Watchlist (34 page)

Zoe has been very helpful to us, Svetlana said, in monitoring FicShare. But soon she will be moving on. It's all it takes, one woman or one man, some serious conviction—Anderson could tell that Svetlana was just starting to get warmed up. She seemed to have a nervous tic of continually rolling her sleeves up, even as they kept falling down. Anderson had noticed her doing it about four times already. And now the burden has come to you, she continued. It's time to shake off your lethargy. Time for you to step out of your quotidian existence. You are old world but you are also new. You are a guardian but an innovator too. Time to decide to make something of yourself, for this and all ages. Very soon—

But at that very moment the door of the bar slammed open. There was no high-end creaklessness now—it slammed and banged. Inside ran four hooded figures, dressed all in black—were they armed? Anderson couldn't say. The lights had suddenly shut off again, and the room was plunged into darkness and delirium. Anderson felt a hand on the back of his neck, urging him down, coolly, softly, almost pleasantly, though urgently. As he crouched, heart banging away somewhere around his throat, he turned and saw that it was Zoe, and she had her usual grim expression on her face. He realized that, whatever else, he trusted her. He didn't know why, but he realized now that he always had. The little grimace she made, unconsciously, while she was typing, in the office; the way she bit her bottom lip while she read something, almost whispering it out loud. They crouched together, and Anderson closed his eyes. He clutched the Dostoevsky to his chest.

When he opened his eyes again, the lights had come back on. The sounds had stopped, and Svetlana and the bartender were leaned up against the bar, plastic zip cuffs around their wrists, dark material blindfolding their eyes. Zoe, Svetlana called. Anderson? Do they have you too? Zoe looked at Anderson and slowly shook her head. Anderson didn't say anything. Two of the hooded figures took charge of the captives, and began to perp-walk them out the employee exit of the bar. As she went by, Anderson could smell a whiff of something off Svetlana's body—sweat? Fear? But she went toward her fate stoically, her sleeves hanging loosely around her cuffed wrists.

When the captives and the first two figures were gone, and the door shut softly behind them, the remaining figures removed their hoods, and Zoe stood Anderson up. Well done J, the first figure said. Anderson watched him carefully, as the shadow of the hood fell away from his face. It was Nikil.

Good work, Zoe, Nikil said quietly. She never suspected. Zoe nodded almost imperceptibly. We've been very successful here tonight, said Nikil.

As if on cue, the three leading members of FicShare looked to Anderson. Zoe's bracing arm left Anderson's back. Once again he had the feeling of being at an interview, or else a firing squad.

This is bad business Anderson, James said. We wouldn't want an employee who's dissatisfied at the company. You know what I mean. He looked to Nikil, who agreed.

Of course, continued James, we haven't been entirely honest with you either. With many of our employees. We have certain connections with a larger start-up, one which doesn't have a public name yet, but which very soon will be changing the way we think about lots of the regular aspects of our lives. James looked quite earnest, the way promotional material does.

One vast connection, he continued. One large multiplier. One—

All right J, Nikil said sharply. This is all quite beta.

James came down to earth. We'd like for you to be a part of it. We value you at FicShare, we really do. The books, the stories—you keep us grounded. Will you stick with us a while longer? He, Nikil, and Zoe stared out at Anderson. Zoe held her hands motionless behind her back.

Anderson considered. Should he answer truthfully? What he wanted was a steady job, a decent apartment. Room for his books, nicely constructed bookshelves, and most of all, time to read from them. He realized, deep down, that he didn't mind office work, much as he complained about it. It was a routine for him, like life. It kept him connected to some larger role, the possibility for some great advancement. And, he figured, everyone else was doing it. Once, when he was just out of college, there'd been an opportunity for him to go to an island off the Finnish coast and work in a bookstore for eight months, room and board included, but he'd decided against it. His life was like that. He shrugged off the unusual, and the strange. These thoughts flashed through his mind, like end-of-life, like a montage, like the flip-book public art installment that the B train passed on the Brooklyn side of the river when going over the Manhattan Bridge. It was a painting, lit from behind, covered with strips of black metal, so that when the train sped past it, it jumped and buzzed almost like a movie. He knew it well—he could see it before him. Anderson closed his eyes. He felt like Griff, nearly weeping in the clean SoHo bar bathroom.

