“So … Brock, is it?” she asks, offering an outstretched hand in greeting.
She’s still mesmerizing with her hair pulled back, her smooth brown skin plunging into an elegant black turtleneck beneath a long black overcoat. His own generic blue button-down and rumply old brown blazer feel embarrassingly inadequate.
“Most people just call me Medic,” he replies meekly while shaking her hand. He doesn’t offer to share the reason behind his name reversal, figures he probably won’t need to.
“Yeah, cool,” she replies as they take a seat. “You don’t strike me as a Brock.”
And there it is.
As she speaks, the golden globes of the coffee shop’s lights swim over her deep dark eyes. In Medic’s mind the background ambiance of clinking coffee mugs, hissing espresso machines, and muted conversations evoke a feeling of some bustling old train station in some black and white film. There’s a nervous energy in the air; possibly it’s just the coffee.
With audible melancholy he replies, “That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Don’t sweat it,” she assures him with a sympathetic smile. “Medic isn’t terrible, it’s just … benign. But what’s in a name, huh?”
He nods, settling into his chair. “What about yours?”
“What it says on there,” she replies, nodding toward a duplicate business card as she places it on the table in front of him. “Obviously that’s not my real name but that’s what I go by. Not married to it, just an alias.”
“So, what,” he asks, “you’re some kind of spy or something?”
“Right into the deep end, huh?” she replies and takes a slow sip of coffee.
“I guess you could call some of what the agency does ‘espionage’,” she begins, curling air quotes around the word. “But really, we’re more of clandestine operations outfit. We do the really undercover stuff.“
“So you work for some government?” asks Medic, partially amused and partially irritated, feeling like he’s being pranked. Or worse.
“No. No governments. No corporations. No large groups of any kind, really. Unless it suits our purposes,” she explains flatly. “There’s just the agency and our little cell. I don’t know if there are others because, as I said, the organization keeps a pretty tight lid on things.”
“Wait. So what is it that you actually do?” he asks with an incredulous frown.
She pauses briefly as a stern expression creeps across her face.
“I should’ve told you off the top,” she says firmly, “that there are many things I simply won’t be able to tell you. Some are classified, some I just don’t know. Of the things I can tell you, some you’ll find out later and some you never will.”
She leans back and grins sheepishly.
“I know, right? How’s that for a cop-out? But, you know, the agency wouldn’t have recruited you if it didn’t think you were ready, so take that for what it’s worth,” she finishes, tipping her cup pointedly toward Medic.
“Hang on,” he demands. “Recruit? I didn’t sign up for anything. I never heard about any of this until now. I just came because you said there might be a job for me, that’s all. And you’ve barely told me anything.”
“Yeah, well, semantics,” she shrugs nonchalantly, pulling a thick envelope out of her coat pocket and plopping it generously on top of the business card.
“Here’s the deal,” she says, slowly drawing back her empty hand. “The agency is making an up-front offer. The compensation is a bit” – she wobbles the retreating hand – “eclectic, but it should should cover all your expenses.”
Medic instinctively reaches out to touch the puffy envelope, then quickly retracts as a strong feeling of doubt washes over him.
“Good instincts, but that’s yours to keep,” says The Handler reassuringly, nudging the envelope closer to him. “Trust me, you’ll wanna hold on to that.”
He sits, paralyzed by uncertainty.
“Look, I’m sorry but your old life is over,” she continues in a sympathetic tone. “Wish there was a better way to say it but now that you’ve interacted with us, twice, you’re basically persona non grata. Hopefully you don’t have too many loose ends to tie up but if you do then I suggest you take care of ’em fast.”
Medic is incensed. “Now wait just a minute! I didn’t agree to any–“
“Look,” she commands, leaning in and thrusting a finger into his face. “I’m not here to tell you how things are going to be, I’m here to tell you how things are. I’m just the messenger, get it? You can leave the envelope, that’s up to you, but I have better things to do than try to convince you of what’s right in front of you.”
“Whatever,” she says dismissively, briskly standing up and pulling on her coat. “I’ve had a really long day and I’m just not in the mood. None of this is for my benefit, just so you know.”
“Hey!” he exclaims as she walks by him toward the exit. “Can you at least tell me what that was the other night?”
“What? In the park?” she says, pausing mid-stride.
“Yeah. For starters,” he responds indignantly.
“Just me and my friends passing through,” she explains. “Intel told me I’d be running into someone like you at some point that day. I just needed to make sure I had a business card on me.”
Medic considers the highly unlikely claim. “That was random chance. If I’d been there five minutes later or five minutes earlier we never would’ve met. And I never walk that way, especially at night.”
She walks slowly back to her chair and sits down, hands clasped contemplatively to her mouth. “And your point being?”
“My point being, how could you possibly have known that I’d be there?”
“As I told you before,” she opens slowly and purposefully, “I didn’t know that you’d be there, just that at some point during that day I was going to meet someone matching certain parameters, and when I did I was supposed to give them my card. I’d know that they were the right contact when they’d reply to the address on the back within a certain time frame. You did, and here we are. End of story.”
“But I discovered the email address by accident. I left that card on the stove, it wasn’t intentional,” protests Medic.
“And yet here we are,” she responds nonchalantly, arms open wide.
“I don’t get it,” complains Medic. “You toss a business card and envelope at me and I’m now a part of some secret organization and my old life is suddenly over? Are you serious?”
“Yes and isn’t it?” she asks with a cocked eyebrow. “Your life a Christopher Cross song these days? No rough seas? No choppy patches anywhere? Because when I met you the other night you didn’t seem too happy.”
Medic reluctantly accepts her observation with a tilted nod.
“So now that I’m down,” he says, confronting her gaze, “you’re going to give me a way out of my misery if I just do something for this agency of yours? Maybe screw someone over or blow something up?”
“Fuck no!” exclaims the Handler, face contorted with rejection. “Things like that envelope don’t come with strings attached, especially not those kinds of strings. We’re just pretty sure you’ll take us up on the offer in the same way we were pretty sure I’d bump into you that night.”
“As for your circumstances,” she leans in and lowers her voice, “that’s the boat that most of us arrive in. The agency scoops us up when we’ve hit the bottom which, I know, sounds opportunistic but believe me when I tell you that it’s just a helping hand.”
She gets up again and fishes around in her coat pocket. “It’s an open invitation but only for about twenty-four hours. After that” – she shakes her head – “I’ll be unavailable.”
“Look, I can’t guarantee anything but in my experience choosing to work with the agency tends to improve your life in ways you couldn’t even imagine,” she states forthrightly, putting on her sunglasses and moving to the door.
Pausing with her hand on the handle, The Handler spins around and in a surprisingly bubbly tone yells, “Think about it!” before exiting the coffee shop.
Medic’s gaze returns to the fat object sitting on the table.
Deciding that it’s probably not going to explode, he grabs the envelope and puts it into the pocket of his blazer. This is something he’d rather look through in private.
As he stands to leave he notices The Handler’s card still sitting on the table. He’d almost forgotten it.
With everything safely stowed in the pockets of his jacket he strolls slowly through the coffee shop’s doors and out into the brisk neon night of the city. Within a few blocks, Medic begins to suspect that he’s being followed by a shabby gray sedan.