Chapter Nine
After an unsteady trek toward Reading Terminal Market, I decide to stop at a coffee shop.
Of all the places, I know.
But I don’t see an A of I at the rendezvous point of Twelfth and Arch and I really need a cold drink. Phil’s Coffee is the closest and safest establishment that offers such a beverage. In its own right, the market provides numerous drinks and other forms of nourishment but it’s too risky. The market’s foot traffic is far too dense and its concourses are not that wide, thus rendering any potential escape difficult.
I try calling Jimenez for an update but only get her voicemail. Just before I step into Phil’s, however, my phone rings.
“There’s nobody here, Elena,” I say, my voice still that of the white-collar worker.
“Hi,” a young man says. “Is this the matchmaker service?”
“Um … yes. Who’s this?”
“I’d like to set up an appointment.”
“We’ll have to call you back. The guy who runs this practice … he’s busy.”
“Can you help me, then? Please?”
“Maybe,” I say with a sigh. “What’s your name?”
“Mark.” It was the kid who left me a voicemail while I was on my way to Lincoln High yesterday.
“What do you do, Mark?”
“I’m a student. I go to CCP,” he says, referencing the local community college. I’ve never had a college student before.
Given my current state of affairs, I’m of mind to hang up on this kid. But I can’t. “I must say, you sound younger than most of our clients. What is it you’re looking for?”
“Um … ”
“A date? Long-term relationship?” I check my attire. Still white collar.
“I don’t know … I’m just tired of feeling lonely all the time.”
“Do you live alone, Mark?”
“With my mom.”
“Any friends?”
“Not really. We moved here last year.”
“I see. Well, I believe you when you say you’re lonely but I’m not sure I can help you. Maybe you should see a counselor at school.”
“I did that already,” Mark says with a nervous laugh. He may be desperate but I like this kid. “They suggested I talk to a matchmaker.”
“How’d you find us?”
“I Googled matchmakers and saw your website. I liked what you had to say, especially the part where you say your first priority is listening.” Guilty as charged. Sometimes, my clients don’t even need a mate. They need someone who’ll listen to them, who’ll instill in them a sense that they can be of value to someone. Mark claims to not know anyone here, so, in his mind, he probably feels like he has nothing to offer the populace. Still, I don’t think I can help this kid right now.
“Where do you live?” I say.
“Center City.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We live in a really old apartment on Chestnut, a couple blocks east of Broad Street.”
I look down in that direction. “You know, we’re a little busy this morning but, if you hurry, I have someone who might be able to meet with you.”
“Okay. Where are they?”
“She’s at Phil’s Coffee across from Reading Terminal Market.”
“Wow, that’s close. I can be there in like ten minutes.”
“Perfect. Her name’s Lindsay. You’ll like her. Look for the blonde in the flannel shirt.” Meeting Mark as the Bionic Woman instead of the white-collar worker should help give my encouragement more weight.
“Sweet. I’ll be there soon. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Although I think he lacks confidence, I find Mark far more endearing than Josh Jenner.
I hang up the phone, enter Phil’s, and sneak into the women’s restroom to change back into Lindsay Wagner. Doing so will also allow me to be lighter on my feet in case I need to run again.
I then think about what Hamilton said two days ago when we talked about shape shifting in public. If Superman had phone booths, I’ve been relegated to bathroom stalls. While more than a little annoying, my new life is nothing if not adventurous. It gives the concept of keeping me on my toes a whole new meaning.
Needing something to ward off my continuing lightheadedness, I buy an iced tea and look for a place to sit. I grab a seat at a small table next to a window and look out towards Twelfth Street; Reading Terminal Market’s Depression-era exterior beckons across the road.
Still no sign of any Agents of Influence. If they show up before Mark arrives, I’ll leave. If Mark gets here first, the driver will have to wait. I’m sure a fellow A of I would understand.
I take a deep breath and ingest the shop’s java-scented air as I take my phone out of my pocket and begin looking at my collection of pictures, most of which are of Ronni and me. Although my everyday phone was confiscated by the police, I’ve placed all my photos and their inherent memories on the cloud.
