The Recruiter (A Thriller) (10 page)

Gray.

From one gray world to the next.

Samuel stands on the small hill overlooking the cemetery. The sky is one long gray cloud. Michigan. The town of Lake Orion. No lake to be seen. Just gray bullshit. Just like the Navy.

It’s been two days since his departure from the base in Pensacola. A mind-numbing journey depositing him into the sheer chaos of Detroit Metro. Then onto Lake Orion and a cheap flat, a trip to the store for groceries and necessities.

Now, it’s Monday morning, and he’s on his way to the recruiting office in Troy, a suburb of Detroit.

But first things first.

He stands still, a faint palpable moisture is in the air. The cemetery sits across the street from a tennis court and a church. A row of small homes is on the other side.

Both of his parents are buried here.

Samuel’s head starts to throb.

It’s almost as if the air here is tainted. As if the memories, the images, hang in the thick stillness, and now that he’s back, they’re descending on him like locusts. Masses of them, dark against the sky, filling his head with an incessant humming.

His father’s voice booms at him. He can feel the impact of those giant fists knocking him around. His own hysterical sobbing a tragic two-part harmony.

Suddenly, Samuel goes still, and his body seems to be sucked through a whirlwind of pain, agony, and humiliation. He’s very young, and he’s in the dark. A shaft of light sneaks under the closet door. He’s huddled among clothes and shoes and boots. It smells vaguely of wet wool and musty cotton. His body is shaking, and tears stream from his face. His teeth chatter.

He doesn’t remember why he’s in the closet. He just knows that he’s done something very wrong. Maybe being born was the bad thing. His father hates him. Thinks he’s a fucking piece of—

And then it happens.

A steel fist crashes into his temple and everything goes black—

Samuel takes a step back from the cemetery, his body shuddering. For a moment he was back there—back in the closet. He realizes he’s sweating and that his mouth is dry. His stomach churns the small breakfast he’d eaten less than forty minutes ago. He turns, his legs like rubber and walks away from the cemetery. Suddenly, he wants to be very far away from this place. He runs toward the car, gasping for breath. His shiny black shoes, pounding on the pavement. He trips on the asphalt and skins the palm of his hand. The knees of his uniform are white with scrapes. He runs to the car, throws the door open, and gets behind the wheel. He slams the door shut and closes his eyes, forcing the horror of the past from his mind.

He slams the car into gear and roars away from Lake Orion Cemetery.

He must hurry.

He’s going to be late for his first day of work.

The nose is Italian. There’s just no getting around it. It’s not a Jimmy Durante nose or the one like that baseball manager—what’s his name? Joe Torre. It’s not as big as those two. But the nose in the mirror is definitely Italian. The pores are bigger too. If you look closely at the tip of the nose, where it gets kind of bulbous, you can see the pores are bigger.

Both of her parents were Italian. Her father had finer, sharper features, which three of her brothers inherited. The other brother and she got her mother’s more bulbous face. Julie imagines her mother, admires her beauty, but sees none of it in herself.

She just sees the nose.

Julie Giacalone looks at her face in the mirror. Her eyes seem to move on their own volition to her nose. It’s relatively normal at the bridge, but as it moves on, it spreads out and seems to inflate a little bit at the end. She would be pretty, she thinks, except for the nose. No, that’s not right, she corrects herself. That’s too harsh. She
is
pretty. Just not as pretty as she would be with a smaller, more normal nose.

The nose is just
so
Italian.

Like she does every morning, she remembers the day she went to the plastic surgeon after having painstakingly saved the six thousand dollars necessary to do the procedure. She’d even picked out the nose in a book. Very similar to what she already had, just a slimmer end. She didn’t want a drastic nose job, the kind where people didn’t recognize you. Just a somewhat subtle improvement. Where people would recognize you, but then immediately ask if you’d lost weight or were wearing a new dress. That was the kind of nose job she’d wanted.

