Johnny Givens walked into Louis Massina’s office, powered by pride, adrenaline, and a dollop of nervousness.
“Mr. Givens,” said Massina cheerfully, rising from his desk to meet him halfway. “So good to see you.”
Johnny extended his hand. The two men shook.
It’s amazing to think I’m touching a fake hand, thought Johnny. As artificial as my legs.
“I’m told you’re making excellent progress,” said Massina.
“Thank you for your help,” said Johnny.
“You’ve put the effort in. It’s all you.”
Massina smiled broadly. He was an interesting man—a genius, surely, and a rich one. Yet he was “real,” humble in many ways. He didn’t talk down to Johnny, as many people did. Nor did he offer bs pep talks.
“Things are moving ahead?” asked Massina.
“Yes. I didn’t come to thank you. I came to ask for a job.”
“A job? Aren’t you—you’re still with the FBI?”
“The Bureau isn’t going to let me go back to the field. I’m on, uh, a furlough. Unpaid.”
“I see.”
“I’d like to be part of your security unit,” said Johnny. “I’ve been thinking about your organization, the things you guys are into. You can use people like me.”
“You’ve only been out of the hospital for a few weeks.”
“Nearly a month.”
A long furrow appeared on Massina’s forehead. Johnny’s exaggeration was a silly lie.
“I’m not a scientist,” said Johnny. He had rehearsed a long speech, but now, faced with giving it in person, he faltered. He’d intended to list his assets as an investigator, wanted to point out how Smart Metal really needed someone like him who could spot trouble, maybe check over security flaws, be involved . . .
But the words wouldn’t come. His mouth had suddenly dried up. His tongue stuck to the bottom of his mouth.
“We may be able to find a place,” said Massina. “But only after your rehabilitation is over.”
“I know what you’re doing—you’re pursuing this investigation into the mafya and the bank scams. I can be part of that.” Even in Johnny’s ears, his voice sounded an octave too high—tinny, almost pleading.
Definitely pleading.
“None of that concerns you,” said Massina, suddenly cold. “You go and complete your rehabilitation. Take care of yourself. The recovery period is at least a year. The drugs that have gotten you to this point—”
“I’m ready to work now.”
“Come back when rehabilitation is over,” said Massina. “Then we’ll sit down with my HR people and figure out where you’ll fit in. Assuming you don’t want to stay with the government.”
Anger suddenly welled inside Johnny. Why the hell did he lose his legs? And his heart?
“I’m afraid I have a full slate of appointments today,” said Massina, abruptly going back to his desk. “Several people are waiting to talk to me.”
“Listen.” Johnny trembled. “I need a job.”
Damn it to hell! Don’t you dismiss me, too!
“I will help,” said Massina. “When your rehab is complete. When the doctors say it’s complete.”
Johnny stood in the middle of the office, unable to move. This had not gone the way he thought it would.
“I can do a lot,” he said weakly. “I can help.”
“I’m sure. And you will.”
Massina looked past him to the door, which had been left open. Johnny turned and saw Chelsea Goodman and two other Smart Metal employees in the doorway, staring.
“You’re making a mistake,” he told Massina.
The scientist said nothing. Depression, sadness, a sense of utter futility chased away the optimism Johnny had felt only a few moments before.
Johnny knew that he owed Massina a great deal, probably even his life. But he wanted to yell at him, demand to be taken seriously. He was ready to work.
Massina wasn’t blowing him off. Yet it felt like he was.
Don’t project, he told himself. Don’t turn him into the source of all evil. Keep your head up. Don’t beg, and don’t betray yourself. Or him. You owe him a lot.
“I’ll be back,” Johnny said finally, managing to turn and walk slowly out of the office.