Hench Read online

  “Data entry’s less risky,” June said, scanning the laminated menu.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t mind a bit of risk.”

  She flicked her eyes up at me. I was as surprised as she was. “That’s new. Growing a spine?”

  “No, just getting bored.”

  She made a noncommittal sound. I looked back outside at Greg’s impatient, pleading face. He caught my eye and mimed shooting himself in the head, his first two fingers pointed to his temple.

  “You like being bored, though,” June said. “I think it would stress you the fuck out.”

  “Probably.” But I felt a little deflated.

  She raised a pointed finger. “But, if you want some on-site work, I’ll refer you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Think about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Want to make fun of dudes on Tinder until Greg comes back?”

  I grinned. “Yeah.”

  I sidled closer to June and she unlocked her phone.

  “He looks like he was just arrested for shitting himself at a Denny’s.”

  “He looks like a bear in a kids’ show who is also a cop.”

  “He looks like a Muppet who is here to teach me about sharing.”

  We were cackling by the time The Hood mercifully let Greg off the phone and he bumbled in, stomping his feet in the doorway to warm up.

  “His ferret chewed through the fucking cable, I swear to Christ,” Greg snarled, swinging himself into the booth. I inhaled some of my coffee and June had to pound me on the back to keep me from choking.

  HOURS LATER, WEARING stained track pants and nested into an afghan, I logged in to the Electrophorous Industries website and started working.

  I fell into the easy rhythm of updating the spreadsheets in front of me, sorting and tidying the data. There could be something satisfying, almost trancelike, about ordering the columns and rows. I wasn’t able to hit that meditative place, though; I tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering back to my surprising assertion I was bored, and June’s offer to help me make the move to on-site work. I tried to pick apart if I had meant what I said, and it was like a dull, annoying buzz in my brain over the hum of the data.

  I got up and stretched, carrying my laptop and afghan over to my desk, hoping the change of view would help me focus.

  I rarely knew what I was working on when I got the assignments, but sometimes I could infer or piece together something from the data. What was in front of me was easier to parse than most: a huge cache of news stories, clips, photos, social media posts, and video and audio files, all selected because they contained some specific detail about a hero’s description. They included mentions of injuries, pictures of scars, grainy surveillance videos with glimpses of birthmarks, interviews that mentioned tattoos peeking out from under a costume. I sorted them by superhero and added the information to a spreadsheet tracking the details, building the basis of what was obviously an identification database.

  As soon as the data became a puzzle to solve, I couldn’t tear myself away. In a few days, I had rebuilt the spreadsheets to be more efficient and comprehensive, and taken a few stabs at guessing the odd civilian identity. I burned through my hours and asked for more; the Temp Agency relayed that my request was approved. It was a good sign.

  It was foolish to think I had found a holding pattern I could work with. A satisfying steady state. It lasted three weeks. When I got the news that the villain who held my contract wanted to interview me for a long-term position, I called June, stress eczema already breaking out on my hands.

  “Tell me about your gig right now.” I tried to sound casual. Sitting on my kitchen counter, waiting for the toaster oven to preheat, I couldn’t stop my leg from bouncing.

  On the other end of the phone, June took a bite out of something crunchy. “Electrophorous? It’s okay.”

  “But what is it like.”

  “Normal. Boring. An office. The lighting is terrible.”

  “But is it. You know.”

  “What.”

  “Weird.” I hesitated. “Or evil.”

  She laughed around a mouthful of . . . popcorn? “No. The vibe is much more shitty start-up than lair.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you think there was a fucking lava moat?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You did.”

  “Shut up.”

  When June stopped laughing, she said, “Why do you ask.”

  I shifted the phone to my other ear. “Electrophorous wants to pick up my contract for an extension, but it would have to be on-site.”

  “Oh shit! That’s great.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Here comes that sweet referral bonus.”

  “I’m so happy for you.”

  “It’s win-win.”