She followed all the pre-surgical rules to the tee. Had driven to the doctor’s, got as far as the waiting room when she had suddenly changed her mind. She would not fix her nose. The very idea of keeping it sent a sudden burst of pride through her, and she turned around and walked out.

Now, like nearly every morning since that fateful day, when she looks into the mirror she wonders if it was a mistake.

Instead of a new nose, she drove immediately from the hatchet man’s office to the car dealership where she got rid of her rundown, piece-of-shit Toyota Corolla and bought a jet-black, brand-new Ford Mustang. And she gave a six-thousand-dollar down payment.

She had, in fact, traded her new nose for a new car.

Now, Julie walks from the bathroom to her bedroom and stands before the full-length mirror. The only thing she’s wearing is a dark-purple thong. She looks over her body. It’s lean and firm, but she’s no petite thing. Having four brothers forced her body to adapt. From when she was small, she ran, chased, tackled, and fought with all of them. She understands why she’s in the Navy—she’s used to being outnumbered by men.

She’s tall, with long legs and broad shoulders. Her breasts are smallish, her hips full and curvy. She lingers for a moment on her breasts. They’re small, she thinks. But she remembers hearing somewhere that the perfect-size female breasts fit nicely into a champagne glass. She’d tried it once when she was drunk—on champagne naturally. Had it been after her promotion? Whatever, but her breasts were perfect—fit right into the champagne glass, filled it beautifully. But hidden under her Navy uniform, no one would ever know.

The rest of her body is flat and hard. She works out at the base gym, and muscles ripple just beneath the surface of her skin.

Julie puts on some deodorant and reaches for her uniform shirt. She pauses. She has a new recruiter starting today. Last name Ackerman. First name Samuel. She got his file two days ago. The picture showed a serious man with a strong face, handsome even, and piercing eyes. Her hand reaches for the bottle of French perfume on the dresser top. She gives a quick squirt—just a little—at the base of her neck. She has to be a professional after all. But fuck it, she is a woman, hasn’t gotten any for something like six months—and even though she is Petty Officer Giacalone, head of Naval Recruiting for Midwest District #3, the toughest recruiting district in nearly the whole country—and even though she has single-handedly brought the numbers up to at least respectable levels—she is still a woman, for Christ’s sake.

Even though no one she works with seems to notice.

She steps back in front of the mirror again. As satisfied as she can be on a Monday morning after another weekend with no romance, she puts on her Navy blues and pins her hair back. Her eyes are wide and brown, her face pretty.

If you can get past the nose,
she thinks.

She goes down to the kitchen, gobbles down a bowl of Cheerios, chases it with the remains of her lukewarm coffee, grabs her briefcase, and hops into the Mustang. She fires it up and heads for the office.

Her new recruiter should be arriving any minute.

It doesn’t take Samuel long to get to Troy from Lake Orion. Just a quick stretch of I-75, exit on the Metro Parkway, and before he knows it, he’s smack in the middle of Troy, Michigan. The ultimate Detroit suburb: shopping malls, strip malls, heavy commercial/industrial sites, and a shitload of traffic. The sky is typical for Michigan at this time of the year: Navy gray.

Samuel glances at the directions on the sheet of paper next to him. He veers slightly over the center lane, and someone honks a horn at him. Samuel jerks the car back, sees the cross street he’s looking for, and minutes later, pulls up in front of District #3 Headquarters for Naval Recruiting.

Samuel looks at the building. It’s got Navy written all over it. Dull, impersonal, and not a trace of personality. Just a small brick square with glass doors at the center and an American flag waving proudly in front.

For a moment, Samuel is able to see things from the outside looking in. He seems to float above himself, over his body, over the building. Can see himself standing by his car. Hears the flag flapping in the early morning breeze.

His mind surges with positive energy. He can do this. He can be a recruiter. He can get through whatever it is they’re going to make him do. Talk to high school students? He can do that. Talk to mother and fathers, telling them what a great experience the Navy has been for him? He can do that.

