The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description (22 page)

I looked up at my window and saw a smiling Angie looking
down at me. Some of the onlookers started clapping, and I waved meekly and
pushed my way through. I shut the door behind me without uttering a word and
trudged up the stairs back to my place.

Angie looked at me, shook her head, hugged me, and then
showed me the messages. Seven from my parents. Nine from various friends.
Twelve from well-known reporters. Three from police. And thirty-two from
literary agents, who all said they were calling to compliment me on my
exoneration but mainly to leave their numbers and hope I’d return their call.

D
oes your life return to normal? No.
Not right away, anyway. My parents bailed me out of jail, and I later made a
plea to avoid jail time. That may have been the final Norris miracle.

I obviously resigned my internship, and I still had daily
dealings with cops, agents, and publishers, and I even had to testify before
the Senate. I got a book deal, but practically all of the money went to pay CNN
for the damage I had done to their lobby. I did get to keep my movie deal
money, though.

I’m also having my agent look at potential deals for
Tabitha, something so she could get away from all of this. Of course, that
would mean having to live the rest of her life as a famous ex-prostitute, which
is something I doubt she wants. But she and I are having lunch tomorrow, and
I’m going to have my agent drop by and tell her what he’s come up with.

And if she doesn’t want to write a book or make a movie,
I’ve decided I’m going to split what loot I made off of all this with her. I
would not be writing anything if it weren’t for her, and she did as much to get
me vindicated as I did. The only difference was, her face and name weren’t
plastered all over creation like mine were. And I’ve decided I’m going to make
her take it, one way or another. It would be more than enough to get her out of
her mess and go straight. I’m sure that’s harder than it sounds, but Tabitha’s
strong.

As for my future, I’m deciding whether to look at bigger
apartments or move out of this hellhole city as we speak. Angie’s moving too,
probably in with her boyfriend. Our landlord doesn’t exactly like us.

And the decision of staying or going will probably depend on
Stephanie. It’s been weeks, and I haven’t talked to her, but I haven’t tried.
I’ve just tried to give her some space, but I’m planning on calling her
tonight. Tabitha thinks Stephanie would like to talk with me, but I’m not so
sure. It’s a lot to deal with, regardless of whether I did it or not.

So I guess my life is gradually returning to normal.
There’ll be a book tour when this comes out, and I’ve been asked to speak at
some colleges in the spring about the media, fame, and other stuff. Already it
seems that each day fewer people recognize me, because I’ve been supplanted by
new crazies in other locales. My agent says I shouldn’t expect any speaking
engagements after the spring—maybe some when the movie comes out, but even
that’s doubtful—because I’ll be history, not news.

That’s okay by me. It’s not easy being news, especially the
kind of news I was. And history has a nice ring to it.

I’ll survive.

Almost exactly a year ago,
The Intern
came out as an
e-book. It had been gathering electronic dust in my computer, and the one thing
I thought it had against it initially—how long ago it had been written—now
seemed almost quaint: an era when we weren’t attached to our phones, because
they were actually attached to the wall. It seemed almost painful to see some
of the things transpire—modems and dialing and all—and the whole thing seemed
like a different world.

With some prodding from my long-time friend Liz Giordano and
a half-dozen hours of watching Smashwords tutorials online, I decided to take
the plunge. If I wasn’t a Smashwords convert then, I sure am now and want to
thank Smashwords founder, Mark Coker, for being a great and honorable man who
is changing the publishing industry for the better. Mark introduced me to Rick
and Amy Miles, great publicists, who introduced me to Italia Gandolfo, part
mother hen, part fantastic agent. She led me to Vesuvian, and they now lead me
to you.

This book has opened doors like you wouldn’t believe. It’s
been downloaded almost 200,000 times and introduced me to a wonderful woman
from my past who has recaptured my heart.

Thank you to LK Griffie, Stacey Rourke, all of the early
readers of
The Intern
, all of those who encouraged me along the way, and
thank you to my three wonderful kids, Mary, Sara, and Matt who are just the
best, funniest, coolest kids ever.

This journey has been a roller coaster ride. Hope you enjoy
your journey with it as well.

Author

D
ale Wiley has had a character named after
him on CSI, owned a record label, been interviewed by Bob Edwards on NPR’s
Morning Edition and made motorcycles for Merle Haggard and John Paul DeJoria.
He has three awesome kids and spends his days working as a lawyer fighting the
big banks.

Check Dale’s site at
http://www.dalewiley.com/
for updates
and details.

Preview Sabotage
—an action thriller by
Dale Wiley.

Explosions rock America. No rhyme or reason to where they
appear. No one is safe: Not disgraced FBI agent Grant, not rapper Pal Joey, not
Sin City party girl Caitlin, not even Naseem, the would-be martyr who now finds
himself double-crossed. As an unhinged mastermind paralyzes a nation, can four
people, united only by their hatred of this strange enemy, finally stop
Sabotage?

Sabotage

Chapter One

The money, all forty thousand dollars, was lined up all out
on the counter when Seth got there.

It might as well have been a million to Seth. He was used to
big deals, but that was when the economy was good and people threw money around
for fun. He did too, back then. Then everything changed and the money people,
even in Vegas, went into their holes and stopped sharing. This was important
and different and better. And it came at the right time, too.

The deal worked like this: He got to leave with half the
cash right then. Twenty thousand dollars. He rented a safe-deposit box to keep
it in; that was the first time he had been in a bank in years. Yes, this was
risky, but he got to leave with that unthinkable amount of money. This morning.
He would spend one hour on a plane, then he was done. Pretty much, anyway. And
the rest of the money? His before nightfall.

