Formerly Fingerman by Joe Nelms Page B

be bulletproof. Captured on video from start to finish. FBI agents planted in the elevator banks to not only stop the crime and catch Frank, but to serve as impeccable eyewitnesses. The tabloids would refer to her as the new Eliot Ness. Her name would become synonymous with law enforcement. Hello, Oprah.
    Her cell phone rang. It was the call she had been waiting for her whole career.
    â€œMarinakos, go.”
    â€œTarget is two blocks away from 1635 headed south on Broadway.”
    â€œStay on him. Let me know.”
    She hung up and hit the walkie button to talk to all the agents working for her.
    â€œWe’re T minus two minutes from go time. Tom, can you check that north stairwell one more time?”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œYes, check them. You know, make sure they’re clear.”
    â€œI meant affirmative.”
    â€œJust do it.”
    Tom had not been Brittany’s first choice, but her department was shorthanded and she needed men. He wasn’t the best agent she had ever met, but Brittany knew Tom could at least be counted on to follow some very simple instructions. Carmine would exit his therapist’s office at eleven o’clock exactly. Same as every Wednesday morning. He would take the elevator down on his way to meet his boyfriend for coffee across the street. Like clockwork.
    Tom’s instructions had been to make sure the fourteenth floor was clear of any interference, basically busy work to keep his head in the game. Brittany knew Tom could be a little unfocused at times, so she had warned him there was a good chance that Frank would send backup soldati , picciotti , sgarrista . Basically everything but pirates. Tom assured her he would be on his toes with his eyes wide open. Once he had cleared the area, he was to wait for Brittany’s signal that Carmine had entered the elevator a few floors above, hit the Down button, and wait to catch a ride down with him to the lobby, ensuring Tom would be there when Frank attacked.
    Not that Tom could do anything to stop Frank. There would be other people there for that. Highly trained agents who would quickly subdue Frank and prevent any real injury. Tom’s real job was to be the handsome guy with twenty-twenty vision and a squeaky clean record who saw it all. Perfect for the witness stand. But he better not be wearing those goddamned sunglasses.
    Up on the fourteenth floor Tom moved quickly to the stairway door, passing the men’s room on his way. The stairs were clear. No mobsters, no henchmen, no sneering men in skull-and-crossbones hats and curly mustaches. Yet. Whew.
    As he headed back toward his post in front of the elevator, he stopped in front of the men’s room. Man, he had to pee like you read about. If he was calculating correctly, they were still T minus about one minute until he had to make his move. Plenty of time. He slipped into the bathroom, fumbling with his zipper as he hustled toward the urinal.
    Brad navigated the interior of the Red Light office on his way to the front door, mentally replaying the last ten minutes of his life. He came to the conclusion that his interview could not have gone better. It was the same feeling he had after the presentation he gave the day he got fired, only without the embarrassing ending. He took a moment to savor the feeling of being immersed in an agency once more. While fleeting, it was nevertheless inspiring. Who knew the vapid poseur culture of advertising could work as such a salve for the soul?
    Yes, this pasty Tarzan with a hundred dollar haircut had swung from one vine, let go, done a few flips, posed for the cameras, grabbed another vine, and swung away. He was back.
    It felt good to swing. Life had its ups and downs, but in Brad’s world, the ups were worth the downs since usually neither was life-threatening. Sure he forgot when the vodka assignment was due, but if he hadn’t he wouldn’t have come up with the brilliant idea that skyrocketed him to