The Hardest Thing

carefully.”
    We followed them back down the track, got into the car and drove off at a slow and sensible speed. It was only when they were well out of view, and there was no
sign of pursuit in the rearview mirror, that I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Jody Miller? Where the hell did that come from?”
    Stirling was silent for a while, looking out the window. Then he turned to me and said, “That’s my name.”

The Attack 5
    “I’m waiting.”
    We were sitting in a bar in Lincoln, New Hampshire. The town was dead—only one motel was open, the Starlight on Main Street, so we checked in and went in search of beer and food. We found a folksy diner; in ski season they’d be five deep at the bar, but now we were the only people in the place. That suited me fine.
    Stirling—Jody—whatever his name was—stared out the window. Cars and trucks went up and down the road. There wasn’t much to look at.
    “Come on.”
    “Jody Miller. That’s me.” He wiped wet eyes with the back of his hand and straightened his shoulders. Good start, I thought. I’ll make a man of you yet. “Or Muller, if you want to be picky. My grandfather was German.”
    “Okay.”
    “Changed it to Miller when they came over after the War. That’s what my Mom told me, anyway.”

    “So, Jody Miller.” I stuck my hand out. He shook it, held it for a moment. “Pleased to meet you. And what’s with the fancy alias?”
    “Jody Miller was a sad little boy from a shitty town in Michigan who went to a correctional facility at the age of fourteen. I didn’t want to be him anymore.”
    “Fair enough. Why’d they lock you up?”
    He put his fingers through his hair; I swear those dark roots were getting longer. “Hustling.”
    “At fourteen?” I whistled. “Boy, you were an early starter.”
    “You can thank one of my mom’s boyfriends for that. Oh, and there was stealing as well. Theft to order, the judge called it.”
    “Nice.”
    “When I got out I was nearly seventeen, and I thought, well, I can hang around in Michigan for the rest of my life, servicing dirty old men till I get some fatal disease or one of them murders me, or I can get my ass to New York City and make a new start.”
    “What did your parents say to that?”
    He laughed—the kind of laugh that’s far worse than crying. “My dad disappeared when I was born. My mom…she had a few problems with drugs.”
    “Shit.”
    “Yeah, well.” He fiddled with his nails, the kind of gesture that usually drives me crazy, but under the circumstances I could put up with it. “Made me grow up quick, I guess. I could take care of myself. I’ve got that to thank her for.”
    “And is she…?”
    “Dead?” His voice was flat as he watched a huge
load of logs laboring up the road. “I don’t know. Don’t really care.”
    Now was not the time to tell him to be a dutiful son and respect his mother. I’m no great example of family life myself. “So you ran away.”
    “If you can call it that. I don’t think she noticed. Nobody came looking for me.”
    “To New York?”
    “I wanted to be an actor. Yeah, you can laugh, but I was cute back then.”
    “You’re cute now.”
    “Maybe.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Takes a lot more work these days. When you’re seventeen you don’t have to try.”
    “What happened?”
    “I got a few breaks. A pretty face will get you that far. Did a couple of acting jobs, bit of modeling… But there were easier ways of making money.” He sighed again. “Anyway, I didn’t have any talent. Not for acting, anyway.” He looked at his dirty fingernails. “Fuck. I’m falling to pieces.”
    “So you went back to hustling.”
    “Very clever, Major Stagg. Only you don’t call it that anymore. You get a profile on a fancy website, and you call yourself a masseur or a personal trainer. That way you get the rich clients.”
    “Like your boss?”
    He hesitated, reached a decision and said, “Like my boss. Julian Marshall the Second.”
    The name rang a bell from the New York papers. “Businessman?”
    “Property developer. Marshall Land.”

    “Big man.”
    “Yeah.” Stirling—I mean Jody—allowed himself a smile. “Big and fat.”
    “And rich.”
    “And old and ugly. But he was nice to me. At first.”
    His voice sounded shaky again, and I went to the bar to order some food. When I got back to the table he had the beer bottle in his hand, and looked calmer.
    “Let’s drink to something,” he