Tommy snapped the folder shut and tossed it onto the coffee table. His eyes danced around the room before settling on the object that sat at the kitchen bar. He walked towards it slowly. “Seven hours, eh?” he said with an edge of awe in his voice before letting out a soft whistle. “Is that how long it usually takes to do this?”
“Depends,” he responded dismissively. He never liked to discuss the details. His job, like Dublin’s and Tall Tommy’s, was a solo one for a reason. “Each one’s different.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Tommy whispered, his stare fixed solemnly on the object. “Okay… I’ll take it from here, mate. Our man is doing his cameo in about six hours, so I better get started. Is all of your gear accounted for?”
He nodded.
Tall Tommy pulled two latex gloves from his pocket and looked around the room. “Anything off-list get touched?” he asked as he quickly snapped the gloves over his fingers, a cloud of talcum dust swirling in the air.
“Nope.”
“Sweet,” Tommy responded, pulling a tiny, expensive-looking pair of earphones from his pocket and placing them carefully over his ears. “Well then, Chilly, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
12.
“Peace Corps,” the pasty-faced young man mumbled, staring at the wall of the saloon in front of him. “The guy’s gotta be in the Peace Corps.” He turned to his college friends and raised his arm in the air. “Ready?”
The two other young men raised their arms and the three nodded a silent toast before slugging back the shots of vodka. A brief grimace etched their faces before turning into a conspiratorial grin.
“Whoa – shit!” His long-haired friend gasped, setting the shot glass on the bar before tightening the hair tie of his ponytail and adjusting his glasses.
“That’ll fuck you up!”
“We’re doing another one in five minutes,” the third man replied, lightly punching both his colleagues in the chest. He was nearly a head taller than the other two, with thin, tattoo-covered arms. “And don’t even try to pussy out.” He looked again at the ‘shrine’ of letters pinned to the wall inside of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon, his expression thoughtful as he stroked his patchy beard. “He’s not in the Peace Corps, bro,” he replied. “Peace Corps people don’t move around that much. They stay in the same shithole place for like two years or something.” He squinted at the photos. “Can’t really see him, but I’d also say he looks older than most of those Peace Corps hippies. He’s probably in that Doctors Without Borders group. They’re kind of like the Peace Corps… they go to all these fucked up places and heal all the people that are shot and starving and shit. That’s my bet.”
His pony-tailed friend shook his head. “A doctor? You honestly think he’s a doctor?” he asked sarcastically. “No way man… he’s a reporter.”
He stepped closer to the tinsel-wrapped display of letters and photos, then turned and looked at his two friends. “I mean, think about it. He’s in places that no normal person would care about or even think to visit, but he’s only there for a short time.”
“True,” his pasty-faced friend remarked.
“And take a look at this,” ponytail continued, pointing at the Polaroids. “You can’t actually see his face, which makes perfect sense if he’s a reporter, because he doesn’t want anyone to recognize him and find out he’s sweet-talking some bartender in an old dive bar in Flagstaff.”
“Right, yeah… that’s got to be it,” his tattooed friend muttered sarcastically before edging towards the bar. “I’m ordering another round.”
“Seriously man, it’s so obvious,” ponytail’s voice rose with excitement.
“Look at the way he writes– he’s clever and charismatic, like all reporters are. I have an uncle who was a reporter for the Associated Press– well, I mean I had an uncle who was a reporter.”
“Like me, huh?” his pasty-faced friend asked.
“No man,” ponytail replied irritably, “he was a real reporter, not some wannabe college paper reporter like you. Anyway, he’s dead now, but he used to fly all over the fucking place on assignment. He was a smart motherfucker too.” He leaned towards the wall and squinted, as if finding a clue everyone else had overlooked, before adjusting his eyeglasses again. “That’s got to be it. Reporter.”
His friends stared at him vacantly for a moment. “Damn man, you’ve got me convinced,” pasty-face replied. “Maybe I should write an article in the paper about this guy.”