I'll see you all in the morning, Anderson said, pointedly. I don't suppose I'll recall much of what you might call a very dreamlike night. Nikil nodded swiftly, James pressed Anderson's hand into a quick handshake. It's for the best, Nikil said. Undoubtedly, answered Anderson.

He was almost to the door when Zoe called out to him. Wait, she said. You forgot this. He turned around. It was the Dostoevsky. He took it from her grasp. Her face was impassive, grave. Without saying anything, he left the bar. Outside, he hailed a cab—the subway would have been a nightmare at this hour, whatever hour it was. He didn't know, because he didn't wear a watch anymore. He didn't have his cell phone, so he couldn't tell the time—nor could he call an Uber. But the taxis were out in full force on the vacant streets of lower Manhattan, even at that hour, shuttling from the hotspots of northern Brooklyn and the centers of commerce, industry, and culture on Wall Street, Midtown, Murray Hill. The taxi that picked Anderson up stank inside of old cigarettes and bad bread, and old, mildewed leather jackets. By the streetlights of the city that never sleeps around them Anderson opened his copy of
Crime and Punishment,
and began reading. St. Petersburg. Islands and canals. A policeman and a public park. Fallen women. He forgot to tell the driver to avoid the unpaved street just before his building. They bounced to the end. He paid the driver, walked the quick stairs to his apportioned room, closed the window that he'd left a little open, and settled into the armchair next to his bed to continue reading. By the time morning came, stark and resolute, Anderson had finished the book.

The sun beat down so hard it almost had a rhythm to it. I mean, the sun's rays pounded against the top of my head like the bass track on a gangsta rap single, boom-
boom
, boom-
boom
, boom-
boom
, boom-
boom
, and I could almost believe that the angelic visions in front of my eyes were being forced out of my brain by the relentless heat: acres and acres of barely covered baking flesh, virtually motionless in the foreground but undulating in the distance, where thousands upon thousands of swimmers rolled in the surf like potatoes floating to the surface of a pot of boiling water; and it was just as I hit freeze frame that Ace Ferucci stuck his naked white ass in front of the camera, and, at the same time, my mom called my name. And I mean Ace's ass in freeze frame was bad enough, but then my
mom
too.

“Fuck off!” I yelled at the TV in general and at Ace's ass in particular, but with the video paused and the television suddenly silent—there
had
been a bass track, courtesy of these two like totally obnoxious dudes who'd been next to us on the beach, but it disappeared when I paused the video and I could almost see my words carry past the television to my door, and then push on through to my mom on the top of the stairs.

“Boo?” she called again, a funny, half-worried, half-peeved sort of undertone to her voice, and then she knocked on my door. It must've been about five, I guess, sometime after school but before their bridge game, and thank God—I mean
thank God!
—I hadn't really had a chance to get into the video yet. “Boo, I wondered if I might . . .”

She eased the door open, but by then I'd composed myself and was staring at the TV and trying to make my face look like,
Ah, summer
—which “summer” was a shot of Ace's ass I barely had time to fast-forward past before my mom's head appeared in the doorway. She held the doorknob in one hand and a drink in the other, and for a long time she just looked at the TV. Ace was gone, but in his place was this like totally stacked brunette, or, really, just her chest, which in context was even more incriminating than Ace's ass. My mom looked at the TV, and then she looked at me on the bed with the pillow on my lap, and when I followed her eyes down I saw that I was holding the remote so hard my knuckles were white, and I dropped it like it'd burned me. “Boo,” my mom said. “Boo, could you come downstairs for a moment? Your father and I have something we'd like to discuss with you.”

