Don Bruns - Stuff to spy for

“Yeah. I know.”

Sweat continued to run into my eyes, running down my chest, as I was crouched into a tight ball, saying a silent prayer that I would not be discovered. Something on the ground tickled my right arm. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt for the installation day left me somewhat exposed, and I could feel this particular tickling on my right elbow. I shuddered and the sensation stopped. For a couple of seconds. I gave my head a short shake, trying to get rid of the perspiration from my eyes. Squinting, I peered down at my right arm and saw the large black beetle with gray antennas, chewing on my skin. My eyes stinging, I shook my arm and the beetle moved. I didn’t follow him, just closed my eyes and prayed that he wouldn’t return.

“You don’t see any hitch?”

“None.” Feng responded.

“It can’t be this easy.”

“It can. It will be. It is.”

“Jesus.”

“Are you Christian?”

“No.”

Silence. Finally Feng spoke.

“We’ll get the codes. The plan is the same. We will be victorious.”

I could see their legs, Feng’s gray uniform pants and polished black shoes, and the other man’s black pants and scuffed loafers. And even though they spoke in hushed tones, I could hear their voices as if they were under the Accord with me. They were so close I could see lint on the fabric of their pants. Certainly they would realize I was two feet from them. They’d hear me breathing or I’d sneeze. Then I felt a funny sensation in my nostril, and I really started to worry.

“It’s in your hands.”

“I understand that, and I don’t take it lightly.”

There was no more conversation. The shuffling of shoes and the separation of the two men was audibly and visually evident, and I drew a deep sigh of relief. They were leaving. I couldn’t have been happier. I sniffed, trying to stop the sneeze sensation. Once, twice, and then I sneezed, muffling it by pressing my face into the rough surface of the asphalt. Everything was quiet and I strained to hear even the faintest sound. And there it was. I heard the faint click, the opening of a door and a second later, the slam of a door. The suspension shifted. Someone was inside the car. I was under the car. This was not the way it was supposed to go.

A moment of silence. Then a roar of the engine, and I shuddered. I shuddered, then shuddered again. Someone, my guess would have been Feng, had started the Honda and I was directly underneath. Would the wheels run over me? Could the car scrape me off the parking lot? I was in an extremely uncomfortable situation. For some reason I flashed back to one of the dozens of Hardy Boys novels I’d read as a kid. Frank Hardy was in a do-or-die situation. With all his might, he pushed, pulled, or did something and miraculously escaped from a life-threatening situation. The guy was like Houdini.

I stuck my head out from under the car and dug my fingers into the asphalt, pulling with all my might. Any second he’d throw the Honda into drive and crush me into the pavement. I threw my arms forward, pulled hard, and only gained inches. Then, maybe a foot, and another. Again, and again. The car jerked forward and I curled my legs with lightning speed as the car lurched from the parking spot and the driver squealed the tires as he left the row of cars. I pulled myself forward, under another car, now getting the hang of it, my raw fingers scratching at the pavement. Under another car, huddling for just a moment, then easing out, my head swiveling this way and that, trying to see if anyone had noticed. I heard and saw nothing.

I lay on the blistering asphalt for a moment, running my hands over my arms, my legs, my neck, and head. I ached, but everything seemed in one piece.

And there I was, stretched out on the black surface, thanking God that I’d escaped with my life. Thanking anyone who would listen that I’d escaped with my limbs intact. Thanking my lucky stars that no one had discovered me. Thanking the spirits that protected me that I was protected.

I wiped my eyes with my left hand and took several long, deep breaths.

“So. You have one small job to do, and you end up sleeping on the blacktop.”

James was looking down at me, shaking his head in mock disappointment. I’m telling you, there are times when I’d like to strangle him.

“P ard, he let us out on a short break. If I’d known we were getting the break, I would have done the job myself.”

We sat on the solid cement slab behind our apartment in cheap green and white Walgreens lounge chairs, drinking cheap Genny long-neck beers. I’d accepted the beer from him, even though I’d paid for it, but I hadn’t said a word. I was still shook up over the GPS incident. The one that my roommate suggested. The one he was going to handle. Until he conveniently couldn’t do the job.

James took a deep drag on his Marlboro, letting it drift into the air. I took a deep breath. Secondhand was better than starting up again. And besides the health issue, I couldn’t afford to smoke.

“Skip, I will admit, I talked to Eden, and she sent me to Sandy’s office. I asked him if he didn’t think we should be allowed to leave the building for even half an hour.”

“Eden?” I’d never heard the name.

“Eden Callahan, the cute security guard.”

Leave it to James. The next thing would be he’d have a date with her.

“By the way, I asked her out for next Friday.”

And I hadn’t even considered that. Not asking the guard out on a date, but asking for a break. I’d gone along with Feng’s program. The little soldier rode roughshod over everybody and I’d let him do it to me.

“Sandy said we could take a break and passed it down the line, and so we did.” He stared at me, waiting for my response. I just took a long swallow of beer. “Anyway, Feng was furious. He was stomping around, just totally pissed off that someone had gone over his head. Of course, as short as he is, just about everything goes over his head.”

I smiled.

“See, you can’t stay mad too long.”

I gazed down the row of apartments, the little cement porches like a board game, one after another. Cracked, pitted, stained concrete, littered with cheap grills, kids’ broken toys, and worn out lawn furniture. Just beyond our pathetic living quarters there was a mud brown ditch, half filled with brackish water that flowed with the runoff from somewhere. I was mad. But only mad because I was settling for this miserable existence. I wanted success as much as James, maybe more. Maybe for different reasons. James wanted success that his father had never achieved. I wanted success to show Em that I could amount to something. James and I both had something to prove.

And even with this job, even with the nice paycheck at the end, I still felt like success was just beyond my reach. And that almost getting myself killed this day was probably not the way I was going to make a million dollars.

“Listen, you did a great job, amigo. You got the GPS under his car.”

“At the risk of killing myself.” I could feel a crick in my back and the soreness of my arms and legs.

“Yeah, but you’re alive and we can track that little weasel.”

“James, it was stupid. We did it on our own. Mrs. Conroy didn’t even ask us to do it. We had no business-”

“Skip,” he stood up, tugged his baggy shorts up high, and walked back into the apartment, returning moments later with two more cold beers, “we did have business. Somebody died in that building a couple of days ago. Could be suicide, could be murder.” James twisted the top and tossed it over his shoulder. Nobody kept up the back of our apartments. Nobody kept up the front either. “And this little guy shows up every time we turn around.”