The photos begin to blur as I think about the state of my life right now. There was great promise to be had but it’s hard to focus on any of that with all that has occurred in the last twenty-four hours or so. I need to lay low until I hear from an Agent of Influence, though I’m not entirely sure I want to hear from them anymore. One thing is clear: the promise my life once had has now evaporated because of an ID card.
Jimenez still hasn’t called me back since my exposure at the Mint. Between the investigation and trying to find me a ride, it’s entirely possible that she’s just too busy to call me right now. Or, maybe I’m just saying that in order to quiet the voice inside my head that tells me that my exposure was no accident. Unfortunately, I have no other options. Running from everyone, including both agencies, would be fruitless.
Breaking out of my trance, I look up and see a lanky young man with long, wavy brown hair entering the coffee shop. Even though I’ve never seen him, I know it’s Mark. He has an acute case of acne and wears a Linkin Park T-shirt underneath a gray zip-up hooded sweatshirt. He sports a pair of faded jeans to go along with gray Vans sneakers.
I wave my flannel-sleeved arm to draw his attention. He nods and ignores the front counter as he heads in my direction. Wearing a nervous smile, Mark takes the seat across from me. Hopefully this freelance case subject will help me take my mind off my maddening reality.
“Hi, Mark,” I say, offering my outstretch hand. “I’m Lindsay.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking my hand without much conviction.
This is definitely not a trap.
I’m confident in my sexuality. As such, I have no qualms about saying that Mark strikes me as somewhat of an average boy. Not ugly, not leading man material, but … handsome … in a puppy dog kind of way. If his personality and confidence shine, however, I think he’d be quite the catch for someone.
“I’m sorry Calvin couldn’t meet with you,” I say. “He’s a little busy this morning.”
“Who?”
“Sorry. He’s our guy who usually works with men.”
“It’s fine.” Judging by Mark’s nervous grin, I gather that he’d prefer working with me instead of Calvin anyway.
“So, Calvin tells me you’ve been feeling lonely,” I say, moving my light brown hair out of my face. Earlier, I could have sworn my hair was dark blonde. Whatever.
“Yeah. I was kind of hoping you could help me with that.” Mark’s eye contact isn’t very good. I hope that’s just a matter of me intimidating him as opposed to an everyday social awkwardness.
“I have to be honest with you. You’re the youngest client our practice has ever had. I’m not sure if Calvin told you but most of our clients are spinsters, divorcees and widows.”
“Oh.”
“But, that doesn’t mean we can’t get you in our database.”
He shrugs. “Well, I don’t want to waste your time.”
“No. You won’t,” I say, taking a peek outside. “Can’t have a younger clientele without that first younger client, right?”
Mark nod
s his head.
“Tell me about yourself. What do you study?”
“Well,” he says with a nervous laugh again, “I’m a liberal studies major.”
“Okay. Tell me your three best qualities.”
The boy squirms in his seat and sighs.
“Mark,” I say in a softer tone, “part of my job is to sell you. I can’t do that if—”
“People say I’m sensitive.”
“Okay,” I say, looking outside before checking my hands again. “That’s a good start.”
“Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
“No. Not necessarily. Please, leave the questions to me.”
“Sorry,” Mark says with the sincerity of a first grader’s handmade Christmas card.
“It’s okay. What else?” I say, glancing at my hands again.
“I play the drums,” he says with another shrug. This is going to be tough.
“We’ll come back to that. You are straight, right?”
“You think I’m gay?”
“I’m just checking. We cater to that kind of clientele, too. Tell me about your dream girl.”
“Like, my real dream girl?”
“If you have one, sure. What’s her name?” I notice a police cruiser drifting down Twelfth Street.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You keep looking outside.”
“Oh,” I say, waving him off. “I just—what’s the girl’s name?”
“Maddy.”
“What’s she like?” I haven’t touched my tea since I sat down. I’d take a sip but I don’t want to look any more preoccupied than I already am.
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Mark says, looking off in the distance as though Maddy were actually standing behind me.
“How so?”
“I …” he says, still studying the imaginary girl. “She’s like an angel.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s just so kind. And drama-free. She’s never loud or mad or anything.”
“What’s she look like?” I glance outside and check my hands again.
Despite being so candid about Maddy’s personality, Mark tenses up here, mostly out of embarrassment, I’d guess.
“Her eyes are just … I don’t know. She’s got big beautiful brown eyes.”
