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the cash kept coming. He billed a grand per eight-hour day and had steady gigs that kept him busy three to four days a week, so while he certainly wasn’t building an empire, he had adequate walking around money to keep himself in a nice lifestyle. Some day, he was going to finish his great American novel, but for now, he was more focused on his daily grind, which this morning involved meeting some visiting businessmen at JFK and playing tour guide/concierge, hopefully keeping them out of jail, the morgue, or the papers for the three days they were in town.
    That wasn’t as easy as it sounded. These gentlemen were on a combination business/pleasure junket from Turkey and likely couldn’t wait to begin the boozing and whoring to which many of his international clients were inevitably drawn.
    Michael washed down an English muffin with an oversized cup of coffee and watched CNN to keep track of the world’s latest horrors and atrocities. The talking heads always seemed so earnest, and a part of him absently wondered whether they prayed every morning for a war to start, or a plane to crash, or a school bus full of children to be held hostage. Chewing the remains of his breakfast, he pondered what got someone interested in being a newscaster. Were they failed actors? Did they bomb Off-Broadway and this was their big break, or at least a steady pay check? Or was this their dream? Were there really children out there who didn’t want to be firemen or astronauts, but instead wanted to be pseudo-reporters reading earnestly from a teleprompter? He didn’t get it, but then again, there was a whole world of things Michael didn’t get.
    A story about a boat explosion at the mouth of the Hudson caught his attention, but after a few moments watching the vapid coverage his eyes drifted away from the screen and to his computer; he had no interest in listening to the perkily earnest reporter try to make an engine fire sound riveting.
    Michael checked the time and realized he was dawdling. Forcing himself into action, he assembled his daily inventory of necessities on his small dining room table – Blackberry, permit to carry, Glock with extra magazine, money clip with two grand in hundreds, driver’s license, PI license, business cards held together with a worn rubber band, and black Amex card in his company’s name. He ticked the items off his mental checklist by habit.
    All there, present and accounted for.
    Satisfied he hadn’t forgotten anything, he switched off the television and grabbed his gear, stuffing it into various and sundry pockets. Now properly equipped, he checked his appearance one last time in the full-length mirror by the front door; a vanity a long-departed aspiring model girlfriend had insisted upon as a requirement for regular feedback of her charms. Michael looked competent, alert, and completely average, which was exactly the effect he strove for. The loose cut of his hand-tailored gray suit hid the bulge from the shoulder holster. He was indistinguishable from the legions of nondescript businessmen thronging the streets of Manhattan.
    His pocket vibrated as he received the text message from Aldous, the 300-pound Haitian driver he used for these types of pick-ups, informing Michael that the car was rounding the corner and would be in front of his building within sixty seconds.
    Michael shut off the lights, double-locked the front door, and quickly descended the two flights of stairs to the street, humming to himself as he approached the waiting limo.
    Life was pretty good, all things considered. At least he wasn’t breaking up bar fights at four a.m. like some of his peers from the service did to make ends meet now they were private citizens again. If wearing a monkey suit and treating some wonk from a refinery in lower Killdickistan like a visiting head of state was what it took to pay the rent, hey, there were worse alternatives: he could be a pimp, or, God forbid, a lawyer.
    Michael smiled for the first