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The caller ID was from a number Glen didn’t recognize, but he answered anyway. He only used the phone for work, and most of his work calls came from numbers he didn’t recognize and never saw twice.
“Esposito?” said the voice on the other side of the line. Esposito was a name he wasn’t used to hearing, his own last name. His clients preferred first names.
“Speaking.”
“Family from Naples?”
“No,” Glen replied, “I think you’ve got the wrong—”
“No, I’ve got the right number,” the voice replied, “You lose something?”
After a moment, Glen replied, “Yeah.”
“You want to get it back?”
“I do.”
“Then say, ‘I’ve got family in Naples.’”
“Why?”
“You want to get it back or not?” the voice asked.
“Okay,” Glen responded, “I’ve got family in Naples.”
“It’s the truth, Glen. I’m not just making you say it because I’m an asshole.”
“Of course not. Do you have a name?”
“Baldo.”
——————
Glen went to the address Baldo gave him, but didn’t make the connection until he got out of the cab.
There it was, Giannini’s, an authentic Italian restaurant with all the bells and whistles. Wicker bottle Chianti? Check. Prosciutto drying from the ceiling? Check. Framed black and white photos of manly hugs and handshakes so numerous you couldn't see the walls? Check.
It was the location of the first camera install Glen had ever done, a referral from someone he’d barely known from college and lost touch with soon after.
In his mind’s eye he saw the restaurant as it had been long ago when he’d done the install, packed full with men in ill-fitting suits, staring at him whenever he came inside to use the restroom. Now the place was almost empty, with only a bored looking cook, a busboy midway through a lover’s quarrel on his cellphone, and a man seated in the far corner of the restaurant staring at a large sheet of paper that was spread out in front of him.
The man looked up at him and grinned brightly, “Hey! Glen! Come on over here!” As friendly as the grin was, it couldn’t overcome its ominous accompaniment above, a thick, defiantly ungroomed unibrow that dared you to stare as much as it dared you to look away.
“Baldo?” Glen asked.
“Good to finally meet you, Glen. Have a seat.”
Immediately upon sitting, Glen noticed his name printed in large type at the top of the large sheet of paper. Smaller clusters of names were printed underneath. It was a family tree, his own. Baldo swung it around so Glen could get a better look.
“You ever meet a woman named Carla?”
“No.”
Baldo tapped one of the names on the paper with a hairy finger, “She was one of your great aunts. Died when you were pretty young, so never meeting her is understandable. But as you can see…”
With the same finger, he circled a cluster of names around that of his great aunt.
“…You’ve got family in Naples.”
Baldo shrugged with a grin and said, “I minored in genealogy in college. Never did anything with it. Of course who ever uses their degree, right? Still, I like to research people I plan to meet. Anyway, you’re wondering why you’re here.”
“I was hoping to get back something I’d lost.”
“Yes. Let’s do that, Baldo said.”
———————
They were standing in front of the restaurant now. Baldo had thrown on large black sunglasses that sat just below his unibrow, combining to form a face mask that concealed any expression.
“Do you remember the last time you were here?” Baldo asked.
“Sure,” Glen replied.
“As you can see, the restaurant doesn’t do much business these days. It’s more of a “hub.” Deliveries, that sort of thing. You saw it when it was busy. Probably too busy. You met a man who had you install some security cameras, Sam DiFalco?”
Glen nodded.
“Sam DiFalco was my father.”
Glen nodded and felt the deja vu confront him more. He’d stood right where they were standing now, next to a man who was also talking about the restaurant.
“Look at this,” the man had said excitedly to Glen, “This is a great location! Isn’t it a great location?”
“Absolutely,” Glen had replied.
“It’s good! Only thing is they can come at me from all angles.”
“Come at you?”
“Look!” he’d said, throwing a paternal arm around Glen, “They can come at you from all angles.”
One by one, the man had pointed out the triangle of streets that made up the intersection.
“We’re right in the middle here, GREAT location for anyone looking to…” after a moment, the man had shrugged.
They agreed on a configuration that would cover every angle that represented a potential threat. Glen had recommended bulky, more noticeable cameras to provide a visual deterrent, but the man had insisted on small cameras, not wanting to damage the character of the neighborhood.