“Yeah?”
“She makes me feel good about myself just by looking at me.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah. I guess it sounds kind of stupid.”
“No. Not at all.” That’s how I feel about Ronni’s smile. “You really like her, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Ever ask her out?”
“No.”
“Why?” I say checking my hands once again.
Mark looks through the window and then back behind me before taking a deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard for me.”
“If you like her, you should go after her.”
Mark shakes his head. “She won’t go out with me.”
“Why do you say that?”
Mark shrugs, looking down at the floor beside the table.
“She single?”
“Yeah.”
I scoff and give Mark a look of incredulity. “What are you waiting for, man?”
“Isn’t—isn’t that your job?”
“My job is to find you a match. I think we have one already.”
“She won’t go out with me, though.”
“How do you know?” I say, making sure I’m not disturbing the shop’s other patrons. “You haven’t even tried.”
Mark simply stares at his intertwined hands on the table.
“It must frustrate you that you haven’t asked her out.”
Mark nods, keeping his eyes on his hands.
“That’s probably why you won’t ask her out; you feel stupid because you think a better man would have asked her out by now.” I touched a nerve, I think. It’s something that needed to be said, though. He needs to be aware of the fact that the only person keeping him from at least asking Maddy out is himself. It’s a vicious cycle, one that will affect more than just his love life. “You might not have thought of it that way but I’m sure you agree with me.”
Mark nods his head.
“How do you know this girl?”
“She’s in my political science class. It’s a night class.”
“You sit next to her?”
“We’re study partners.”
I give him an impressed look. He’s done more groundwork than he knows. “Nice.”
“I guess. I think she just does it because I get good grades.”
“Wait. Do you have her phone number?”
Mark nods.
“Call her up.”
“Now?”
“Sure.”
“No way,” he says, shaking his head furiously. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” I chuckle at the expense of his fright. “You like her don’t you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I can’t.”
“Just try. We can go outside if you’d like. I’ll go with you.”
“No way.”
I glance to my right, through the café window, take a deep breath, and turn back to the boy with a sympathetic smile. “Look, I know you don’t think so, but I think you actually have something to offer a girl. If I were younger, I’d go for you,” I say, using every ounce of my feminine side. If a young Lindsay Wagner had confessed this to me when I was in college, I’d feel like Brad Pitt.
“Yeah, right,” he says.
“I’m serious. You’re a nice boy. Maddy would be extremely lucky to have you.” This part is true. I see a sort of vulnerability in Mark that most guys his age don’t have. If this Maddy knows what’s good for her, she’ll at least give him a chance. “Mark, remember what you told me about Maddy’s eyes? How they make you feel?”
“Yeah?”
“You have a chance to experience that every day, maybe for the rest of your life. How can you pass on that?”
“What if she says no?”
“Okay, how about this? If she says yes or no, you won’t owe me a cent but you have to call her right now. Otherwise, I hope you brought your mom’s credit card.” Mark finally makes solid eye contact with me as the terms of my offer swirl around in his head. “You might not know it but I took a huge risk coming out to see you.”
Mark furrows his brow. “Why? What risk?”
I ignore his question. “Mark, this goes a lot deeper for you than wanting a girlfriend. No one calls a matchmaker at eight in the morning.”
He averts his eyes.
“I’ve made you a good offer. Don’t disappoint me.”
He looks into my blue eyes once more before standing up, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out his cell phone. “I’ll be back,” he says, suddenly possessed by another, more confident boy.
“I’ll wait here.”
Mark turns around and walks away from the table with a newfound swagger. As he walks through the shop’s entrance, he passes a bearded man wearing a leather jacket.
I don’t know if Maddy will say yes but, suffice it to say, I certainly hope she does. Despite the deal I’ve made with Mark, I can only imagine one of two things happening if the girl says no. I’ll either incur his wrath for coercing him into embarrassing himself or he’ll melt like the Wicked Witch of the West in a shower of his own tears. Either way, Mark won’t see the true value in what I’ve told him.
I look straight ahead, out to where Mark paces about on the sidewalk, his phone up to his ear. We never really discussed what would happen if he got her voicemail. When it looks like Maddy has picked up, I look away and turn my attention back to the window at my side. I can’t bear to watch.
