The New Job - 8

Her face doesn’t fit.

The fake Carmella’s, that is. This isn’t exactly surprising, given that it will have been created to fit exactly over my unconscious friend’s face. Still, it worries me. Looking at the slightly misshapen, slightly ill-fitting face I now wear in the mirror, I know it’s not going to pass a close inspection. Heck, even talking to anyone would be a bad idea. Still, the attached wig helps, and the general contours are correct. If I don’t look anyone in the eye, I’ll probably be okay.

Probably.

“Are you getting all of this?”

I turn slightly to let my lapel cam see my new look via the mirror. No reply. No sarcasm. No clipped tones.

“Hello? You did notice that Gagliardi’s assistant is also in a mask, right? Meaning that this isn’t a solo job. Which also means it’s not likely to be a contractor. Get it?”

I hear a faint click. “Yes. We get it. We’re evaluating,” my disembodied female handler tells me.

“Oh, great. I look forward to the slide deck.”

“In the meantime,” she continues, “we approve of the current course of action.”

“I’m so glad.”

Considering even I barely know what the current course of action is, that’s a neat trick.

Well, step one was ‘borrow previously unknown infiltrator’s face’. Step two…use the face. Step three, profit?

Let’s go with step two. I shrug, smooth down my new skirt, and set my course for the upstairs floor.

I exit, closing my office door as quietly and slowly as I can, despite the only occupant being unconscious under my desk. Carmella (the real one, or at least, whoever was pretending to be her) is bound hand and foot, with her mouth sealed by a big strip of duct tape. I’d been sort of surprised to find tape like that in the stationery closet. It was practically a kidnapper’s toolkit in there.

I figure with how hard I hit her and the shallow level of her breathing, I have less than twenty minutes or so before she comes to and starts screaming. If I’m lucky I’ll have completed my plan by then.

My plan? Make that “My complete lack of plan”.

Inside the case I’m holding is another face. Gagliardi’s face. It’ll fit a hell of a lot better than the one I’m wearing now, which is a good start. I’ve packed gloves to match as well, which I’ll need, as Gagliardi’s skin tone doesn’t match Amaira’s. Nor does Carmella’s, but she was wearing gloves too. They actually don’t fit too great along my forearms, but rolled down a bit, they manage to stay on.

All of this means in theory, head to toe, I’m roughly Carmella’s double right now. As long as I don’t have to look at anyone, I think I can do the voice.

The elevator doors ahead of me beckon. Except there’s a new hurdle: a new goon, not the same one that was outside here when I came by yesterday. Yesterday I also had the benefit of being new, so Amaira could pass by this guy with little to no comment. He has to know this face though, albeit in less wrinkled, used form.

I keep my head angled down as I approach, not meeting his eyes. He turns and presses the elevator call button, clearly recognizing me as Carmella even from her silhouette.

The elevator arrives. I’m maybe twenty feet away. “Hey,” he says in a bass grunt as the elevator doors open.

I mumble my reply, but keep my eyes low, walking purposefully past him. You’d be surprised how often that works.

I step into the elevator and he says nothing.

I reach for the floor button and he says nothing.

I press it the floor button - and he turns, stopping the door dead, staring at me. I recoil slightly, feeling his eyes boring into my head. I have no idea what he saw, what tipped him off, but my entire body is tense, ready.

“Did Ms Gagliardi make a decision about the holiday party?”

“Uh,” I say, hoping to approximate Carmella’s voice. “What decision?”

“About plus ones. My boyfriend wants to come.”

Ignoring the sudden image of this guy holding hands with some other man-mountain in a farmer’s market on Sundays, I think for a second then say “Not yet, no.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I swear his head tilts a little to look at me funny - but then he shrugs, removes his arm, the elevator doors close and I breathe.

///

The camera’s eye is on me as I approach the door.

And suddenly I remember, Carmella didn’t knock to enter. She just looked at the camera.

Are we talking automated facial recognition, or a check by a human, ie Gagliardi? I figure my ill-fitting face might be able to fool a computer, but maybe not my target. Unless they’re using a crappy camera. And that does not look like the case.

As I approach I keep my head down slightly, thinking over my options, weighing the possibilities. Armed goons springing from the walls? Gagliardi attacking me the second I open the door? Or option C, all of the above?

It’s not like I have a real choice. This is currently my only plan for getting into her office. Everything else is just improvisation.

I pause at the door. Count to three. And turn to look up at the camera. I don’t smile, don’t even move. Maybe the mask will freeze in place like a picture. Maybe I should have printed a picture and just held it up.

The door doesn’t open. I keep counting. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Calling all goons….

Then the door swings open just as it did before, silently. My head goes back down and I step in, turning my back immediately to close the door. Even though it likely doesn’t need it, I’m trying to give myself a few more seconds before the jig is inevitably up.