The cameras were gone now, but Glen could still see the cement anchors he’d drilled into the walls. It had been an important job, Glen’s first go at developing the custom cameras he used today, and he’d been paid well to do it.
But the deja vu turned to dread when Glen realized it, just an instant before Baldo said it.
“That man you met with Glen, that wasn’t Sam DiFranco. He used those cameras, to watch Sam DiFranco, follow my father’s routine, and then watch and wait until he was here alone.”
Baldo was silent for a moment, then shrugged, “That man is dead now too.”
Glen didn’t speak.
“I know you didn’t know, Glen. I did that family tree a long time ago and it was clear. You’re no relation to him, and 5 minutes of searching your name online made it clear that you’re just a clever, creative person who was mislead. I had the cameras destroyed though. You can understand why.”
He pulled a keychain out of his pocket and popped the electric lock on the trunk of a black SUV parked next to them, letting the automatic hydraulics slowly raise it open.
“So you can imagine my surprise when I was sorting through my deliveries yesterday, and come across these.”
Glen’s two stolen suitcases were in the back of the trunk. Baldo opened one of them, the suitcase glen used to hold his cameras, and pulled one out.
“Not the exact same camera. But shared genealogy, and with your name on the tags, no less.”
Baldo handed the camera to Glen and said, “So you can understand why, even after all this time, I’m re-examining your family tree.”
——————
Maryanne swiped through eligible bachelors. Each had built a life for himself, interesting careers that took them to interesting places to meet with interesting people. Each was handsome, and even the ones who were losing their hair looked like they were taking good care of themselves, could take good care of you. Each was a yes.
But Tiffany said “no” to each.
“You’re not even looking at some of these,” Maryanne said.
“I’m seeing enough,” Tiffany replied as she swiped through messages on her watch. Without looking up, she paused briefly to swipe through the air and say, “Let’s keep going.”
They were alone in the company auditorium engaged in “symbiotasking.” It was one of the many startup-business phrases Tiffany had coined. Symbiotasking was her upgrade to multitasking whereby instead of trying to combine a number of unrelated tasks, you combined related tasks, theoretically using related neurons in the brain, thereby increasing performance and reducing mental fatigue.
Today’s symbiotasking combined rehearsal for the keynote address Tiffany would be delivering tomorrow and auditioning potential dates for a big-ticket fundraiser she’d be attending that evening. Both events required making some cuts, and her decisions relating to both events would receive significant public scrutiny.
And so Tiffany stood on stage and rehearsed her presentation in front of Maryanne in five-minute bursts, alternated by five-minute bursts of Maryanne swiping through candidates from the C-suite-only dating consultancy they’d hired. Each candidate was projected onto the same screen as Tiffany’s presentation, giving each man outsized significance.
Maryanne swiped through more, but Tiffany rejected these too: The job wasn’t right. The university wasn’t right. The jacket was from H&M.
Finally Tiffany turned away from the screen and asked Maryanne, “How much am I paying for this?”
“Three thousand,” Tiffany replied.
“Shit, Tiffany replied, “I could buy a man for that much. Rub my fucking shoulders, fix my laptop, take out my recycling. Or rent a man at least. Three thousand?”
“Actually, the company’s paying for it,” Maryanne replied.
“Really?”
“I asked finance and since the fundraiser invite came to your work address, you’re good.”
“You are so goddamn smart,” Tiffany said, “Can you run this company for me too?”
“I would, but your office gets such shitty light,” Maryanne replied.
Maryanne always used humor to deflect any compliments she received from Tiffany. Even though she was just an assistant, she obscured herself whenever she felt she might have generated a ping on Tiffany’s threat sonar. She’d seen Tiffany destroy plenty of junior staff in the past.
“Wait a second,” Tiffany said, eyes suddenly bright with an epiphany, “How did you meet Glen?”
Maryanne immediately glanced down at her watch, then said with a grin, “Sorry, that was 5 minutes. Back to rehearsals,”
“We’ve got two more minutes,” Tiffany said, holding up her own watch.
