Formerly Fingerman by Joe Nelms Page A

pitch he had been over so many times in the bathroom mirror. He opened with a joke about how much he loved work—“Maybe a little too much, ha ha”—followed quickly by a serious but concise review of his experience, awards and accomplishments, and finished with a fascinating anecdote about a project he worked on that required a certain creative acumen that only a clever chap like Brad would possess.
    â€œWell, that is very impressive. Let me talk to my people and bounce your portfolio across a few department-head desks. I think we might be able to work something out.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Brad, it was great meeting you. And sorry about the heat. That was my little test.”
    Brad took the wink that followed to mean that he should kind of pretend to understand what that disclosure meant. He stood and shook Geoff’s meaty hand while looking confidently into that Stepford smiling face one more time. And then it was over.

Project Fancypants
    A man in a dark suit and sunglasses stood in the hallway on the fourteenth floor of 1635 Broadway trying very hard to look as if he were supposed to be there when his earpiece crackled with Brittany’s voice.
    â€œNumber five, how are we?”
    The man in the suit raised his cuff to his mouth and spoke quietly into the hidden microphone.
    â€œWe’re all clear. Over.”
    â€œTom, are you still wearing your sunglasses?”
    The man in the dark suit paused for a second to review his situation and then, realizing his surveillance faux pas, whipped his sunglasses off and jammed them into his jacket pocket.
    â€œNo.”
    There was a heavy sigh over the earphone wedged inside his left ear.
    â€œYou know we have cameras and mics all over this building, right?”
    â€œPshh, yeah.” Duh.
    â€œJust make sure no one gets by you, okay?”
    â€œAffirmative.”
    The man in the dark suit without sunglasses gave the hallway another once-over. All clear. But Jesus, did he have to pee. Probably just his prostate pushing his bladder around. It happened to Tom more and more often these days, especially when he spent a lot of time on his feet. He knew he should have it checked out, but he also knew what getting it checked out involved. It would wait.
    An elevator dinged its arrival on the fourteenth floor, and Tom arranged himself in front of the opening door to make sure no one got off the elevator. An elderly couple on their way to a doctor’s appointment started to exit when they saw Tom’s stern face. Tom shook his head and told them, “Wrong floor.”
    Tom appeared to be quite serious. The unrelenting pressure of having to urinate lent a certain gravitas to his statement. The couple froze for a beat before looking at the lit floor number inside the elevator. It was the right floor, but who wanted to argue with this visibly upset man?
    â€œSorry. Our mistake.”
    Tom nodded and the old couple then backed into the elevator, letting the doors close in front of them.
    Inside the surveillance vehicle disguised as a plumber’s van parked outside 1635 Broadway, Brittany sat with two underling agents watching a bank of monitors set up to observe the route Carmine would presumably take this morning.
    Brittany’s research had been exhausting. She had called in every favor she had with undercover agents, informants, and reporters around the city. She left no rock unturned. There could be no mistaking what was going down today at 1635 Broadway.
    Frank Fortunato’s plan was to meet Carmine Mastramouro in the lobby and shoot him dead. Frank’s bloated ego had convinced him that he could buy off or kill any civilian witnesses foolish enough to testify against him. And he probably was right. Which is why Brittany had brought her own witnesses.
    Her plan was to catch him in the act, gun in hand, just before he fired. It was very theatrical and would make a compelling front page. And her case would