“I don’t see my coffee order,” I hear her say behind me.

I’m wondering how Carmella might respond when I hear a distinctive thibt and throw myself to one side before I can think, sudden movement making Carmella’s face shift over mine, half-obscuring my vision. I hear the dart thud into the leather of the door where my back was, tuck and roll, come up fast, nervous energy driving me forward. I dive across the desk, suitcase extended like a battering ram.

She doesn’t expect that, and I hear a grunt as the case digs in, then a cry of pain as we go down, legs flailing, shoes flying.

I’m on top of her, fist drawing back, view still suboptimal - all I have to do is aim straight - but my side implodes, her fist faster than mine. She follows with the other hand, open palm, a stinging slap that pulls the mask further across my face, any pretense at being Carmella gone now.

Both of my palms slap together, my fingers interlace and I raise up like I’m plunging a stake into a vampire, a haymaker that crashes down into her crossed arms, barely effective. She can fight - but then so can I, at least when I’m not half-blind.

She throws me aside, her strength surprising. My delicate female legs flail in the air but I tuck again, hand clawing at my face, desperate for some tactical advantage. Carmella’s face and hair are ripped away, revealing her attacker is (gasp) the new hire, but Gagliardi doesn’t look like she cares. Half-crouched, a snake ready to pounce, she moves in front of her desk and grabs at something in front of her.

It gleams for a split second - who uses, or even has, a letter opener these days - and I barely have time to spin, pulling her office chair in front of me before the improvised shiv pierces the leather. She grunts in annoyance as I spin the chair back, ripping the letter opener from her hand.

I need room, so back up, look for weaponry and find none. She’s feral now, teeth bared, coming at me across the desk, one foot planting, leaping towards me. Aikido training kicks in as I grab her in mid-flight, redirect and watch as she crashes into the rear wall, denting plasterboard, ruining something framed.

She’s splayed out, upside down. My leg swings, heel catching her across the forehead, and she slumps.

I give myself three seconds to breathe, then bend down and check her pulse. It’s slowing. She’s out.

“That’s for making your assistant fetch coffee,” I mutter.

“Good work,” the voice in my ear suddenly says, nearly making me piss my panties.

“Couldn’t have done it without you. She’s tougher than she looks. Which reminds me.”

My kick hasn’t just knocked her out, it’s split her face, a rip across the forehead and down near one eye. I drag her body from the wall, bend down and pick at the rest of the mask, stripping it off unceremoniously.

A man’s face, sallow and drawn like my own, rolls into view.

“Getting this?” I check my newly positioned lapel cam, clipped now to Carmella’s jacket.

“Yeah. Turn his head.” I do, so they have a straight-on view. “Checking.”

As they work, I hunt for my own ex-face. Carmella is crumpled in a heap near the door. When I pick it up, it’s obvious it’s ruined; I pulled it off so fast it’s ripped. Luckily, I’ve still got Gagliardi as an option.

“I’m gonna change,” I say. “No peeking, sir.”

Before I do anything else, I need to make sure my dance partner doesn’t come to without restraints being in place. Unlike my previous closet find, there’s no duct tape to hand, but that’s okay, as I’m covered in disposable clothing. I pull off Carmella’s jacket and that schoolmarm of a blouse, happy to tear it into strips.

“Wait,” the voice in my ear says. She actually sounds a little concerned. “Hold off on that. Might need it.”

“Ah, fuck. You can’t think we can pull a Marilyn with this guy.”

The silence makes it obvious that’s exactly what they think.

“I can put him in Carmella’s clothes,” I point out, “but the mask is screwed. Our gatekeeper downstairs might not be the most observant but I think he’ll notice that. Especially when she’ll be unconscious, to boot.”

While I’m waiting for any sort of response, I ditch the rest of my Carmella outfit and start stripping my crossdressing friend. Beneath ‘her’ jacket and blouse I find a breastplate that’s designed for form rather than function. I feel weirdly proud that I could easily pass if we both had to strip off. Beneath the skirt, hose and panties he’s also got on I find a gaff holding Mr Pickle in place. It’s practically amateur night.

“We’ve got a hit,” the voice in my ear says.

“Oh yeah? I’ve got a dick. Tell me.”

“He isn’t a freelancer. Or agency.”

I hold ‘her’ shoes up, checking her size, whether I can fit. “What, then?”

“He’s connected,” my disembodied boss continues. “Mid-level in the Morelli family.”

The shoe is squeezed tight in my grip as I grit my teeth.

“You have to be fucking with me right now,” I say. “You cannot be telling me what you’re telling me.”

“I am telling you exactly what I’m telling you.”

“He’s not connected to the Gagliardi family. At all. He’s not a freelancer. He’s a fucking capo in the other family that owns this city? That’s what I’m hearing?”

“Correct. And our guess is, we just stumbled into their war.”

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