Calypso Directive by Brian Andrews

to catch his balance, he tumbled to the ground and felt another body come down on top of him. When he opened his eyes a large embroidered “B” filled his field of vision. A man sporting a navy blue Red Sox cap and wearing a backpack was splayed out on top of him, flailing about like an overturned beetle trying to right itself.
    â€œI’m so sorry, bro,” the man said as he untangled himself from AJ. “I totally wasn’t looking where I was going.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” he said through clenched teeth. His left side ached where he had fallen; he was surprised he hadn’t cracked a rib. Before getting up, he glanced down the sidewalk in an attempt to catch one more glimpse of the raven-haired beauty in the white blouse. He spotted her just as she rounded a bend and was sure he glimpsed a smile. She had seen it all. No doubt this kind of thing happened to her all the time.
    â€œDid you see the pair on that chick?” the guy in the Red Sox cap said, looking in the same direction as AJ.
    AJ grunted as he got up. “See them? How could I miss them? They’re the reason I ran into you.”
    â€œThey don’t call them knockers for nothing, I guess,” laughed the man in the Red Sox cap.
    AJ gathered himself and looked at his watch, 08:04 AM.
    â€œShit! I’m late.”
    He took off running north along the lagoon, ignoring the curious glances as he dodged left and right between morning commuters. As he approached the “Make Way for Ducklings” sculpture, he scanned the area for Briggs, but he didn’t recognize anyone resembling the recruiter he’d met the day before. He sighed in relief and shuffled over to the bronze casting of a mother duck with her ducklings in trail—frozen forever in mid-waddle.
    â€œYou’re late,” a voice called from behind him.
    He spun around. Jack Briggs was sitting on a park bench directly behind him. Briggs had a Boston Globe newspaper folded neatly in his lap and a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee in his hand. AJ was taken aback; he didn’t recall seeing anyone sitting on the park bench a minute ago.
    â€œYou’re right, I am. I’m sorry about that, Mr. Briggs.”
    Briggs snorted as he reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded stack of documents. “Take a quick look at this CA. Throw your John Hancock on the dotted line when you’re done.”
    â€œA confidentiality agreement? For what?”
    Briggs stared at him. “For confidentiality.”
    He stared back. The man standing in front of him looked like the same Briggs he had met in Tim’s office, but his persona had hardened. AJ grabbed the papers, and leafed through the legalese. Halfway through the stack of pages, he sighed, flipped to the last page, and dutifully signed his name.
    â€œMr. Briggs, I have some questions about—”
    Briggs raised his hand, stopping AJ mid-sentence, just as he had done the day before in Tim’s office. He took the signed papers, stuffed them back inside the flap of his coat, and then shifted his gaze to the bronze ducks.
    â€œAppropriate, wouldn’t you say, Archer?” Briggs said. Then, with a smile only in his eyes, he added, “There will be time for questions later. Follow me, son.”
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    AFTER A TEN-MINUTE walk, they arrived at the steps of a renovated seven-story brownstone on the east side of Commonwealth Avenue. Embossed on the glass-paned entry door was a logo:

    â€œThis is where you work: The Nicolora Foundation?” AJ asked, remembering the enigmatic bee on Briggs’ business card.
    Briggs regarded him, but didn’t answer.
    â€œWhat is the significance of the bee?”
    â€œMetaphor, Archer, metaphor.”
    â€œSo I’m to be the newest drone in your collective hive?”
    â€œA clumsy, shallow interpretation,” Briggs said, shaking his head. “Certainly