I Know What I'm Doing by Jen Kirkman Read Free Book Online Page B

said, “Take note, but not actually. Don’t write this down. Nothing goes in writing. Now, listen up. My partner and I will be on the southwest corner of Fifty-Fourth Street. He’ll be in a gray coat and blue dress shirt. I’ll be wearing a black suit and a tan trench coat.”
    I couldn’t get past the “southwest corner” part. I have NEVER been able to envision quickly NSEW in New York City. When the Twin Towers fell on 9/11 and people said things like “The North Tower just went down,” I had no idea which tower to mourn. I tried to fit in by saying things like, “What a tragedy, all of the officers at the longitude who didn’t have to be at the latitude that day.” Even as a New Yorker in her third year of living there in 2001, I’d get turned around when walking down Sixth Avenue and would have to ask people, “Which way is Lexington Avenue? Don’t say a direction. Say left or right. Oh, never mind. Just point. Just turn me around like a child in front of a piñata and tell me where to swing.”
    I confessed to Henry, “I’m sorry. I don’t comprehend directions. Can you stand somewhere that I don’t have to find with a compass?”
    I was five minutes early and I knew (or I thought I knew) that our operation was all about precision. I met Henry inside of a bodega per his instructions and while I was buying a cup of coffee I recognized him standing by the newspapers. I ran right up. “Hey. Henry?” He looked through me—like an ex-boyfriend with his new wife. He exited the bodega and even though I’m horrible with directions I’m great with subtle cues. I followed. He picked up a newspaper from a stand outside and put it to his face. He nodded at me to do the same. I did, dropping a magazine insert from the New York Times to the ground. Damn it, I should have grabbed the Post.
    Henry whispered as we both held the newspapers up to our faces. “Don’t look in my direction. I’m going around the block. Do NOT act like you know me. Walk behind me. But don’t look like you’re following me.”
    I whispered over the sounds of an ambulance, “But am I still meeting you outside of Radio City Music Hall?”
    “Yes, but we can’t be seen together and when you get to Radio City just stand there. I will be in the lobby pretending to read a brochure.”
    “Are you guys famous detectives or something? How would my burglar know you?”
    “You never know who knows what.”
    You can say that again. Right now some random guy from Queens knew everything that I had texted in the last twenty-four hours to a curly-haired divorcé named Kevin.
    I stood outside of RCMH. Henry was inside pretending to be interested in that year’s upcoming events in the brochure and Undercover Cop #2 was across the street on the corner. Nobody else was around so we were in the clear. Henry loudly whispered to me, “Hey. Just to let you know. When José approaches you and asks you for the five thousand dollars, pretend to be about to give it to him and as you reach into your pocket with one hand throw your beret in the air with the other.”
    I tried to find Henry’s face as he talked to me. He got snippy. “Hey, don’t look in my general direction as you talk to me. Turn around and pretend you’re looking up at the sky when you talk.” Oh yeah, that’ll look normal.
    I was wearing a beret and I had just been instructed, like some seedy Mary Tyler Moore alternate cold open sequence, to take my hat off my head and throw it in the air when the man who stole my BlackBerry tried to shake me down for money. The hat would signal Henry inside to come and cuff José and then Undercover Cop #2, whom I really hadn’t had the chance to get to know as well, would cross the street and join us for backup on the west, east, whatever corner.
    Four o’clock. No sign of José. Fifteen more minutes passed and still no sign of José. I thought of José’s full voice mail. I was confused. He was the one who had been so clear about me not