  “So I should take the job?”

  “Okay. Listen. There are some things you need to know.”

  I felt my chest squeeze. “Yeah?” I hopped off the counter and stood awkwardly in my tiny galley kitchen, between the fridge and sink.

  “It’s mostly about the boss. Electric Eel.”

  “Is he scary?”

  “No! Not at all.”

  I flinched, feeling very stupid. The toaster oven dinged. Three hundred fifty degrees—perfect for whatever bargain nugget or other sadness dinner I found in my freezer.

  June was struggling to find the words. “He’s—man. He’s not . . . Huh.”

  I put my hand on the freezer door. “Is he a pervert. Is he going to touch me.”

  “No! Calm down—shit. He’s a supervillain, not a fast-food assistant manager.”

  “I have never done this, okay.”

  “Oh, I know. Look, the office isn’t on a fucking airship. There is a piranha tank, but it’s decorative and not for feeding lazy interns to. The computers are out-of-date and this one personal assistant microwaves fish every fucking day. It annoys the shit out of me. You’ll love it.”

  “Okay. Sorry. But tell me about the Eel.”

  “Oh right. So, the boss. He likes you to call him E. And he wants to know how you’re feeling.”

  “What.”

  “Yeah. He wants a ‘real answer’ when he asks how you are. It’s fucking creepy. And he’ll probably tell you what kind of ‘energy’ he ‘gets from you.’”

  I felt myself relax a bit and started digging in the freezer. I came across an ancient box of puff-pastry hors d’oeuvres. The box said Perfect for Entertaining! There were dumplings, some kind of quiche, sausage rolls. I dumped the variously shaped beige chunks onto the toaster oven tray and banged the door shut.

  “Is he going to talk to me about my chakras.”

  “Definitely. While making so much eye contact.”

  “All right. I can handle that.”

  “When do they want you to start?”

  “I’m coming in for a meet-and-greet stealth interview on Friday, and if I don’t tank it, next week.”

  “Good luck. I probably won’t see you if you stick to the main floor.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Probably.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just . . . don’t let the retinal scan freak you out. It needs servicing so it might tell you it’s going to incinerate you but it for sure won’t.”

  “So I impress them with how cool I am in the face of stress.”

  “Exactly. Don’t fuck it up.”

  She hung up before I could respond, a retort caught in my throat. I put my phone down on the counter. While the toaster oven continued to hum, I hunted through the crumb-filled utensil drawers, looking for some leftover plum sauce packets from the last time I ordered takeout. Instead, I struck gold:

  Taco Bell hot sauce.

  A HAND CURLED around the edge of my monitor, startling me. The nails were buffed and a huge turquoise ring adorned the middle finger. I took a breath and tried to make my face as serene and welcoming as I could, despite having been shaken out of deep hack mode.

 
; “Hey, Anna,” the Electric Eel said, too slowly.

  “Hi, E.” I raised my eyes and he smiled down at me, sculpted brows arched high over his sunglasses. I hoped that acknowledgment was enough and let my eyes wander back to my monitor. I was not in the mood for a lecture about “our culture’s fear of intimacy,” but I also didn’t want to encourage him. “How are you?”

  He let go of my monitor and flexed that hand. “I’ve been really missing the coast lately. I think I’m going to have to head out west soon, get a little beach time in. My partner and I have been talking about opening our relationship, and it’s going really well.” He sat down on the end of my desk and I met his eyes again, resigning myself to the fact I wasn’t going to get rid of him quickly. His mouth, surrounded by a perfect black goatee, became more serious. “But, Anna, how are you?”

  “Oh, I’m well. I get quite buried in my work.”

  “Mmm.” He steepled his fingers and pressed his hands to his mouth. “Is anything bothering you lately?”

  That seemed loaded. I could suddenly smell the sharp cucumber and citrus of my deodorant as I started to sweat. “Nothing immediately comes to mind!” I knew I sounded too chipper but couldn’t stop myself.