He stood on the thirty-fourth floor of the Trump Tower, one
of the newer and more impressive addresses in Las Vegas. It was seven a.m. The
sky was a warm yellow and promised heat, like almost every day in Vegas. But he
didn’t get to see it much, not like this anyway. He couldn't remember when he
had last been awake at this hour of the morning. Check that: When he had woken
up at this time. In a town like Vegas, you often went down when the sun came
up. Normally he was either rolling in about now, or sleeping off the
aftereffects of a long night. But an early morning was what the job required,
and Seth desperately needed this.

He had been to this apartment several times before. He was
initially wary of his benefactor’s strange behavior, aloof and put-on, far from
the passionate pawing of his other suitors, but he began to understand. He felt
sure he was hired because he looked so much like the man who paid him so well
to come and visit. It was uncanny. His own skin was a shade darker than his
doppelganger, but both men were handsome, around six feet tall, dark complexion
and dark hair. Both men had light eyes. Twice on his visits the doorman smiled
at him as if he were the building’s resident. It took some getting used to, to
sit across from yourself and talk, but Seth got used to things very quickly.

Seth was an escort, a plaything. He liked his job most of
the time, but it led him into odd circumstances. Men paying to suck his toes.
Men wanting to cut his hair. He still wasn’t fully sure what to make of the
quiet man who brought him here, to his apartment. Most other men desired Seth’s
body, wanted to devour him, to come out of the closet in Vegas before stepping
back in and heading home, or to add him to their strange Vegas menagerie. Not
Yankee. He told him he just wanted companionship, conversation, just like the
ad on Seth’s Website said. No sex, no toe-sucking. Seth wondered if Yankee
liked the idea of talking to himself, given their similarity in appearance.

Yankee’s apartment, where they always met, was big and
somewhat bland, looking and feeling more like a nice big hotel suite than a
real place where someone lived. Most of the men who lived in Vegas and invited
him to their place loved to show off expansive and well-decorated homes, with
Rothkos and Hockneys and other tasteful artists. The rest were festive and
overdone palaces straight out of a Fellini film. Yankee’s place felt like the
junior suite at the nicest hotel in town, but nothing more. It featured maid
service and a kitchen that looked like no one ever cooked there. Seth walked by
the kitchen every time he walked in, and he always took a longing look inside.
Seth, who was a good and thoughtful cook, hated to see such a wonderful space
wasted by someone who didn’t appreciate or have time for it. He wondered how
much time Yankee actually spent here.

After the third visit, when Yankee said he knew him well
enough, he asked Seth if he would be interested in a big job. Not just a
thousand dollars here and there, but a score. Yankee told him he looked into
his background—or what he thought he knew of it—and felt he could be trusted.
He also knew from his profession he long ago lost his tendency to gag.

Yankee looked at him seriously. Are you interested? I
understand if you’re not. But of course Seth was interested. He occasionally
made good money, but there were all of the craps tables and party drugs to
think about. Seth wanted to have a nest egg. He nodded, and waited for what
Yankee would say.

Just swallow three condoms, filled with drugs. Take a one
hour flight. Take some laxatives and release. Make twenty thousand upon
swallowing, twenty thousand upon releasing the packages back to the owners.
Some chance of death, some chance of prison. But, as he saw it, Seth dealt with
those risks every day he sold himself in Las Vegas, and for a much smaller
return.

He was nervous. He sat on the stiff leather couch, which it
seemed like no one ever sat on, knowing Yankee would appear after what seemed
like an eternity. This was his way. Seth sat and looked at the money.

He thought about just taking the money, grabbing the first
elevator and praying for ground, but he looked around and once again sensed he
was being watched. He knew there was another entrance to this apartment, and he
didn’t know whether Yankee was already here or coming through that entrance.
But he knew enough to be sure he didn’t want to cross this man. Despite his
kindness, Seth knew Yankee could be cruel, all without losing his quiet
demeanor. There was always a chance that a condom would rupture in his stomach
during his flight, or he would get caught by officers waiting in Los Angeles,
but that risk was nothing compared to dashing away with the money. He assumed
that indiscretion would assure an all-but-certain death. And though he might
say in a fit of boy-induced drama that sometimes he wished he would die, he
really didn’t. He wanted this to go well, and he wanted to pocket the rewards.

Seth wondered if you could see his thoughts on the
surveillance screen. He didn’t want to give anything away. He didn’t want to
risk Yankee pulling back. He went back to thinking like a mule. That was what
this job required. And if he got paid this well, he would think like a mule,
act like a mule, be a mule.

Finally, some fifteen minutes later, give or take, in came
Yankee. He kissed Seth gently on the cheek as he always did. This was their
only physical contact.

“Big day!” said Yankee in an overly fey manner. Seth knew he
wasn’t gay. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” said Seth, who had been anticipating this for
weeks.

“Well, they’re in the fridge.” Yankee went and opened the
refrigerator and took out a plate with three pink condoms on it. “I put some
strawberry jam on them,” Yankee said. “I knew that was your fave.”

The condoms were filled with a gelatinous substance. They
were the size of small bananas, but not difficult to get down. At the last
visit, they practiced swallowing some condoms close to this size with a similar
liquid. They timed how long it took them to come out: two and a half hours.
Yankee paid him double for that session.

Yankee assured him that these were double-bagged. Seth
smiled, and said, “Down the hatch.” He opened up the back of his throat and
swallowed the three packages easily, followed by lots of water.