I was so relieved I practically thanked her. They were in the living room when I came downstairs. Even I have to admit we've got a pretty fantastic living room, which is centered around these two absolutely amazing Chippendale sofas facing each other. I mean, my dad restores furniture for a living, and he'd done nothing but the best job on those sofas. In particular the leather on them was like butter, which on the one hand feels especially soft but on the other hand means you sort of have to watch yourself when you sit on them, or else you'll just like slide right off them. But anyway, my mom and dad were sitting on the one sofa and I sat down on the other one. In between the two sofas is this coffee table which my dad always calls “contemporary” to the sofas—which means it was made at the same time they were, but he's not sure
who
made it—and like
right
on top of the coffee table was a pair of underwear, and the fly was facing up, and like right
on
the fly were these stains. The underwear was mine, the stains were mine too, and if I mention that I was fourteen then I don't think I have to say anything else.

“Have a seat, Boo,” my dad said, even though I was already sitting down.

I guess right off I should mention that my parents more or less never called me Book, ever, unless they were mad at me or introducing me to their friends.

And I guess, saying that, that I should also say how it is I ended up with such a dumb name. See, my parents aren't just bridge players: they're bridge
fanatics
. They've played bridge every Tuesday against Angela and Tony Ferucci since like way before I was born. I don't really play bridge myself—I've watched them a lot, but the one time I asked them to teach me they laughed and said I should call them again when I'm like thirty—so if any of you play bridge I apologize if I'm getting this all wrong. Anyway, what happens in bridge is, you make your bid by taking six tricks on top of the number of tricks you bid for, so to take a bid of, say, five clubs, what you really have to do is take eleven tricks, which is actually a hard thing to do, and, I mean, whatever, if you don't get it it's not really important. What's important is that those first six tricks are called
book
, and when you take these tricks it's called
making book
.

Supposedly it was my mom who was struck by the phrase. Like I said, my dad's a furniture restorer but my mom's an editor, so I guess it makes sense that she was the one. I mean, my dad's not particularly articulate if you know what I mean: Have a seat, Boo, when I'm already sitting down, and like that.
Making book
. They used the second word for my name, my real name—I didn't start using Booker until this year—but I bet it was the first word that really got them. See, my mom edits this food magazine you've probably heard of even if you've never read it, but the only reason she edits it, she once told me, is because she can't write a decent sentence to save her life, and she can't cook either. What she does have is great taste, in food and writing both, which is why her magazine's so famous. My dad's got kind of the same relationship to furniture. I've seen him take what looks like a bundle of wood and turn it back into a two-hundred-year-old Louis Quatorze dining chair—which he then sells for like an
amazing
amount of money—but whenever he tries to make something himself it's a total disaster. I guess what I'm trying to say is that my parents have never been able to
make
anything, except me.

“How's school, Boo?” my mom started things off, and she reached for her drink. My mom always allows herself two drinks before dinner—she calls them “aperitifs”—and I was guessing from the little wobble in her hand as she picked up the glass that she was already on her second one. The glass was sitting right next to the underwear on the table, but she just picked it up and drank from it and put it back down on the table as though the underwear wasn't even there.

“You want to put a coaster under that?” my dad said. He himself was holding his beer in his lap. “I mean, the wood.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” my mom said.

“It'll leave rings. That table was a lot of work, I could sell it for a mint.”

“Well,
okay
,” she said then, and then she sort of looked around for a coaster but there wasn't one, and I guess she didn't want to get up or something, and so what she did was, she picked the drink up and put it down on my underwear.

No one said anything for what seemed like a long time.

“Boo,” my mom finally said.

“Look, Mom, we talked about it already. In school. Health class. I know all about it. Everything's fine, really.” And then I remembered: Tuesday. “Hey, won't the Feruccis be here soon?” By which I didn't actually mean Mr. and Mrs., but Ace, who always came over with them.