Free JM01 - Black Maps by Peter Spiegelman

either.
    My older sister, Liz, had also phoned, to invite me to Thanksgiving with the family. She and Lauren had a good cop–bad cop thing going, and Liz was definitely the bad cop. The thrust of her argument, delivered in her tight-jawed, nasal drawl, was that if I didn’t come I’d be running true to my usual asshole form, so why didn’t I just surprise everyone and show up. She added at the end of her message that it had been too long since she’d seen me. That last bit must have been an effort for her. Liz is many things—smart, tough, acerbic—but nice is not one of them.
    I had no call back from Tom Neary, so I left another message on his voice mail and went for a workout—a five-mile run and some weights at the gym on Fourteenth Street. I was back in less than two hours, just in time to miss Neary’s call. He was having dinner at an Indian restaurant downtown at seven, his message said; I could join him there if I wanted. I showered, dressed, and walked to the subway.
    Taking Tiger Mountain is a few blocks from city hall, and close to the Brill offices. It’s a small, dimly lit place, with walls the color of paprika, and chairs and tables the color of saffron. I got there just after seven and it was still pretty empty, but even if it had been packed, it would have been hard to miss Tom Neary.
    Neary is big—around six foot four and two hundred fifty pounds— like a refrigerator in a dark suit and tie. The feds who’d worked with him in Utica had called him Clark Kent. When I’d first heard it, I figured it was because of his looks—the dark, wavy hair, the chiseled features, the horn-rimmed specs—and the earnest, Eagle Scout quality he projects. As I’d gotten to know Neary better, I’d seen the subversive secret identity behind the mild exterior—the ironic sense of humor, the independent streak, the disdain for pompous authority—and I’d thought the nickname even more apt. That independence, along with his smarts and his basic sense of fairness, had made it hard for him to find much peace with the FBI. I’d seen that firsthand, upstate. He had treated me decently at a time when it would’ve been easier for him not to, and he’d caught hell as a result.
    In some respects I knew Neary well, but there was a lot I still didn’t know. I knew he was married, but I didn’t know his wife’s name. I knew he had kids, but not how many, or how old, or what kind. I knew he lived in Jersey, but I didn’t know the town. One thing I did know, from years back, was that he loved good food—foreign food especially. And after years in the culinary wilderness of Utica, Neary had come to the Promised Land.
    He was sitting alone at a table for four, poring over the menu like it was a holy text. His suit jacket was on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his big forearms. I took the seat across from him. He gave me a hand like a porterhouse and we shook. The waiter took my order for a cranberry juice. Neary was working on a ginger ale and ordered a backup.
    “Cheap dates, huh?” he said, smiling. “But you’re still living healthy, that’s good.”
    “Have you ordered yet?” I asked.
    “Just bread.” He pointed to a basket of naan, plates of stuffed roti and puri and small bowls of various chutneys. “I’m thinking about a tandoori,” he said.
    I took a piece of naan from the basket where it lay wrapped in a white cloth napkin, and bit into it. It was warm and a little spicy. Delicious. The warm bread and the riot of cooking smells coming from the kitchen spoke to my stomach, and my stomach answered back. I scanned the menu.
    The waiter returned with our drinks and we ordered, then Neary sighed and turned his attention to me.
    “Life still good in the private sector?” I asked.
    “Life is busier than hell. It seems like every client I’ve got wants their security procedures overhauled, or their management vetted, or needs a few dozen investigators to help out on their