The Hardest Thing

immaterial,” said Ferrari. “It’s quiet and it’s out of town, that’s all. Anyone looking for him—well, needle in a haystack. My client has no connections with the area. It’s not near any major commercial centers.”
    “In other words, you chose it at random.”
    “There were other considerations, but…” Ferrari waggled his hand in the air. “If that’s what you want to think, yeah. Happy?”
    “With the money you’re paying me, I’m fucking ecstatic.”
    He smiled. “Good.” I wished it was Ferrari coming
on this road trip with me, not the living Ken doll with the overpriced coffee.
    Stirling was wandering off. “Hey!” It wasn’t a friendly hey—it was a short, loud, marine-officer “hey,” barked and startling. He stopped. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
    “The bathroom.” He drawled it, whined it, trying to provoke me. I grabbed his upper arm and he dropped his coffee, sticky brown liquid spilling out over the station floor. “Aaagh!” he screamed. “My sandals!”
    Ferrari laughed. “Okay, Stagg, he’s all yours. Happy holidays!” He melted into the crowd; when I looked for him, he’d disappeared. I had one pissed off blond brat on my hands.
    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, asshole?” he said. “Let me go.”
    I kept squeezing his bicep and steered him briskly out of the station. He was so surprised that he said nothing. When one of his shoes fell off, he stumbled and almost fell; I righted him, picked up the shoe and kept going. By the time we reached the street his face was so dark with anger that you could see it through the sunbed tan and tinted moisturizer.
    “When my boss hears about this…”
    “Shut the fuck up.” Might as well get started on the right foot. “You don’t speak until we’re in the car. Got it?”
    He took a deep breath. I knew exactly what he was planning: start screaming, cause a commotion, slip away. I acted quickly: put an arm around his shoulders, drew him in and delivered a swift jab to the solar plexus. He was only slightly winded—enough to stop him from
screaming, not enough to prevent him from walking.
    We were two blocks uptown before he recovered enough to stand up straight. But at least he wasn’t talking anymore. We made it to the car rental place without further incident. I left him outside—if he’d been a dog, I’d have chained him to a lamp post, but had to content myself with threats. When I came out with the car keys, he was rubbing moisturizer into his hands. Fucking moisturizer, for god’s sake. I was grinding my teeth. Jesus, Stagg, control yourself. You’ve been on this job for half an hour. Let’s have a little professionalism. I took a deep breath.
    “Okay, Mr. McMahon?”
    He pouted and said, “No,” as if explaining to an idiot.
    “Let’s hit the road, then.” He didn’t move. “Shall I carry your bag?” Like me, he had what the airlines call one item of hand luggage, only his was covered in logos and buckles and straps, and mine was a grungy old knapsack that still contained a few grains of Afghan sand.
    Stirling said nothing, just kept rubbing that scented goop into his hands.
    “Right.” I picked up his bag and hefted it over my shoulder. “The car’s in the basement garage.” He didn’t move. “After you,” I said. I held open the door that led down to the garage. “Go ahead.”
    If ever a manner of walking could express contempt, that was how Stirling McMahon descended the stairs to that dingy underground garage on 37th Street. He crossed his feet over each other with each step, shaking his ass in my face. Oh, he was going to get such a
spanking. Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he likes to wind guys like me up to the point where we lose our cool and knock him about a bit. Spoiled brat like that—probably needs it rough. I wondered if he’d done the same to Ferrari, and if Mr. Neat-Suit-and-Side-Parting had lost his cool and tanned the kid’s hide.
    Nice thought. I’d be happy to help him. One of us at each end.
    Okay, I couldn’t let thoughts of sex distract me from the job. After being fired from the Panther Club, I couldn’t afford to fuck up again. With thirty grand in the bank I could start over, put the past behind me, forget Will, forget what happened in Afghanistan, forget the U.S. Marine Corps…
    Stirling’s ass kept swinging. Well, we had a long trip ahead of us, a lot of nights in cheap motels, and if fucking him turned out to be part