  He sighed. “Anna, has anyone been bothering you.”

  I was taken aback. “Look, I am sorry that my ex called looking for me. I promise that won’t happen again.”

  “I don’t think we’re communicating,” he said mournfully. I imagined lighting him on fire with my mind. “This is about someone in the office.”

  Oh. “Is this about the Knifefish’s personal assistant?”

  “Yes. Jessica.”

  “I feel like we resolved the matter.”

  “She filed a grievance yesterday, Anna.”

  “I can understand why she would do that.”

  “And you don’t feel like that should be addressed?”

  I considered my words, tilting my chin up. “If she felt the need to file a report, I respect that decision. I do feel like I got my message across to her.”

  “You hid her phone in a spooky pumpkin.”

  I glanced over to Jessica, sitting a few desks away, hunt-and-peck typing on her phone’s screen. She’d had a habit of leaving that phone unattended on her desk, sometimes for hours, with the ringer on. After listening to it blare a few bars of some awful pop song over and over for weeks, I’d taken matters into my own hands. There was a plastic pumpkin looming on top of a filing cabinet in one corner of the office, a forgotten Halloween decoration. One afternoon I’d picked up her still-ringing phone and hidden it inside. The pumpkin had distorted the sound just enough that it had taken her until the following afternoon to find her phone. I sent June updates via chat for the next day and a half while Jessica searched the office with a coworker’s borrowed phone, head cocked to one side, listening for the ringtone like a bird-watcher straining to hear the call of a rare specimen.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I did indeed, yes.”

  The Electric Eel seemed confused. “Do you see an issue with anything that happened?”

  “Well, she hasn’t left her ringtone on again.”

  “I see.” He took off his sunglasses to give me a long, grave look. “I understand that you were frustrated. So how about you—and Jessica, of course—take a conflict resolution workshop, just to clear the air? Then we can drop the grievance.”

  I looked back over at Jessica. She was glaring at me now. I smiled and waved, and she dropped her eyes back to her phone, her lips pinched. “No, thank you. I think the problem has been solved.”

  “Then you’ll have to be written up.” E seemed at a loss.

  “That’s fine, I’ll have two more incidents before I will have to talk to HR about it formally, and I don’t expect I’ll need that.”

  “Well. Mmmm. Okay, Anna, if those are the consequences you are comfortable with.” He stood up and brushed off his trousers, sighing.

  I gave him a genuine smile. “It only seems fair.” I thought it was safe to let my attention wander back to the work in front of me, but the Electric Eel lingered, contemplating the drop ceiling.

  “Hey, Anna.”

  I exerted a mighty effort not to sigh. Interacting with him was like talking to a robot that had just discovered emotions. “Yes, E?”

  “How would you like to get out of the office.”

  My stomach dropped. “Am I in more trouble than I thought?”

  “Oh, no!” He put a warm hand on my shoulder to reassure me; I fought not to cringe away. “Not at all. I was just thinking about how you’re cooped up in this office all the time and that must be frustrating. I thought some fieldwork might be a welcome change of pace.”

  My silence became awkward. I wasn’t sure how to answer that question. I felt safe behind a screen and keyboard; there was functionally little difference between my work and that of anyone else who worked as an administrator in an office. If I was feeling so inclined, I could pretend there was nothing illicit at all about my work while I filled out spreadsheets trying to match up scars with the known injuries of superheroes.

  “Let’s do it,” I said finally. The sureness in my voice startled us both. “That sounds fun.” To my surprise, I believed what I said. The entire point of making the move to on-site work was owning that I was, in fact, a hench. In for a penny.

  E smiled. He held up his hands, palms out. “Nothing dangerous, I promise! We’re having a press conference and could use a second pair of hands.”

  “I’m in.”

  He slapped his thigh. “Spectacular. We’ll meet in the lobby at nine-fifteen on Friday morning. Thanks, Anna!”

