She looks up. "What's wrong?"
"Your lipstick," I tell her, pointing vaguely at her face. "It's smudged, there on the left side, you might want to?—"
"Oh, dear." She is already pushing back from the desk, touching her face, turning toward the small mirror on the far wall. "Where, here?"
"Bathroom would be better," I tell her sympathetically. "The light in here is terrible."
She goes, and I listen to her footsteps across the corridor. When I hear the bathroom door, I reach into my pocket, take out the flash drive and I lean over the laptop and slide it in.
The screen flickers, a small progress bar appears in the corner and I straighten up. I put my hands behind my back and I look at the window and I listen.
The progress bar moves to thirty percent.
I hear the bathroom tap running.
Fifty percent.
The tap stops and I hear footsteps in the corridor.
Seventy percent.
The door handle moves. "I didn't see any smudge," Mrs. Park calls.
"Oh my? Are you sure?" I call.
Ninety percent.
The door opens and as it completes and I pull the flash drive out and close my fingers around it. I turn toward the door with a slightly embarrassed expression already on my face and I say, "I think I was mistaken actually. I must be losing my mind."
Mrs. Park looks at me with concern. "Are you sure?"
"It looked smudged from where I was standing and then—" I sigh and press my fingers to my forehead. "Ignore me. I'm so stressed I'm seeing things. I need some water."
"You poor thing," she says warmly, moving back to the desk. "Go, go. I'll have the list ready when you come back."
I smile gratefully and I leave, pulling the door behind me. I stand in the corridor, and I slide the flash into my pocket.
I type a message to Renzo. "Done"
I wait for what feels like ages, pacing and then I get a beep.
"We are in"
I sigh in relief and I lean on the wall and look up.
"I couldn't get him to like me, Mom," I say quietly, to the empty corridor. "I tried." I pause. "I guess you couldn't either."
***Luca
The man on the floor is breathing. I step back from him and I look at my shirt then the factory walls.
"Get him cleaned up," Renzo tells the men. "Hospital. Back entrance, no names."
I turn and walk into the cold Las Vegas night, I lean against the car and I light a cigarette.
The debt collection had been a minor thing. This man who owed a smaller man who owed us, an obligation that one of the men Renzo ordered could have handled without breaking a sweat. I had volunteered for it at nine in the evening on a Tuesday because the alternative was sitting in my office.
The ache in my chest hadn't gone anywhere.
