Endgame Novella #2 by James Frey Page B

piece of cake.
    Maccabee and Jason are polite strangers. They rarely speak, never interfere in each other’s business. But Maccabee has a tap on Jason’s phone and knows exactly where and when the boy plans to meet his mother. He knows Jason’s schedule inside and out, and knows that after hockey practice and before dinner he will stop back in the room to slurp a shot of vodka. Maccabee dissolves a handful of valium in the bottle of Belvedere, and then waits.
    Soon Jason is passed out and drooling on their floor—he’s woken upthat way plenty of times before, and will think nothing of it.
    Maccabee slips into his favorite charcoal-gray suit and slips a pale blue silk handkerchief into his pocket. He slicks back his thick, wavy hair and grins at himself in the mirror.
    Irresistible.
    He finds a place at the hotel bar, sipping ginger ale from a crystal tumbler—he can’t afford to cloud his head with alcohol, but the soda looks enough like whiskey to pass. He makes idle small talk with the bartender, admires the mahogany bar and its array of top-shelf liquors, pretends to be engaged by important business on his tablet. And all the while, he watches her.
    Serena Porter sips her Scotch, checks her watch, checks her phone, stares into space for a few moments as if forcing herself to be still, sips her drink again, then gives in, checks her watch, and on and on. Her expression never changes, but Maccabee is an expert student of body language. He can see it in her tight grip on the glass, the tremble of her finger on the phone, the firm set of her lips: She knows her son isn’t coming.
    She half expected it.
    Maccabee bides his time, waiting for the perfect moment. After she’s accepted that the evening is a lost cause—before she gives up on the night and retreats to her room for more lonely hours in front of a computer screen. In between, there’s a sweet spot, when she will long for him without even knowing he exists.
    He waits for it.
    A sip of Scotch, she checks her watch, and then—she puts her phone away. This is defeat.
    Maccabee makes his move.
    â€œSend the lady at the end of the bar a glass of the 55-year-old Macallan, on me,” he tells the bartender. Priced at $600 a glass in Serena’s home currency, the drink will show he means business. First-class business. “Tell her it’s better than the swill she’s drinking.”
    He watches as his command is carried out, sees Serena’s thoughtsflicker across her face as clearly as if they were spelled out for him in cartoon bubbles. She should not engage; she should go back to the room, answer her emails, leave a stern voice mail for her son, go to sleep.
    She picks up the glass of Scotch and slides into the seat beside him.
    â€œWhat makes you so sure I’m drinking swill?” she says.
    He smiles, though not too broadly. A woman like Serena will want a bit of a challenge. “Everything is swill, compared to this. Trust me.”
    â€œYou have me confused with another kind of woman,” she says.
    â€œYou don’t trust people?”
    â€œCertainly not strangers.”
    â€œCertainly not anyone, I’m guessing.”
    That earns him a cool smile of reappraisal. She won’t want a pretty face with an empty head; that’s not her type. Even for an ill-conceived one-night rendezvous, she’s the kind to want an equal. He can lower himself just enough to make it appear he is one.
    She sips the Macallan. And, though she tries to hold it in, a small sigh of pleasure escapes her lips.
    â€œA gentleman never says I told you so ,” he says.
    She turns to face him, boldly meeting his gaze for the first time. She looks good for her age—good for any age. Her long, black hair falls in soft, refined waves. It reminds him of pictures he’s seen of his mother, before he was born and she let herself gray. “You, on the other hand . . .”
    He laughs. “I did tell