.” Henry holds for a second, exactly as he learned to lie in spy school. “I’m speechless.”
“Needless to say, it’ll make the competition look like crapped pants.”
“What?”
“Forget it.” Martin spins on his heel and his purple striped tie whips Henry. “Oooooh, here’s a high-roller you’ve got to meet. Kiss her ass, Henry, and you’ll go straight to the top!”
That familiar first-cigarette feeling of peace sinks in deep when Hamler turns and sees the woman he was sent to spy on.
“Not bleeping likely, Martin,” says an insanely tall blonde woman with a bandage wrapped above her ears. “Malinta Redding. Nice to meet you.”
“Dimitri,” our Cosmonaut Watch anchor says. “I’m sure you are weak and malnourished, but can you say a few words to the folks here on Earth?”
There is static
“Get ’em drunk, get ’em high, give ’em a foot rub. Who cares? The important thing is, I want you to work alone. No more Junior Agent garbage.”
“You really think I’m ready?” Henry can’t tell whether the bacon sizzle in his chest is excitement or nicotine.
“When I watched you pin-prick that old man I could see it in your eyes. It was love.”
“Love?”
“You love this job, don’t you?”
“Um, let’s not go that far.”
At the start of the next work day, there is a temp named Henry Holgate at America’s second-largest hamburger chain: Bust-A-Gut. He makes copies and fetches cappuccinos like a textbook admin. He makes three trips a day to the candy machine. Once in a while, the young spy plays lost and pokes his head around the office. He briefly catches a glimpse of the target coming out of a meeting and scurries away. She looks different than the surveillance photo , Hamler thinks.
“Getting the lay of the land, Henry?” his new boss says. The man’s skin is so smooth Hamler counts the pores. The boss has an obscure title like Assistant Vice Manager of Dairy Acquisitions. It takes Henry until lunch to realize his boss, Martin, is a cheese buyer.
“Totally,” he says with a laugh. “Copy room, coffee maker, mail room—the Big Three.” Secretly, Henry dances with the excitement of actual espionage work.
“You’re a hard worker, Henry. You’ll fit in great here at Bust-A-Gut.” His boss is dressed expensive—black shoes glowing.
“Thanks, it’s really exciting to be somewhere that’s such a big part of my life.”
Martin, deep-skinned and Latino with a tiny black goatee, looks Hamler’s chub up and down. Generously, he ignores the slick gel job hair. “I don’t buy that, Henry. You’re in too good of shape to eat burgers.” The boss’s eyes are a forcefully confident brown. He exudes a damn-near perfect presence except for those uncontrolled nasal snorts every few sentences.
“Monte Cristo is practically my middle name,” he says, rubbing a Santa belly, impressed with how good he is at lying. “Honestly!”
“Whatever you say, Henry.”
“So, I have a weird question,” Hamler says. He’s trying to organize a chain of command for his report to Tony. He doesn’t know what size fish Martin is yet. “How does cheese factor into what goes on here?”
Martin’s brown eyes bulge, wet and offended. “Eh, well, cheese is pretty important to our success. Frankly ,” his voice lowers as coworkers buzz in all directions. The office is a puzzle of moveable cubicle walls. Daylight is nonexistent in Bust-A-Gut’s home office—replaced overhead by long fluorescent bulbs. “There’s big talk of a Mozzarella Stick Burger. Revolutionary.”
“How is that revolutionary?”
Martin stuffs his tongue deep in his cheek until it pops out like a gumball. He leans in whisper close. “The bread,” his nose snorts, “will be fried mozzarella shaped like a hamburger bun. Ground beef, bacon, cheddar and….well, pickles and shit, all book-ended by fried cheese .”
“Wow, that’ll knock people out.” Henry holds for a second, exactly as he learned to lie in spy school. “I’m speechless.”
“Needless to say, it’ll make the competition look like crapped pants.”
“What?”
“Forget it.” Martin spins on his heel and his purple striped tie whips Henry. “Oooooh, here’s a high-roller you’ve got to meet. Kiss her ass, Henry, and you’ll go straight to the top!”
That familiar first-cigarette feeling of peace sinks in deep when Hamler turns and sees the woman he was sent to spy on.
“Not bleeping likely, Martin,” says an insanely tall blonde woman with a bandage wrapped above her ears. “Malinta Redding. Nice to meet you.”
“Dimitri,” our Cosmonaut Watch anchor says. “I’m sure you are weak and malnourished, but can you say a few words to the folks here on Earth?”
There is static
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