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DOORS
So this is how it ends, I think, and pick up the olive bottle. Looks like six olives are missing. That little prissy from Translating and her martinis, one date and she dropped him. I told Jimmy he was too good for her. Now he’s dead, in his own apartment. Looks like he gave them a good fight. Looks like they surprised him raiding his own refrigerator. The door’s hanging open and the contents are all over the floor. Along with Jimmy. I’m in Housekeeping now, and I’m cleaning up.
Two mushy oranges. Two rubber-skinned apples. He should have known better than to buy fresh fruit. Hot sauce. Taco sauce. Steak sauce. Worcestershire sauce. Yellow mustard. Sweet relish. Ketchup. All jumbo size. Geez, this is from last summer’s cook-out. Man, Jimmy. This is some old shit.
I look at him; he’s face down in a puddle of lemon juice. I think, my refrigerator used to look just like this. On days like these, when I’m kneeling in what’s left behind, I think I’m glad to be out of Section Two. What kind of life is that, really? You might as well have a target on your back. But God help me, there’s still a part of me that wants it to be me out there with them, chasing whoever did this to Jimmy.
There’s this saying: when one door closes, another one opens, but actually, the opposite thing happened to me. One day last spring, I’m trying to flirt with Lisa Rogers, and she’s giving me the brush-off. Mr. Waverly’s door hisses open and a preoccupied Napoleon walks right past us. I didn’t know it, but the door labeled ‘My Partnership with Napoleon Solo’ had slammed shut with a cosmic bang. I never heard a thing.
The next day I’m getting dressed after a workout. The locker room door bangs open and hits the wall. Something small and metallic clinks onto the concrete floor. That’s the screw coming loose. Then the locker room door slams shut. The spring hinge clanks onto the floor. Then Napoleon swears and I shut up. I’m sitting two rows down, and I think, wait for it, when I hear who it is cussing over there. He slams his locker door. Wham. Wham. Like that. Tight. Controlled. There’s a little silence, followed by some clunking sounds, dull, leather on metal: his gun rig, hitting the shelf. Then a zip. Pants. Now something small hits the floor and rolls away. He swears again. Then something rips. Wham! The pounding starts up again, and glass breaks against the floor. Shaving mirror. Somebody yells hey, knock it off, willya.
This ought to be good, I think. There’s a rustle and another zip, and Napoleon walks down to the other end of the room. He talks in a low voice. I can’t make out the words, but the meaning is clear. Don Banning hustles out past me. Show’s over, I figure, so I turn to leave and bump headlong into some guy I’ve never seen before.
“Hey, geez, sorry,” I say, and step back and give him the once-over. He’s small, blond, and blue-eyed. He’s got a bleeding scratch down his right cheek. His knuckles are bloody and he’s carrying a shoe. I look at his feet. He’s wearing both shoes. Huh.
Then Napoleon shoves past us without a word. Grim-faced. Gives me a withering look and slams his way down the hall. My mouth’s hanging open with a half-started greeting, and the blond guy’s looking after him, offering the shoe to Napoleon’s back. He slowly lowers the shoe and stands there for a few seconds. Blond guy turns and looks at me. I figure him for a trainee. The crap Napoleon has to put up with. I don’t know how he can stand it.
“So you got the short end of it, eh?” I say to him.
His eyes go flat. “The short end of it,” he repeats.
I hear the vowels and the consonants. Hey, I think, is he that Russian guy I heard about?
“Hey, are you that Russian guy I heard about?” I ask him.
He ignores it and says, “The short end of it is the loser, yes?”
I grin sympathetically. “We all have our days.”
“I am compelled to tell you, my opponent was the loser. He is dead, and I am not.” His voice goes stiff. “I may or may not be the Russian you have heard about. I am Illya Kuryakin.”
I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. I stick out my hand. “Hal Donovan. How you doing?”
He shakes my hand. Nice firm grip. His eyes flicker over me. “You are Hal Donovan. Your reputation precedes you.”
Damn right. I smile. “So what brings you to New York? Some kind of joint mission?”
He looks mildly surprised. “No. I have transferred to New York to be Napoleon Solo’s partner.”
My smile freezes, and I arrange my face. The partner trials don’t start for a week. I’m next in seniority. I’m supposed to be partnered with Napoleon. There’s no good way of saying that without sounding like the class sissy. I’m stunned and fumble for something to cover with while I’m wondering what kind of ass-kisser this guy has to be. My eyes fall on the shoe.
“Whose shoe?” I say.
“It belongs to Victor Marton. Napoleon shot his way into Marton’s study. Marton managed to jump out a window. Napoleon had him by the leg, but came away with just the shoe.”
I think if I had been with Napoleon we’d have gotten the guy.
“And where were you at the time?” I ask, trying for casual, but I hear the challenge in my voice, and my face heats up. I don’t care. I keep my chin up and look him in the eye.
His face is neutral, but his eyes give him away. He pauses, assessing me. “I was busy,” he says and walks past me into the locker room.
Right. We’ll see how long you’re partnered with Napoleon at this rate. Nobody does an end run around Hal Donovan.
I think back on that a lot.
By 8:00 that night I’ve finally finished my paperwork. I’m in a foul mood and decide if I’m going to drink, I’d better not be alone. I go to My Brother’s Place and grab an empty booth at the end of the room. Charlie brings me a bottle of beer and a glass of whiskey, automatic. I throw back the booze and take a pull on the beer. Cold, crisp, bitter. Nice. I breathe in deep, relax a little. The bell on the door tinkles, and I look up. Christ on a crutch, it’s Napoleon and Kuryakin. I slide deep into the corner of the booth, into the shadow, so they don’t see me.
Napoleon stops and talks to someone at the bar. Kuryakin walks all the way to the back and sits at a table not six feet from my booth, and now there’s no place to hide. He nods at me. I nod back and look away. Napoleon comes back, spots me.
“Hal, have you met Illya?”
Kuryakin and I nod at each other again and I say, “You’ve got yourself quite a partner, there.”
Napoleon asks, “Why don’t you join us?” Behind Napoleon’s back, Kuryakin scowls.
I put on a sorry face. “Nah, I have to get going.” Napoleon’s eyes slide to my nearly-full beer bottle, then back to me.
“Another time, then.”
“Absolutely,” I say, and lift my bottle, making like I’m finishing up. Kuryakin’s stare is drilling a hole in the side of my head, but I ignore him. Charlie arrives with their drinks and they settle in, shifting their chairs toward each other, away from me. They talk quietly. I take a small swallow of beer and push my bar napkin back and forth, eavesdropping.
“Are you feeling better now?” asks Kuryakin.
“About what?”
“About your tantrum in the locker room. It was most impressive. Is that how you inspire others to follow you?”
“It wasn’t a tantrum. I was releasing the excess adrenaline after our little fiasco.”
Kuryakin made a derisive noise. “Is stalking through the corridors and growling at your comrades also releasing adrenaline?”
“I was upset. Marton escaped. I was shot at. I could have been blown up at any moment.”
“I pride myself on the precision with which I set my charges. I would never have blown you up.”
“You’re a menace to society. Grinning like that when the guards fell off the roof.”
“I was gratified to see the efficacy of my explosives. I took three men out with a single blow, you know.”
“I shot three, with three bullets. I have incredibly accurate aim.”
“You have incredibly irritating luck.”
A pause. Glasses clink.
“You had my back, Illya. Thanks.”
“And you mine. Thank you, Napoleon.”
Something in my gut twists.
There’s a soft snort. Illya says, “You should have seen the look on your face when you came up with Marton’s shoe.”
“You could have been a little more sympathetic.”
“I regret what I said.”
“I’m sure,” says Napoleon. He mutters in a Kuryakin accent, “Do you have that in a 10?”
They laugh. The twisted thing in my gut comes up sour.
Napoleon’s talking, low, hard. “I can’t believe I let the son of a bitch get away.”
“We’ll get him, Napoleon.”
Another pause, and ice swirling in the glass.
“Yes. We will,” Napoleon says quietly.
My bar napkin is torn to shreds. I throw a five on the table and leave.
****
At the next day’s staff meeting, Napoleon introduces Kuryakin to the group. Early assignment, brought over from Europe, blah, blah, blah. Tells us our own partners will be assigned in the next week, as scheduled. Kuryakin gets up to give a report on something they’ve been working on in the lab, blah, blah, blah. I’m sitting in the back and make a quiet, fake snore, and get a snicker out of the guys sitting next to me. Kuryakin looks our way. I keep a straight face and shuffle my papers.
A couple of days pass. Intelligence receives a tip that Marton may be hiding out at his daughter Victoria’s place in East Hampton. Napoleon and Kuryakin are going to check it out that night. I’m relegated to the backup team. The backup team. Me.
We gear up in the armory. I’m signing out ammo to the guys when Kuryakin comes in. I grab a couple of boxes for myself and walk out.
****
We’re in black. The grassy slope leading up to the mansion is wet from the cool night air. Napoleon and Kuryakin are in front. They move in tandem. They are panthers on the hunt, running, pausing, then running again, like they’re reading each other’s minds, as if they have been together on a hundred missions, not two. A cold stone grows in my chest as I follow them up the hill.
We’re out of the grass now, on the entrance way, approaching the gate. From nowhere, a lone Thrush guard jumps out and clotheslines Napoleon, knocking him over. Napoleon’s gun skids away. Kuryakin is right there, and he drops the guard with a neck-chop. He scoops Napoleon’s gun from the ground, tosses it to him, and keeps moving. Napoleon snags it from the air and scrambles to his feet. He tells us to check for more guards and bolts after Kuryakin. We find none, and hurry to catch up. Kuryakin’s put some burn putty on the gate and it’s fizzing through the lock. In a minute we’re across the courtyard and up to the house. Kuryakin has more putty for the door. Inside, the place is lit up, but no one’s around.
“Where is everyone,” someone whispers.
“Sh.” Napoleon cuts him off. He splits us up. He takes two guys and Kuryakin gets me and the other guy. I’m supposed to follow Kuryakin, working toward the back of the house, but the hell if I’m going to follow Kuryakin. When they go right, I go left.
I get to the kitchen and hit the jackpot. A guy in a camouflage jumpsuit is cooking a late night breakfast, his back to me. My gun is out and my arm is coming up when something massive slams me in the back and propels me to the stove. He’s a monster, easily pinning my arms to my sides. The cook whirls around and grabs at me. The monster lifts me, and my feet are off the floor. I buck in the air, and we bang into the stove. The pan with the eggs clatters to the floor, and the cook’s bending my neck, he’s forcing my head down, he’s jamming my face against the cherry red burner coil on the stove. I’m screaming, and it reeks, like burnt meat.
****
While I was in the hospital, they tell me neither Victor Marton or his daughter were at the estate. Who knows where the tip came from? Maybe it came from Marton himself, to throw us off. They captured the monster, but the cook got away.
I get out of the hospital. Life goes on. I go to the shrink. I spend a month in a dark place, thinking about what should have been. The shrink spouts a bunch of blah, blah, blah about symbolism and metaphysical scars. I furrow my brow and make a pondering face for him. I work out. I’m put on light duty, internal only, between plastic surgeries. They do their best, but I know I’m done with Section Two. No way to disappear into a crowd, not with my face.
****
It’s summer. A delivery van pulls up in front of Del Floria’s and dumps a huge box in the street and takes off. A gift tag is stuck to the box. It’s got my name on it, so Napoleon calls me downstairs. By the time I get there, the box is inside Del’s shop. The security guys take their time opening it, but eventually the flaps are loose and they take a peek. Then they’re yelling and laughing, and everyone’s pounding me on the back. Inside the box is the cook, wearing a red bow around his neck, and nothing else.
That was also the day I got my Housekeeping papers. In the hubbub over the cook, my move to Housekeeping goes unnoticed. That’s okay with me.
In the afternoon I’m supposed to be cleaning out my locker but I end up sitting in the cafeteria with a cup of coffee. It’s grown cold. I’m trying not to, but I’m thinking again about eating my gun, and wonder if the shrink knows what a doofus he is. I’m thinking about the taste of metal and gun oil. Somebody drops a tray and I snap out of it. Kuryakin’s sitting at the next table. He’s looking at me. I don’t know when he sat down, I was so lost in it He’s got a ding under his left eye and his hands are bruised and swollen. I’m uncomfortable with him around. I leave.
That night, I have a dream. Napoleon and Kuryakin peel me off the kitchen floor and hold my arms away from my head. I fight them while they call it in. Napoleon sticks something in my thigh and it doesn’t hurt anymore. Kuryakin carries me outside and lays me in the cool grass. They wheel our van up from the road. Kuryakin holds me down in the back and looks me in the eyes and talks to me while Napoleon sticks me with something else. Someone says aw shit, look at him. Kuryakin says shut up, you cretin. His eyes do not drift to my ruined face. His eyes do not stray from mine, even as I drift away. He comforts me. I sleep.
Awake, I stare in the dark at the ceiling. I think about the cook in the box. I think about Kuryakin’s hands. In the morning, I can’t look myself in the mirror.
When I get to work I find him in his office. He doesn’t look surprised to see me when the door slides open. I walk in and stand there. He comes from around the desk and leans against its front.
“Illya.” I let it all out. Thank you. Admission. Apology. When I finally run down, he doesn’t hesitate to respond. He sticks his hand out, and I take it. We shake. He says, “Good luck, Hal.”
The door closes. I feel free.
****
After lunch I’m cleaning out my locker. These lockers are for Section Two. I’m squatting down, raking up a pile of Beeman’s wrappers when a hand lays itself on my shoulder and Napoleon’s voice behind me says, “Hal.”
I jump and straighten up. I remember the gum wrappers and swing my locker door shut. “Napoleon. How’s it going?” He doesn’t look at the packing carton on the floor, but he’s seen it.
“So, this is it?”
“Yup. Moving day. I just have to run this stuff through Security, then I guess I’ll dump it back out in the new locker.”
“Housekeeping.”
“Yup.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go for Security.”
“Nah.”
Napoleon’s looking at me. From the look on his face I can see he wants to pick at it, but he lets it hang there, lets me decide if I’m going to say anything else about it. Then I realize he’s using the oldest interview trick in the world on me. Two can play that game, and I clam up.
He says, “Well, see you around,” and turns to leave. He’s not playing mind games. Am I so screwed up, I can’t see that?
“Napoleon, wait a minute,” I say. He turns around.
“I need to say something.” He’s waiting.
“Look, Napoleon.” I stop, thinking about the bitterness, the disappointment, the grudging acceptance that Mr. Waverly had it right. Of course he had it right. Napoleon’s turned sideways now, leaning a shoulder against the locker next to mine, all casual, but he’s alert, listening.
“I just wanted to say thanks. You guys saved my keister.”
“No thanks needed. You know, he says quietly, “it could be any one of us, any time.”
“Yeah. Still, thanks.”
“If you say thanks to anyone, it should be Illya.” He pushes off the locker and moves away. I guess he hasn’t talked to Illya yet today.
I hear the locker room door swing open, then shut. It’s quiet in here. Just the chain on the overhead spring clinking. I grab the carton and follow him out to the hall. He’s halfway to the elevators. I say to his back, “I thought it was going to be me.”
He stops. Stands there, turned away from me, hands in his pockets, head ducked down, looking at the floor, giving me room.
“Partnered with you,” I say. His chin lifts, and he slowly turns around and looks at me. I stay where I am, at the doorway, with my box of junk.
Napoleon says, ‘I thought that too. I had words with Mr. Waverly about it. I guess he knew better.”
I think of the day he came out of Mr. Waverly’s office, the day before his first mission with Illya.
“He wanted us as senior partner on teams of our own. I’m sorry you never got the chance,” Napoleon said.
“Why didn’t he say something to me?” I blurt it out, and it sounds stupid, childish. I know the drill. He doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone. We go where he tells us to go. We do what he tells us to do.
“Hal.” His voice goes soft. “What happened to you? You could have headed a team in your own right. That scar on your face didn’t cost you Section Two, you know. You’d already lost it.” He turns to the elevator. He sticks an arm in the air, a wave, as he walks to the elevator. I watch him poke the elevator button, and then I bend down to pick up my box again. The elevator doors swish once, twice. When I straighten up, he’s gone.
You were jealous, and it blinded you. He didn’t have to say it.
****
Here’s what I think about doors now: When one door closes, another door really does open. The trick is to step through to the other side before that one swings shut, too. When I met Illya Kuryakin in the locker room, I thought I was being cheated out of the opportunity of my life, and cheated myself out of an even greater one.
Who knows? Maybe Napoleon wasn’t thrilled about getting paired with a stranger. Maybe Illya resented his transfer. All I know is they took their first steps through the open door and never looked back. It took me longer. But I’m in the best place I can be, for me, now.
I shut Jimmy’s refrigerator and walk downstairs to the Housekeepers’ van.
The End