  He wandered off, whistling. I could have sworn it was “Sandstorm.”

  “Namaste,” I muttered as soon as he was out of earshot.

  I took a couple deep breaths and was about to dive back into the spreadsheet in front of me, when a window of my chat client popped open.

  Fieldwork!

  It was June.

  Have you bugged my desk

  Nah I just saw your name on the brief

  That’s rather presumptuous of E

  I’m sure he sensed you’d say yes

  What’s the press conference about?

  Not sure, some tech unveiling thing. We’re supposed to be a startup, after all. I’ll probably have to sign a billion NDAs

  Well that sounds mercifully boring

  Also it means E likes you

  Well I did just get written up for the pumpkin incident so let’s not get ahead of ourselves

  Ha! Nah he probably thinks you’re showing initiative

  What?

  You know, real villain material

  Sure

  Karaoke to celebrate?

  I can’t tonight

  Why the fuck not.

  I have a thing

  Bullshit

  It’s a date

  WHAT

  Don’t make fun of me

  Is it someone from the office?

  Jesus no

  You’re not seeing you-know-who are you

  I made a face even though she couldn’t see me.

  God no

  Is it Julie? She was okay

  Uh, no

  Matt?

  NO. It’s someone from Tinder, okay

  I mean, probably that means they are less likely to murder you than your exes

  We’re having sushi

  Are they a hench?

  No, just a guy

  Does he know?

  No, and I would like to keep it that way until I get laid at least once this year thank you

  Check in when you get home

  Yes, mom

  Pardon me for wanting to make sure some rando hasn’t made your skin into a lampshade

  BRACKEN SMILED. THERE was a black sesame seed caught in his teeth. “I had a really nice time.”

  My smile was too wide; my cheeks were beginning to hurt. I reflexively covered my mouth with one of my hands, which I hoped looked demure inst
ead of painfully awkward. “Me too.”

  I couldn’t tell if I was actually attracted to the objectively handsome young man sitting next to me in the back of the cab, or if I was just so relieved to be on a date that actually seemed to be going well. But the conversation had been easy, he’d even asked me a question or two about myself, and I’d caught myself laughing for real rather than politeness more than once.

  Bracken turned toward me, and his knee brushed against my leg. I didn’t pull back immediately, and decided I didn’t mind this bit of contact. It was a novel feeling. “I’d like to see you again,” he said, perhaps even a little nervously. His dimple was showing.

  “I’d like that.” I tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. My french braid was coming undone.

  We were a few minutes away from both of our apartments. We’d discovered we lived only a few blocks apart and decided to split a cab home. It occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in just a few minutes my night was about to be over. That Bracken, this investment banker who played a lot of first-person shooters and still got together on the weekends with his college buddies for Ultimate Frisbee—this nice, ordinary man—was about to see me to the front door of my building, maybe give me a peck on the cheek, and then continue on his way.

  To my shock, I found the idea disappointing. Sure, his name was stupid and he’d been a bit rude when the server had forgotten his deep-fried yam roll, but the delicious normalcy of him drew me in.

  I glanced at my phone. “You know, it’s kind of early,” I said lightly. “Would you like to come in for a while? We could watch a movie.”

  Bracken’s dimple deepened in pleasant surprise, which was a relief. He raised his eyebrows, visibly pleased with himself. “I’d like that, Anna.”

  I giggled when he said my name. I suddenly felt too hot, blushing from my chest to the roots of my hair. In the six-month dry spell since the end of my last bad relationship, it seemed I had forgotten all the basics of human interaction. I hoped my fumbling was at least as endearing as it was clumsy.

  I glanced nervously up into the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of my face to see how flushed I was, and accidentally made eye contact with Oscar. I’d called him to pick us up from the sushi restaurant on instinct, even though I probably could have used a civilian cab. He waggled his thick eyebrows at me and I bit my lip hard.