Adventures in Babysitting

I need a fucking drink.

But since I was currently standing in a wet-walled sewer, looking at a man duct-taped to a folding metal chair, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply instead, an action which I immediately regretted. Almost as much as I regretted accepting taking on Frank for the summer.

“Frank, this is the wrong guy.”

“What? No, this is the guy, Zara.” Frank’s dark hair stood on end as if it were as surprised as he was. I rolled my eyes. Fucking amateur.

“Get rid of him so we can go get the actual guy.”

This guy, the wrong guy, wriggled in a way that was irritatingly reminiscent of a worm on a hook.

“Hurry up, Frank.” I spun on my heel, ignoring the fact that my white trousers were no doubt ruined after climbing down here, and walked out. “Next time, don’t bring a mark to the sewer. You’re not a cartoon villain.”

“Heroes live in sewers, too.” Frank’s voice echoed after me. I kept walking because if he referenced the Ninja Turtles, I was likely to snap the neck of the boss’s idiot nephew and find myself dead.

It’s just for the summer, I reminded myself. You’ll be one step closer to Gianni’s right hand after this. It worked for Sam last summer.

That was two months ago. In the intervening sixty-one days, Frank had learned absolutely nothing from my tutelage, for which I lay the blame solely at his moronic feet. Of course, my initial expectations had been too high. Frank, despite being twenty-two and the nephew of the most feared crime boss in the state, was utterly useless.

I had downgraded our training from basic intimidation and bribery to letting him tag along on my jobs, as long as he promised to keep his stupid mouth shut. This must be some sort of hazing before a big promotion, I reassured myself. One summer babysitting and then I’ll have an entire neighborhood to myself. Gianni has said for the past ten years I’m his most promising recruit. Frank is a stepping stone. This will all be worth it in the end.

“Go ahead, Frank, do the lock. Today’s your big day.” I waved a manicured hand at the courtroom door. After sixty-one days of failures, tonight was going to be my last night dealing with Frank. One grand success before he went back to college. I had arranged for the simplest of heists. All we had to do was grab some letters from the judge’s bench in courtroom 3B which made it clear that he had been taking bribes for years, thus giving our organization one more judge in our collective pocket. Easy peasy.

Obviously, I had dealt with the courthouse security system (while Frank breathed loudly into my ear) and the security guards (there was no point pretending that Frank would have been able to slip anything into their coffee discreetly). Surely, he could manage a simple lock. It had been the focus of our training for three torturous weeks, after all. After this glorious victory, he could tell Uncle Gianni that I had been a very good tutor and I would be free of him. I could see my future unfolding before me, beginning with Gianni finally granting me my own neighborhood, and I smiled despite how juvenile tonight’s activities were.

“Sure, I can do that.” Frank grinned at me, his dark eyes shining, and I gritted my teeth at the fact that he was only three years younger than me and would have a much higher position in the organization than I ever would through the sheer good luck of being the son of Gianni’s favorite sister.

“Well, do it, then.”

“Okay.” He held out his hand and it took every ounce of will power that I have ever possessed not to slap it away.

“Go on.”

“Sure. Gimme the tools.”

“What?” That all-too-familiar look of panic replaced Frank’s usual happy-go-lucky expression. Neither made me feel any less like strangling him.

“Pick the lock, Frank.”

“But-but I need tools.”

My foot started tapping against the linoleum floor entirely of its own accord.

“Frank, dear,” I said through gritted teeth. “They were on the list of things I texted you.” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s where we were in our dealings with Frank, nephew of the infamous Gianni Pagan. I was texting him packing lists for committing crimes.

“Nu-uh. I read that list three times.”

“Jesus wept, Frank.” I pulled out my phone and flicked to the damning text from last night. “Item number three: lock-picking tools. Why would we have been practicing picking locks for the last three weeks, if not to pick one tonight when we’re breaking into the courthouse?”

Frank paled further, but didn’t speak.

“You didn’t bring a backup?” He squeaked.

“No, Frank.” I inhaled deeply through my nose and counted backward from ten. “I told you, after last time, that I was done bringing back-ups for you. You’re going to have to remember to do this yourself. One day, I won’t be with you all the time.”

“You won’t?”

I leaned my forehead against the door frame. Breaking into this courtroom was the easiest thing I could think of. I could do this when I was fifteen. This should have been the grand finale to this summer of servitude; a triumph Frank could puff his downy little feathers about when he completed the far more important task of reminding Gianni of how essential I am to the organization. Or so I had thought.

“Give me your credit card, Frank.” I held my hand out without looking at him.

“Why? There’s nothing to buy in here.”

I did not hit him, but only because I valued keeping my head on my shoulders.

“Give me the card, Frank.” I didn’t open my eyes until I felt the weight of a card in my hand. “Now watch, because next time you have to do it all by yourself.” Frank’s head bobbed beside me and in fifteen seconds we were in the courtroom. There was no way he’d be able to replicate that process next time, but after tonight, that wouldn’t be my problem anymore. Summer was almost over.

When Frank appeared, delighted, six minutes later (six minutes, Jesus Christ), holding a short stack of documents, I only had to redirect him twice to get him out of the courthouse without setting off an alarm. Progress.

Two days later, I was summoned to Gianni’s pretentious, mahogany-and-leather office. Perfect. I completed my penance with Frank, and now I would get my own neighborhood, like Sam.

“Hi, Zara,” Frank grinned from beside Gianni’s impassive frame. “Uncle Gianni says I can skip fall semester and keep working with you.”

My stomach dropped out of my body entirely.

“You’ve always been my most promising recruit, Zara,” Gianni smiled serenely at me over his fat, steepled fingers. “You’ve done so well with Frankie. No one else has been so ambitious with his training. Perhaps this sort of thing takes a woman’s touch.” I considered shooting him for not the first time.

“Thank you.” I said instead.

Frank did not raise a celebratory glass of scotch to me, as I had naively expected. He did not offer any suggestion for a timeline on which I could expect to achieve the same success as Sam, for providing the same services. He simply smiled at me until I marched out the door with Frank close on my heels, like a puppy who had just been adopted. As soon as we were back on the sweltering street, drenched in late summer sunshine that made my hair stick to the back of my neck, I held out my hand without turning to look at him or slowing my pace. “Give me your credit card, Frank. I need a fucking drink.”