“Really?” Maryanne said, “I must have tapped something I wasn’t supposed to. Let me check the time on my phone.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes and said, “Maryanne, we don’t have time for this. I’ve only got a minute and half now.”
“To figure out what exactly?”
“We’re working. This is work. I need to find a man for tomorrow that I don’t instantly reject.”
“Understood,” Maryanne replied, “But my situation is very different from yours, and this week hasn’t exactly been —”
“I’m gonna have to cut you off there,” Tiffany said, “I’m sorry if I made it seem that way, but this isn’t about you, Maryanne. As you know, we have a lot of deals in flux at the moment. Some you don’t even know about.”
Maryanne knew about all of them. And because she was an admin to Tiffany’s social and messaging accounts, she also knew Tiffany was beginning to tap her network to find her next job. Their company didn’t have any truly differentiated products. And while the company’s PR and word of mouth were still excellent, they wouldn’t stay that way indefinitely. The company’s main asset was Tiffany. Most of the company’s investors had put money in just to retain access to Tiffany as leverage in their own ventures. But access to Tiffany was only as valuable as the perceived value of the company she was running. As a result, keeping good appearances were becoming the company’s core offering.
“And when you google my name the day after this presentation,” she continued, “there are going to be as many pictures of me standing with this fucking guy as there will be pictures of me standing at this fucking podium. So do me a favor, get over yourself, and tell me in the next sixty seconds how you started dating Glen.”
“I told you this already,” Maryanne replied, “I wanted one of his cameras.”
“You’re right, I do already know that,” Tiffany replied, her pitch rising, “And what I actually do need to know is why you started dating him. He’s cute, and I’m sure he can make a “really deep” playlist, but he’s not necessarily…”
“The guy you end up with?”
“Whatever,” Tiffany said with a sigh and glanced impatiently at her watch, “Maybe, I don’t know, but you did end up with him. You moved in together, you’re doing vacations now. And you’re this woman who’s…You’re doing all kinds of things here, doing things with your site. Whereas Glen, what does Glen even want?”
“Can we not talk about this?”
“No, Maryanne, we are going to talk about this. In the next thirty seconds I want you to tell me —“
“You know what,” Maryanne replied with snicker she didn’t bother to hide, “I think that’s it actually. He’s never wanted anything from me.”
“What’s that even mean?”
“Everybody wants something, even if they just want you to be part of their thing Glen was the first person I ever met who genuinely didn’t want anything from me.”
Tiffany immediately clapped her hands together.
“Fucking brilliant!” She said with an open-mouthed smile, “You are so goddamn smart! See that, with ten seconds to spare.” She pressed her watch until she got a beep, then said, “Filter date candidates. Include only those with not-for profits.”
“Glad I could help,” Maryanne said, “I wish the two of you all the best. Now can we get back to rehearsals?”
“No. Let’s take another 30,” Tiffany said, “Look Maryanne, you’re not as opaque as you think you are. Be pissed at me if you want. I apologize for my methods all the time, but I never have to apologize for the results. If you take away one thing from your time as my assistant it’s that if you don’t generate some friction, you’re not going to get a spark.”
Maryanne nodded and grinned politely. She’d written that line for Tiffany in her first month on the job, and so braced herself for more 30 seconds of her own bad prose coming back on her like poorly disgusted meal.
Mercifully though, she didn’t have to. A woman from the PR team walked into the auditorium.
“Can’t right now,” Tiffany said.
“No, it’s—“ the woman cut herself off, trying to think of a gentler way to interface with Tiffany’s ego, “I needed to speak with Maryanne?”
“What?” Tiffany replied, “What about?”
“Maryanne, do you know a woman named Ava McLaren?”
“Yes.”
“We keep media crawlers up for all the employees, in case we get a hit that we think might spark something.”
“Spark what?!” Tiffany shouted, “What’s the hit?!”
“I guess she’s some kind of performance artist?” the woman continued, “Anyway, she’s got a new video up.”
“For a fragrance brand,” Maryanne said, “Some guy in his underwear? I already saw it.”
“No Maryanne,” the woman said, “It’s a new video. And it’s about you.”