As long as no one fucks him or tries to sabotage him, everything should work out.

No more shit like what happened in ordnance. With that fucking prick Wilkins, or like the asshole Nevens…

But they both had it coming.

Samuel shakes his head. He can’t think like that. He’s right, but it’s too risky.

But it feels good. It feels… powerful.

His body calm, his mind focused, Samuel walks to the building, opens the glass doors, and steps inside.

Julie Giacalone is crunching numbers. It’s all about numbers. Meeting the quota. A never-ending process. Get the recruits. Fill the slots. Kiss ’em and ship ’em. Keep the leads coming.

It’s something that she has always been able to do. She’s good at achieving her goals, the professional ones anyway. There’s something about the quota, the concreteness of it that inspires her and motivates her. It’s something that is a driving force in her life and yet it’s a game to her—it’s still fun. How to achieve those numbers? Especially when the economy is relatively good? A good economy is bad news for a recruiter. A good economy means companies are hiring and paying good money—better money than the Navy. And that means young men and women are less inclined toward the Navy.

She looks at the charts, at the numbers, at the lists of leads that come in from many places: headquarters, the web site, phone calls, school counselors, a few letters from potential recruits as well as influencers (usually parents).

Julie looks at the leads, recognizes them for what they are: pure gold. A handful of these names will become sailors. The question is: which ones? And what will it take to get each of them to see the merits of joining the Navy? It’s not a con job, for the most part. For the majority of the names on the list, the Navy would be a good thing. Broken homes, no chance at college, and a complete lack of discipline. These are the kinds of things most of these young men and women suffer from.

And the Navy’s the answer.

It’s just a matter of overcoming their misperceptions of the Navy, of military life.

Something Julie Giacalone is very good at.

She’s just about to go over the names again when there’s a knock on her door. It’s Paul Rogers, a short, pudgy recruiter with too little hair and too much cologne. Paul is her right-hand man.

“The new guy’s here,” he says. He sniffs and raises an eyebrow. “New perfume?”

Julie feels blood rush to her face but calmly puts down her pen. She glances over Paul’s shoulder but can’t see the front desk.

“Send him in,” she says.

Unfortunately, the place is just what Samuel expected: recruiting posters on the walls, a few offices scattered around the front lobby, the look, smell, and feel of a used car dealership. Cheap wood paneling, the plant in the corner, industrial-looking clock on the wall.

The only difference is all the Navy crap. If it weren’t for that, you’d think it was a gynecologist’s office. He gives his name to the chubby guy with the big double chin—Paul is his name—and waits by the front desk. He looks out the window, watches traffic for a moment before he hears a clear, crisp voice.

“Ackerman?”

Samuel turns, sees the woman in a petty officer’s uniform and salutes. “Yes, ma’am.” She’s a tall woman, semi-attractive, somewhat masculine, and the nose is too big.

“At ease,” she says, smiling. “Welcome to Recruiting District Three, sailor.”

Samuel gives her an easy grin back. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s good to be here.”

He follows her into her office, noticing the way she walks.
Is there a slight swing in her hips?
He takes a seat across from her desk. The office smells like fresh perfume and old soda cans. She sits down and pulls his file out. Samuel carefully suppresses the nervousness rising in his stomach.
There’s nothing to worry about,
he tells himself.
If there were, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I’d be locked up somewhere, or on trial.
Samuel stops himself. He’s got to concentrate. Ever since the visit to the cemetery, he hasn’t felt right.

His temple throbs, and he absentmindedly rubs it. He looks up and sees the woman, Giacalone, looking at him.

“I’m sorry?” he says, realizing she’s asked him a question.

“I just wondered how your trip was. From Pensacola, right?”

“Right. It was…fine. I found a place, probably temporary, but I’m pretty much settled in.” He realizes he should show some enthusiasm. “I’m ready to get started. Sort of anxious to use what I learned at Pensacola.”

She beamed at him. