Walter Donlan, senior accountant for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sat with two of the strangest FBI agents he had ever met. If they hadn’t shown him their badges and ID cards, he would have guessed they were solicitors for an international cosmetic company.
The agent in charge, Monty Halloran, was the head of a new task force on organized crime, although the paperwork he had showed Walter was vague in describing their directives. He was tall enough to have to stoop when he came through the door. Walter judged him to be about 6’6”.
Halloran’s head was shaved, and around his neck, he wore a silver chain with a monocle, which he brought to his eye when scrutinizing Walter’s framed certificates and pictures on the wall. Underneath his right eye was a deep red scar that made his eye bulge and his top lip sneer.
His brown suit strained at the seams to contain his long arms and barrel chest. Halloran’s hands were as big as catcher’s mitts.
“He is coming?” Halloran asked with a slight Euro-trash accent that made Walter think of a Gestapo agent in a World War II movie.
“He’ll be right up,” Walter replied.
Halloran’s partner was engrossed in the activity, or lack thereof, outside the office window. She was tall as well. Maybe 6’1”, Walter guessed. As statuesque as a mannequin, and just as lifeless. She had introduced herself with a cold, limp handshake and a look like she had discovered something stuck to the sole of her shoe.
“Deanna Matrix,” she had said, and already Walter was repeating it in his head like a mantra.
Her cinnamon auburn hair was pulled back into a bun that accentuated her pale blue eyes and slim, milky neck. Her skin fair like she shunned sunlight. She was beautiful in a way an ice sculpture can be, and just as frigid. She wore khaki safari pants tucked into brown suede boots, a white cotton pullover, and a brown vest adorned with numerous pockets.
“What’s this all about?” Walter asked. “Is Paul in any trouble? He’s usually a conscientious employee…”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Halloran said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and studying a portrait of J. Edgar Hoover on the wall.
The picture had been hanging there since Walter was promoted to his current position, and he had seen copies of the portrait throughout most of the Bureau’s offices. He couldn’t imagine why Halloran would find it interesting. He must have seen it several hundred times by now.
Matrix still sat and faced the window, her hands intertwined in her lap, granting no indication she had heard anything Walter had said.
Paul Romano entered, and his expression changed to apprehension at the sight of Halloran and Matrix.
“Come on in, Paul, and have a seat.” Walter tried to put a casual tone in his voice, but a cough caught in his throat.
Paul took the seat next to Matrix and flicked his gaze back and forth between her and Halloran. Halloran’s face held an expression that he probably intended to be a friendly smile, but it resembled a grimace amplified by his continuous sneer.
Matrix mechanically looked Paul up and down as if she were in a butcher shop, deciding on a piece of meat.
“Mr. Donlan,” Paul said with a nod.
He was a handsome young man, but not in a rugged sense. He had the high cheekbones and wheat blond hair of a farm boy, and the clean cut look of a seminary student. He was as tall as Matrix, or nearly so, and had an honest face that was magnified by his eyeglasses.
“How are you, Paul?” Walter asked.
Paul cleared his throat and folded his hands. “I’m fine, sir.”
“Good,” Walter said. “Paul, this is Agent Halloran and Agent Matrix of the FBI’s Task Force on Organized Crime.” He motioned to each agent respectively. “They’d like to ask you a few questions.” He saw the poor kid’s mind working overtime on that.
“Call me Deanna,” Matrix said, her expression still indecipherable.
“And I am Monty,” Halloran said in his stilted English. He stuck out his hand, and it swallowed Paul’s. Walter expected Halloran to give the kid a bone-crusher shake, but they barely clasped hands. Maybe Halloran wasn’t one for physical contact. He hadn’t even offered to shake Walter’s hand. He must want something from Paul, Walter thought. Something big.
“Mr. Romano,” Halloran said, “or Paul, if I may be so familiar.” Monocle swaying against his chest, he paced behind Paul.
With an upturned gaze, Paul craned his neck to follow him.
“Deanna and I have some questions for you,” he said, “and then, circumstances permitting, we may have an interesting proposition.”
“Proposition?”
Matrix said, “His hair and complexion are too light. He doesn’t look Italian.”
“No,” Halloran said. “Still, physical appearance is not as important in this day and age. The Italian race has become diluted over the last century to the point where they are no longer a swarthy people, nor are they racially pure. They have mixed with other races until they have become indistinguishable in their physicality. This is not true for all, but most.”
He crouched beside Paul and met his eyes.
“You have the lineage and the name. That will suffice.”
“What’s this all about, Mr. Donlan?” Paul’s apprehension faded into irritation.
Matrix said, “A year ago, you were accepted to the FBI Academy to begin training for work as a field agent, yet you declined and decided to stay with the accounting department. You had been on the waiting list for quite a while. Why did you turn it down?”
Paul shifted in his seat and shrugged. He looked at Walter when he answered.
“I wasn’t sure I could make it through the training. I wasn’t sure I had the conviction and dedication to make it. And… I was engaged at the time.”
“And?” Matrix asked.
“And my former fiancé had reservations about my career path.” His shoulders hunched. “In retrospect, it was probably a good move for me. The academy requires a hundred percent dedication.”
“Yes, yes, that is true,” Halloran said. “But there must be some part of you that craves adventure, excitement. No?”
“I suppose so. Am I being transferred?”
Halloran made the ugliest laughing sound Walter had ever heard. It emanated past his yellow teeth, which were covered in metal fillings. Halloran stood and patted Paul’s shoulder, and the man flinched.
“It’s not a transfer,” Matrix said. “We want to offer you a field assignment.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hardly,” she said. “We don’t kid.”
She stood and walked toward the office window, then pivoted. The afternoon sun framed her with a dull haze. As cold as her demeanor, her voice held no emotion and hovered in the octave between lifelessness and boredom. She could have been reciting scientific data in a laboratory somewhere for as much enthusiasm as she showed.
“What I’m about to tell you stays in this room,” she said. “It’s crucial that it goes no further. Not to your friends, family, coworkers, or bed partners. No one. Understand?” She stared at Paul until he nodded, then glanced at Walter.
Walter felt his face flush as he nodded. He wasn’t used to being talked to in such a condescending manner, especially by a woman thirty years younger than him.
“This is about the new face of organized crime,” she said. “The Tagliani family, headed by one Joseph Tagliani. They began with typical mafioso roots in loan sharking and racketeering. Now they’ve progressed into drugs and gunrunning. They’ve become an entity unto themselves, with few ties to other families. Which makes them harder to infiltrate and harder to bring down.”
“They hide their activities behind legitimate businesses and big corporations,” Halloran said.
Matrix continued: “And they’re smart. Every transaction is accounted for. Every loose end is tied up. Every addition to their family, whether they’re a business associate or a new underling, undergoes an extensive background check. That’s where you come in.”
“I still don’t understand,” Paul said. “What do you want me to do?”
“We want you to work undercover for us,” Matrix said. “As I stated, this particular crime family has been difficult to infiltrate. Most everyone who works for them is recruited from other families, or bought outright. There are exceptions.”
“We have two agents in place,” Halloran said. “They have achieved the highest rank possible that their cover allows. Unfortunately, it is not enough.”
Matrix said, “We need someone working as an accountant for them to access financial records. It’s the only way we can make charges against Joseph Tagliani stick.”
“Tax evasion charges?”
“Tax evasion, fraud, conspiracy to commit. Anything that will effectively remove him as head of the organization.”
“Remove the head,” Halloran said, “and the body will die. We must strike now, or eventually the body will become too powerful. It will become a hydra, replacing two heads with each one we chop off.”
Paul absently rubbed his neck. “You want me to go undercover? I’m not trained for that.”
“Exactly.” Halloran smiled.
“They would never let someone that close to such vital information,” Matrix said. “Not without a long initiation process and thorough background check. An undercover agent would be flushed out and eliminated before we got what we needed. Your cover would be yourself.”
“You would be fired from this job,” Halloran said. “Misappropriation of funds would be the reason. It would go on your record, and there would be talk of filing charges against you. Then, talk of charges would drop if you agreed to leave the job quietly. Your supervisor, Mr. Donlan, would have some pull in that area.” Halloran looked to Walter for confirmation.
Walter simply shrugged. He didn’t want to appear as if he had been in on this plan. The whole thing didn’t feel right to him.
Halloran frowned at Walter’s noncommitment but continued along as if it was all prearranged. “You will have difficulty finding new employment. Then an old friend will call you.”
“One of our undercover agents,” Matrix joined in. “He will arrange a meeting for you. If all goes well, you will fly to Azure City and begin working for their organization.”
Halloran said, “They will start you as a low-level employee. Probably have you work on legitimate financial records. They will watch you, follow you, even set tests for you until, ultimately, they decide they can trust you. Once you have their confidence, we will tell you how to proceed.”
“Wait a minute. I haven’t exactly agreed to this. This whole thing sounds dangerous. For me, I mean.”
“It is,” Matrix said. “If they discover what you’re doing, you will disappear. And there is nothing we would do to stop it.”
She said “would,” not “could.” Walter wondered if Paul picked up on that.
She took two steps toward Paul. “If you’re up to this task, it could be the opportunity of a lifetime. After you succeed, we’ll see to it you have carte blanche. If you wish to be a field agent, you will. If you want a transfer to anywhere in the world, you’ll have it.”
“And if I fail, I’m dead. Right?”
“But of course,” Halloran said.
“What if I decide I don’t want to do it? Can I keep working here, or am I fired?”
“Your job doesn’t rest on this, Paul,” Walter answered. “You weren’t hired here to be an undercover agent.”
Matrix made a sucking sound with her teeth, half shrugged, and said, “If you decide the answer’s no, you can keep your job.”
Halloran said, “It will be as if we were never here.”
Paul glanced between all three of them. Walter cast a doubtful gaze he hoped Paul picked up on. He didn’t like these two…whatever they were. Their paperwork was in order, but they were clearly something more than FBI agents. Halloran’s eyes gleamed, and his smirk, marred by the crevice in his cheek, cast him in a ghoulish light. Matrix was a blank slate. She didn’t appear eager for his answer, as if everything was unfolding according to plan.
“I need time to think about it,” Paul said.
Matrix nodded, unzipped a pocket on her vest, removed a business card, and handed it to him. Walter strained to look; the card was blank except for a phone number.
“Call us when you decide,” she said. “You have twenty-four hours.”
Paul winced as Halloran patted his shoulder again.
“I sincerely hope you decide to work with us, my boy. It will be…interesting.”
AUTHOR’S COMMENTARY:
Ugh. I hate this chapter.
Usually I can find something I like in everything I write. But not in this case.
Part of the reason is because the sole purpose of this chapter is all set-up. It’s all information dump. Which in itself is a bit of a cliché. It’s like one of those B-movies that starts off with a scene of a murder, then cuts to the scene where the police captain is putting together a team of cops to catch the killer. You see the city map laid out with red x’s on the wall and the captain is saying, “These are where the murders took place. Now this is how we’re going to catch the killer. Johnson, you’re going to go undercover…” Etc.
I’m sure there’s a way to do this better. An early draft had the chapter much longer. There was a character bit with Paul before he goes to the office and meets Matrix and Halloran. And there was a character bit with him afterwards. Nothing really happens. The sole purpose was to give background on him. But the problem was, it just wasn’t very interesting.
Sure, it was interesting to me. But I’m the person who wrote it, and I’m the person who knows what the character bit means in the long run of the story. To the casual reader, however, it would have come off with the effect of, “Why am I reading this?”
There’s a scene midway through SPIDER-MAN 2 where the young daughter of Peter Parker’s landlord brings him a piece of cake and a glass of milk. The scene cuts to him finishing the cake and milk, then thanking her. I’m sure the scene has meaning to it. Perhaps it’s a symbol of Peter having his soul replenished after feeling helpless and defeated, and the kindness of the landlord’s daughter gives him renewed hope…
Whatever. The scene stops the movie cold. Every other scene in that movie drives the story forward. That scene, in my humble opinion, puts the screaming brakes on.
I’m sure the director and the film editor discussed it. I’m sure they both know exactly what the purpose of that scene is. And I’m sure there are a hundred thousand filmgoers (probably more) who have theories about the meaning of that scene and how it services the story overall. I’m just saying, I didn’t get it. It didn’t work for me. And if it didn’t work for me, I’m sure I’m far from the only one.
Luckily, this chapter is in the beginning of the book, so if it stops the story cold, it’s early enough that readers may forgive it and move on. I had the thought of dropping the chapter and starting with Paul undercover, then flashing back to how he got the assignment. I also had the thought of having the reader discover his undercover status by having him have various bits of dialogue exchange with Matrix and Halloran later in the story. I couldn’t get either of those possibilities to work in my head. Hence, this chapter of exposition.
What else is wrong with it…
It vacillates between being stilted and clunky, and being too trippy and surreal for its own good. I think I tried so hard to not be cliché that I ended up being more cliché.
Does that makes sense? If not, consider this:
Let’s say an actor is offered a part in a movie. They look through the script and see that the scenes they’re in, whether it’s one scene or a plethora of scenes, is not especially interesting. No snappy lines or cool “save the day” action scenes. A bad actor or an actor lacking in experience (not necessarily two different things) will want to do something to liven up their scenes. They’ll want their character to have an accent, or an eyepatch, or to walk with a limp, or to have some offbeat trait that draws attention to themselves in the scene.
On the other hand, a talented actor can make anything, even daily minutia, compelling. Think of James Dean in the movie GIANT, playing with a piece of rope while Rock Hudson and a roomful of his cronies try to talk Dean’s character into selling his small parcel of land. Dean has minimal dialogue in that scene, but man, you can’t take your eyes off him.
Another example: Pretty much any role Robert Duvall has ever had in any movie.
If I keep going back to movies in my comparison, it’s not accidental. I always found this story to be more cinematic than much of my other work.
So we established this chapter is all set-up. What else? The characters…
Paul. Not much to him on the surface. But still waters run deep and all that. Some early readers found him to be too weak to be “the hero.”
The thing is, there are no heroes or villains in any of my stories. There are main characters and there are supporting characters. Protagonists and antagonists. I don’t go in for the notion of “good guys” and “bad guys.” Sometimes a character you think is good will do something bad, and a character you think of as bad will do something heroic.
Or maybe not. Maybe your initial assessment of the character doesn’t change over the course of the story.
But I try. I try to get the readers to feel sympathy for characters that they initially disliked. And I try to get the readers to feel disdain for a character they initially liked. Then hopefully, if I’m doing my job correctly, I’ll get the reader to flip their feelings again.
This isn’t always the case. Sometimes a character is meant to be likeable and it stays that way. Sometimes they’re meant to be unlikeable and that doesn’t (or shouldn’t) change. Overall, I like the characters to be fluid. Kind of like real life: Some days you like someone, and some days you want them to be hit by a bus.
Some of you may recognize Matrix and Halloran. They play smaller parts in my novel BLAKE TWENTY-THREE. Matrix is in one chapter of that book, and Halloran shows up in three (?) chapters (I think). They are more prominent in this story. Matrix is a main character, as stiff and lifeless as she may seem. Her character gets explored a bit as the story progresses.
I know they seem one dimensional, a bit like old comic book villains. I assure you, they’re better than that. Again, still waters and all that crap.If you made it this far, thanks. I promise upcoming chapters are more interesting. But sometimes you have to eat the cake and drink the milk before you can get back to the main story.