When I see my reflection in the window, I nearly swear out loud this time. To my surprise, my skin is no longer fair and my features are no longer feminine. Instead, I see the real me—th
e one who’s wanted for murder—dark skin; short, nappy hair; male features. I check the skin on my hands.
Dark.
I stand up and dash toward the entrance, leaving my iced tea at the table. I keep my head turned away from the coffee shop’s counter, which is where the bearded man that just entered is standing. I can only assume that he’s the one responsible for my unplanned transformation.
Swinging the door open, I let the mild spring air wash over me and brush past Mark, keeping my head down.
“Sure,” I hear him say, “Friday would be great.”
I stifle a grin as I cross Twelfth Street and head for Reading Terminal Market. Taking the place of Lindsay Wagner’s flannel shirt and jeans is my signature polo shirt and jeans combination, the same ensemble I wore yesterday.
Across the street now, I pull a door open and step inside the market. This is not your typical market. Although some of the vendors sell groceries, most of the vendors here sell deliciously indulgent fare—cheesesteaks, fried chicken, cakes, and pies. Thankfully, the breakfast crowd has dissipated, leaving a scattered mass of customers spread out across the vast warehouse.
Speed walking past an ice cream vendor, I spot a restroom and push its door open. Once inside, I find it free of any potential witnesses and relatively small with just three stalls and three sinks across from those stalls. I step into the stall furthest from the entrance and lock it.
Swoosh!
Before I leave the stall, my phone rings. It’s Jimenez.
“This better be good.”
“Where are you?”
“Where you told me to be.”
“Perfect.”
“What? What’s perfect?”
“Josh Jenner’s at The Gallery right now. He skipped school today.”
I shake my head. She didn’t just say what I think she just said, did she? “Wait, what? Elena, I’ve now been exposed three times and all in places you and your people told me to go. That’s not a very good percentage.”
“Those were mistakes. I didn’t know there’d be A of Js at those places.”
“Of course you didn’t. So, when’s someone coming to get me?”
“Soon,” she says. “I have one more interview to conduct.”
“Call another A of I, then.”
“It’s too risky. You need to be on the move right now, which is perfect because I need you to go to The Gallery.”
“Uh, no. No way.”
“Calvin, Josh is planning to kill himself.”
“Yeah, I know that already.”
“He’s planning to do it today.”
“Today? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Check the intelligence again.”
“I did.”
“All of it?”
“The intelligence isn’t wrong on this,” she says. “You have my word.”
I exhale loudly into the phone. “Fine. How should I proceed?”
“Start making your way to The Gallery. I’ll text you his exact location.”
“When should I engage?”
“Not immediately. But make sure he’s not left alone in a private place.”
“Like a restroom.”
“Right. It’ll be your call when to act. Just … don’t mess it up like you did last time.”
I roll my eyes. “How’s the investigation going?”
“So far? Inconclusive.”
I pound the stall’s door with my fist which, given a moment to think about it, is pointless. Even if they find out who set me up, there’s little the agency can do to clear my name without exposing itself.
“But by the time you’re done with Josh, I should be able to pick you up,” she says.
“Fine. Call me.”
Stepping out of the stall, I see an overweight, middle-aged white man in my reflection but I step back into the stall and lock its door.
I’ll need a new approach with Josh. It’s obvious from my failed encounter with him yesterday that he doesn’t respect females; I can’t go that route again. And, chances are, if he’s come all the way down to Center City to shop at The Gallery, he’s more of an urban kind of guy. I need to meet him at his level.
Swoosh!
I step out of the stall and study my reflection. This time, I’m a cartoonish black teenage male donning a fitted Yankees cap cocked to the side, baggy jeans sitting halfway down my ass, and a brown Sean John shirt about three sizes too large. Looking the part of this cliché won’t present the greatest of challenges. Acting the part, however, will be an entirely different story.
When I exit the bathroom, I begin to reflect on the events of the past three days and those that potentially lie ahead of me. If I save Josh, my faith in my new employer might be restored. If I don’t, I’ll have no choice but to view my life as the muddled mess that it has become.
For the moment, my role as an Agent of Influence hangs as a tissue-thin veil; one that hides the terrifying uncertainty that lies behind it.