An Unorthodox Interview

“Well, how do I look?”

“Perfect, Honey.”

My wife leaned forward and kissed my freshly shaven cheek. I had to agree with her, I did look perfect. My suit was crisp, my tie was straight, and my revolver was perfectly concealed.

She checked her watch. “Oh no, you’d better get going. Can’t be late!” she said, as she pushed me out the door.

I hurried down 5 flights of stairs, cursing our apartment building’s elevator for being under constant repair. My car was nondescript and gray, with license plates that traced back to a remarkably unassuming insurance salesman named Kirk.

I drove 2 miles under the speed limit, used my turn signal, stopped at every yellow light, and overall gave no one any reason to bother me on the road. If everything was to go as planned, I couldn’t afford to be late. 

I pulled off the highway and parked outside a strip mall. I set off down the sidewalk, briefcase in hand, revolver snug against my stomach, a banal smile plastered across my face for any stranger who glanced at me. I was heading towards Ezra’s, a 30-year-old deli shop that had exactly 4 options on the menu, and you better not ask for any modifications. Ezra’s was home to more than a few rats, a curmudgeonly owner, and the best Reuben in the city. It wasn’t a particularly popular restaurant, but its patrons were incredibly loyal. Including the man I wanted to see today.

10 minutes ago, my target, Donovon Prescott, would have arrived and his security team, consisting of 6 highly trained ex-Marines, would have scanned the entire building for any threats. Once the coast was deemed clear, my target would have been ushered inside and seated to await his Reuben. This was a weekly ritual, although it did not appear so on the surface. My target wasn’t so dumb as to be in the same location every Wednesday at 11, but he was eccentric enough to coordinate his lunch visits to the Almanac, and to insist that Ezra’s accommodate him, and only him, at 12:13 exactly every time the moon began to wane.  

I would like to say that I figured out this schedule on my own through pure intellect, but in reality, I paid for a few too many rounds for a disgruntled ex-line cook, and with gentle prompting got him to tell me stories about the craziest client he used to have to deal with at his old job.

The doors to Ezra’s would be locked and guarded right now, of course, but I had it on good faith that at exactly 12:27 today a belligerent Ezra’s regular was going to try to force his way in through the front entrance to try to satisfy his Reuben craving, forcing one of the guards for the side entrance to be pulled off his post to provide backup. The guard left behind would find that at exactly 12:28, his earpiece would stop working, but he won’t notice because also at exactly 12:28, he will be greeted by a perfectly pleasant-looking stranger.

I smile at him now, as he looks at me with only mild apprehension. I have perfected the appearing boring, and right now I look like I probably choose my cars based on gas mileage and dream of owning a timeshare at Disney World.

“Hi,” I call out. The next phase of my plan only works because this security guard does not look like a security guard, at least not to an untrained eye. He is dressed in plain clothes, and anyone could be forgiven for thinking he’s an office worker out to lunch.

“Do you know what’s going on out front? I have an interview at Ezra’s at 12:30 today, and I need to get inside.”

The guard looks at me in confusion. I look respectable and earnest, but there is no way I could possibly have an interview at the same time his boss is supposed to eat.

“Are you sure you don’t have the wrong day?” He asks me. He’s a good guy, 45, married with a 17-year-old son. His son has been looking around town for a job these past few weeks and has been unsuccessful. He’s sympathetic to my cause.

“I don’t think so…” I say, checking my phone calendar anxiously. I show him the email from Ezra telling me to come in at 12:30 on Thursday.

Now, the guard, with probably too much empathy for someone in this line of work, will at least check inside, to let Ezra know that I’m here and that he’s messed up somehow. What he does not know, however, is that at that moment his earpiece will connect to the wrong channel, and instead of reaching his boss inside, he will hear a recording telling him to let me in.

The guard looks at me suspiciously, but then he opens the door and says simply “Good luck.”

I smile and thank him, happy that he hasn’t even thought to search me for weapons, because what person would hide a revolver inside a suit jacket purchased from the DSW clearance rack? I walk through the kitchen, nodding at the cooks and waiters who have been told to leave me alone by Ezra himself. 

Ezra was not easy to buy. The amount of money my target was paying him wasn’t something I could even come close to matching, but there were other things, more important than money that I could pay with. Ezra, although he mostly doesn’t care for the opinions of others, does value the thoughts of one woman. The legendary restaurant critic Clara Clarke. Clarke is 93 years old and extremely retired from food reviews. In fact, she rarely leaves her house nowadays, preferring instead to have meals from her favorite restaurants delivered directly to her. Ezra has tried desperately for years to get Clarke to come in and try his food but to no avail. I made a deal with Ezra that if I could convince Clarke to come in, he owed me one non-negotiable favor to be cashed in later. He agreed, mostly because he didn’t believe I could ever do it.

And I couldn’t, but my wife could. Clarke’s only regular expedition outside of her house is to Sunday morning church, which she always ends by enjoying the church-provided coffee and light refreshments, and mingling. My wife, perfectly playing the part of the ingenue, recently moved to a new city, and was expert bait for Clarke to take under her wing after they struck up a conversation on one of these idyllic Sunday mornings. They decided to meet up for lunch the next Wednesday after talking for over an hour, and my wife requested they do it somewhere close to her work, maybe the cute little deli on East 6th. And that is how Ezra came to owe me one non-negotiable favor. 

I walked into the seating area. Sitting in a booth along the right wall, his security a respectful distance away, was my target. The security clocked me immediately, but I already had my revolver out and pointed at my target’s slightly balding head. 

I pulled the trigger.

Confetti and smoke went everywhere, as a security guard tackled me to the ground. I was glad that he didn’t shoot me, I didn’t need to test my Kevlar vest unnecessarily today. 

The weathered face of a 55-year-old man stares down at me as his security pins me to the ground. He is decidedly not riddled with bullets, but he does have some confetti from my trick gun hanging off his right shoulder.

“So, do I have the job?”

The weathered face cracks into a smile. 

“That bet was made 10 years ago, besides, you didn’t finish the job.”

It’s an old legend in the business of private security, spy work, and assassinations. A bet made by a very rich man at the top of his game, who believed himself invincible. He bragged that if anyone was able to kill him then he would offer them a high-paying job in his network. So far, no one had been successful, including, technically, me, as the old man still stood breathing above me.

“I figured if you were actually dead it wouldn’t be long before I followed.”

“Smart boy.”

He reaches down a hand with a deceptively strong grip and helps me up.

“If you really want the job, it’s yours.”

I brush the bit of confetti off his shoulder and say, “How about we celebrate with a Reuben? I heard Clara Clarke came out of retirement just to review them.”