Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

“There is no point,” Petrenko interrupted, his voice low but edged with violence. “We will do what we need to for now, but later we will pay them back. Don’t worry about that.”

Dan waited until seven thirty to tell Carol that the hiring manager must be blowing him off.

“He probably found someone cheaper. Son of a bitch couldn’t even show me the courtesy of calling me back,” he complained.

“These things happen,” Carol said.

She seemed a little disappointed, but not too much, probably happy enough that he had gotten his other contract. He knew she was also relieved to think that her suspicions about the bank robbery had been unfounded.

The kids had been home for over an hour. Carol had made a tuna casserole for dinner which none of them really cared for. Still, the mood was better than it had been for the past couple of days, even with the occasional comments Carol made about Gordon. Susie couldn’t help smiling a few times at Dan’s bland, innocuous jokes and Gary was buzzing about the Sox winning streak. Halfway through dinner Dan had found he was able to look at his kids without being overwhelmed by guilt.

It was now thirty minutes since they’d finished dinner, and the kids were upstairs, Susie plugged into her music and Gary watching the Sox game. Dan sat on the living room sofa scribbling notes for his book proposal. Carol was next to him, leaning against him while she read the paper. He checked his watch again and saw that it was now seven thirty-three. “The guy’s not going to call,” he repeated. “Why don’t we splurge and take the kids out for some ice cream?”

Carol twisted herself around. Turning his face with her hand, she kissed him hard on the mouth. “That’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “If we can talk the kids into it.”

Susie gave her typical whatever response, but her sullen act was half-hearted at best and she joined them without too much of an argument. Gary groused a bit about being torn away from the Sox game, but agreed as long as he could listen to the game in the car. It was the first time they had gone out for ice cream that summer. Since Dan had lost his job they had stopped doing little things like that.

Dan could tell the kids enjoyed the outing. Susie stood close by him, her body at times bumping into his. Gary was his typical good-natured self, happier than usual since it looked like the Sox were on their way to winning an eighth straight game. While they stood eating their ice cream, Carol moved close to Dan and held his hand.

When they returned home there were two messages waiting for him. One from Shrini, another from Peyton Hanes.

“Why don’t you call them back tomorrow?” Carol asked.

Dan dreaded calling either of them. “They probably want to talk about Gordon,” he said. “I’ll call them quickly and get it over with.”

“If you have to. Don’t spend too long.”

Dan nodded. When he got to his study, he stared at the phone for several minutes before calling Peyton. One of Peyton’s kids answered and left Dan waiting. After a while, Peyton picked up.

“Hey, hey, Dan,” Peyton said. “Man, it’s been a while. Can you believe what happened to Gordon?”

“Hard to believe,” Dan said.

“Shit, yeah. I saw that drawing on the news last night and it didn’t even register that it could be him. Damn, I still can’t believe it.”

“It’s a shock,” Dan said.

“Yeah, man, it sure is. Any idea what he was doing in Lynn?”

“With Gordon, who knows?”

“The whole thing is just so fucking bizarre. Listen, I talked to Gordon’s parents. The funeral’s going to be this Saturday. You’ll be there, right?”

“I’d like to, I just don’t know if I can make it-”

“Shit, Dan, you’ve got to come. Gordon’s parents are in their eighties. It’s got to be tough enough for them to bury their son, but I’m beginning to think no one else is going to show up. Tell me you’ll be there, okay?”

“We’ll see.”

“Man, I expect to see you there.”

Peyton gave him directions to the cemetery and hung up. Dan was still staring blindly at the phone when it rang again. From the caller ID he could see it was Shrini. Reluctantly, he picked up the handset.

“Hey, dude,” Shrini said angrily. “I’ve been waiting for you to call back.”

“Sorry, Shrini, I just got home.”

“You heard the news, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, dude, we’re on for tomorrow as agreed, right?”

“I think we should wait a few days-”

“Fuck that! You gave me your word before. And believe me, with or without you I’m seeing that little peacock-”

“Okay, okay,” Dan interrupted, afraid Carol or one of his kids might pick up the phone and hear Shrini ranting. “I’ll stop over tomorrow morning at nine.”

“You better, dude.”

After Shrini hung up, Dan thought about how he was going to explain this to his wife. At some point the lies were going to have to stop. How many could you keep piling up, one on top of another?

After he had settled on a story, he waited until he could muster the strength to get up, then joined Carol so he could add still more lies to all the rest.

At seven the next morning Resnick pulled up in front of Petrenko’s address. Settling in, he poured black coffee from a thermos and drank it as he skimmed the stories on the front page of the paper about Lombardo and Gordon Carmichael. After that he found Carmichael’s obituary.

As he had guessed, Carmichael was a loner with no wife or kids. The only family mentioned were parents living in Greenwich, Connecticut. The obituary had more about Carmichael’s father, a retired industrialist, than it did about the dead man – mentioning only that Carmichael had served in Vietnam, was awarded two Purple Hearts, and after his service earned a degree from Yale before working as an engineer at a number of companies, none of which Resnick had ever heard of.

Shortly after ten, a silver Mercedes pulled into Petrenko’s driveway. A man with a thick build, about five foot eight, got out. He was in his late thirties, had blond hair cut close to his scalp and a nose that had been pushed sideways across his face. Resnick recognized him, having seen him with Petrenko several times before, including at the Russian restaurant. The man stared indifferently in Resnick’s direction before heading to the front door. It was already eighty degrees in the shade and he was wearing a leather jacket, which told Resnick that the Russian was probably carrying a piece. He considered whether to try picking him up on a weapons charge, but decided to sit still and see where this led.

Ten minutes later Petrenko left the house, escorted by the same man. Petrenko gave Resnick an indifferent look before turning his gaze away. The Mercedes pulled on to the street and Resnick made no attempt to hide the fact that he was following it.

The Mercedes headed into Boston. At Government Center, the car turned towards the North End. When it got to Hanover Street, the car stopped. Petrenko stepped out and walked briskly in the opposite direction, nodding at Resnick as he went past.

Resnick was stuck. The street was too narrow for him to pull over without blocking traffic. He could gamble, drive down Hanover Street, and hope that Petrenko would double back. That seemed like a bad bet. Instead he stayed on the Mercedes. He knew the driver was Petrenko’s muscle, and he doubted Petrenko would do any business without him.

At the next street the Mercedes stopped abruptly, forcing Resnick to hit his brakes to keep from rear-ending it. The driver’s-side door opened and, in a coordinated move, the driver got out while another man stepped from the sidewalk and took his place behind the wheel. There was still no room for Resnick to pull over. The thick-bodied Russian leered at him as he jogged past. With no other choice Resnick continued following the Mercedes, knowing the best he could do now was pick up Petrenko later. Grudgingly, he had to admire the maneuver Petrenko used to lose him. He made a mental note not to underestimate Petrenko again.