The Hardest Thing

Rochester?
    Who had he talked to? Who had he called?
    The U.S. Marine Corps prepares you for many things, but it also makes you very suspicious. You question everything. Being a lawyer might be worse, but only just. Now most people, if they’d seen a friend or a lover being bundled into the back of a mysterious black car after there had already been two attempts on his life would have panicked, called the cops or at least given chase. Not Dan Stagg. Dan Stagg sat there figuring out strategy and counter-strategy as if he was dealing with an Al-Qaeda cell, not a flaky hustler and a couple of New York sleazeballs.
    Ten minutes went by. Fifteen, and I didn’t move. Jody is dead, or the whole thing is a setup and he’s still lying to me. Either way, I’ve lost him. You’re alone again, Dan, just the way you like it, just the way you deserve. The only love you’ve ever known is in a grave in Tennessee, a grave you dare not visit, and now—hey! You’re free! You’ve got wheels and the remains of those ten-thousand bucks, and there’s a great big country out there for you to kill yourself in.
    I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Another goddamn light fixture, another fan, another motel room on another road, around and around and around we go, where we’re going no one knows…
    What the fuck? Jody has been abducted, and I’m wasting time on self-pity? Me, the big Marine Major, sulking like a teenager. I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face and stared in the mirror. I lost one to a sniper in Afghanistan—was I going to lose another to
a gangster in New York? Why was I trying to convince myself that Jody was lying? Because I wanted it all to end, to return to the half-life I’d been living before he came along? Because it was easier, less painful, less real…
    Was I going to creep back to New York with my dirty money and hide? And what about the dreams—could I deal with them? Not just Will now, but Jody, too. The ones I lost. The ones I let down.
    You have a choice, Stagg, I said to my reflection in the mirror. You can believe he’s lying, and you can sink into the shit. Or you can have a little faith, and do what you know is right. You can give up on life, or you can fight.
    And the old marine training kicked back in.
    Analyze. Assess. Act.
    There was only one course of action. Gather information—track Marshall and Ferrari—find Jody. And I couldn’t do that by sitting on my ass in Buffalo. I needed to get back to the City. I’d go as far as I could in the truck, and when that broke down I’d hitch a ride or take a bus. I had money, I had firearms and, best of all, I had an objective.
    Save Jody Miller.

    Twelve hours later I was lying on the bench-press machine in my local Harlem gym wondering what to do next. I’d phoned every shady character I could think of, from hustlers and pimps all the way down to lawyers and journalists, looking for leads on Marshall Land. Did they know anything about Trey Peters? Had they heard of a character calling himself Enrico Ferrari? Yes,
they’d heard things. Julian Marshall was under investigation by the State’s Attorney for blackmail, extortion, suspected murder. And did they know about disappearing witnesses? There were rumors. They’d make inquiries and call me back. And that, I concluded, was that. All I could do was wait.
    So I racked up the weights and bench-pressed. The gym was quiet: too early for the club crowd, too late for the working crowd, just me and a couple of older guys pottering around the machines, minding our own business.
    “Want me to spot for you?”
    Hmm—not minding our own business quite enough. I looked up and saw one of my regular admirers, a grey-haired guy at least ten, fifteen years older than me, not in bad shape for his age, but a little too fond of hanging around the showers pretending to wash while sneaking a peek at the guys. Sometimes I’ve been glad of the attention, to be honest.
    “Sure.”
    What the hell, give the guy something to jerk off to later, when he goes home to his wife or his TV dinner or whatever. I hoisted the weight and let the bar hover around his hands before lowering it slowly to my chest. A few more reps—six, seven, eight—and I was ready for him to take it. That should give him time to feast his eyes on my arms, chest, legs, whatever.
    “Haven’t seen you for a while,” he said, as I sat up and wiped my face.
    It was kind of comforting to know that one person at least in