Chapter Forty-Two

A week later Jarvis was sitting in a deli across from a very large, extremely angry man whose right hand held a soup spoon containing a chunk of matzo ball and bits of chicken. The spoon was suspended between bowl and mouth because his left hand, which had been reaching aggressively toward Jarvis’s throat, was now twisted at a painful angle because of Jarvis’ grip on the man’s pinkie finger and the extreme rotation he had applied. It was a fascinating, silent tableau. Jarvis was being paid to deliver a message to this former bodyguard who had somehow confused his duties to protect a wealthy Brentwood housewife from an emotional relationship that only existed in the bodyguard’s head. Their reasonable discussion had reached an unsatisfactory conclusion and the bodyguard decided to punch Jarvis. Now they were stuck. The bodyguard was embarrassed and even more angry, the soup was getting cold, and now Jarvis’ phone was ringing.

 

The absurdity of the moment deserved escalation, so he used his left hand to fish out the phone from his front pocket. The number was all fives. He hadn’t heard from Brin since letting him off on the freeway. Jarvis looked into the bodyguard’s eyes and assessed the level of violence.

 

“I need to take this. Can we pick up again in a minute?”

 

Violent fury melted into confusion, which Jarvis took as assent. He released the man’s hand and, not knowing what else to do, the bodyguard put the spoon to his mouth. It was a sufficiently good matzo ball that he continued to eat while Jarvis took the call.

 

“Hey, you wandering around New Jersey?”

 

“That reporter you made friends with in the desert? He’s dead.”

 

Jarvis wasn’t expecting this news, but Afghanistan is a dangerous place. “Afghanistan is a dangerous place.” That caught the bodyguard’s attention but he was still unsure enough about what was happening with this overly calm and surprisingly quick guy across from him that he decided to stick with his soup.

 

“Yeah, real dangerous. Especially if there’s a professional hit put out on you.”

 

That distracted Jarvis. “How professional?”

 

Brin made a brutal guffaw. “Military training, one in the chest and two kill shots, neither one necessary. Place was ransacked. Pretty good work.”

 

Jarvis watched a waitress deliver a pastrami sandwich and wait while the patron – a Doppelganger of Mel Brooks in The 2000 Year Old Man – inspected it by picking up the top piece of rye bread and critically examining it. “How’d you hear?”

 

“You don’t want to know. It’s the kind of job some people might want to talk to me about first.” Brin was right; Jarvis didn’t want to know.

 

“Could have been Taliban, or more likely Afghan army turncoats helping them out. I’m sure they didn’t like the story he was working on after our visit.”

 

Silence. “Yeah, that must be it.” More silence. “Keep your eyes open, huh?” And Brin was gone.

 

Jarvis turned his attention back to the bodyguard. The rest of their conversation was civil, but he knew he’d have to visit the paramour again. He thought about Harding and wondered if the journalist died envisioning his Pulitzer.