The Hardest Thing

implausible they seemed. Ferrari hired me because I was a tough guy; he hadn’t asked for my analysis of the situation. But that’s the trouble with being an officer in the marines: you don’t just learn how to kick asses and break necks. You also learn to ask questions, to understand your enemy’s motives.
    Was Ferrari the enemy, then? Why was I so suspicious ? One unanswered call, a few tall tales, and suddenly I was planning strategies.
    You’re getting involved, Stagg. You’re allowing personal feelings to get in the way of the job. You care
about this boy—this boy who means nothing to you—and you’re jeopardizing the entire operation.
    Yeah, well, shit happens. I reached in through the car window and touched the side of Stirling’s face. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days; it suited him.
    His eyes opened. “Hey. What time is it?”
    “About two.”
    “We moving on?”
    “No hurry. Come on, get up. It’s a beautiful day. Stretch those long legs of yours.”
    He opened the door, got out of the car and stretched. “Mmm. I feel great.” He looked around. “Where are we?”
    “New Hampshire. Pretty, isn’t it?”
    His face clouded over. “We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”
    “Forget about that. Let me show you something.” I took his hand and led him up into the woods. We climbed for five minutes, squeezing through pine branches and tripping over roots, till we came to a huge boulder where the path turned. The trees stopped abruptly, and we could see for miles across a valley. Forty, maybe fifty miles of uninterrupted wilderness.
    “Nice,” he said, shading his eyes and gazing out into the blue distance. “Did you bring me up here to fuck me?”
    I put an arm around his shoulder. “Maybe. In a while.” We looked at the view together, as if we could see the future. “When you’ve answered a few questions.”
    “Oh.” He squinted; those fancy aviator shades were somewhere in the bottom of his bag. “Like a quiz?”

    “Kind of. And if you give the right answers, you get a big prize.” I squeezed my crotch. That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.
    “Fire away.”
    “Question one. Who’s your boss?”
    Stirling scowled. “Next question?”
    “Answer in order, please.”
    “I can’t.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m not supposed to talk about…that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s dangerous.” He stepped away from me and stared into the distance.
    “And I’m not?”
    “You’re being paid to look after me.” Suddenly he flinched, as if a wasp had stung him. “You are, aren’t you? I mean you’re not…”
    “One of the bad guys? No. You’re safe with me.”
    “Don’t scare me like that.”
    “I need to know.”
    “Why? He’s paying you enough.”
    “He certainly is.”
    “So why the questions? I thought you were happy to take the money and run.”
    He had a point. “Because I don’t like mysteries.” This was bullshit. Whichever way I dressed it up, I was asking because I was interested. And I was interested because, despite all my instincts, despite my enduring love for Will Laurence and even despite the tinted moisturizer and bleached hair, I was starting to care about Stirling McMahon. Whatever he was—secretary, hustler, rich kid—I had feelings for him. Not just the
feelings of dick in ass, of muscle and sweat and skin.
    Did he know it? Maybe.
    “And supposing I won’t tell you?”
    “I could leave you here.”
    “Sure. You could.” He turned to me, and his eyes were wet. “Go on, then.”
    “Who are you scared of, Stirling?”
    “You don’t understand.”
    “If you told me, maybe I could help you.”
    He shook his head.
    “Okay, let’s try a different question. What happened in New York? What am I protecting you from?”
    “Someone tried to kill me.”
    “Go on.”
    “I was walking down 54th Street, near my apartment. It was late, about four in the morning—I’d been out with some friends. Not many people about. I was a block away from my building when this car came driving slowly by, right alongside me. I couldn’t see who was in it—it had blacked-out windows.”
    “Go on.”
    “Well, I thought it was just some guy trying to pick me up. You know, it happens.”
    “I’m sure it does.” If I had a fancy car, and I saw that ass swinging down 54th Street, I might be tempted to have a go myself.
    “He pulled up right by me, and so I stopped to see what he wanted. The window rolled down and I could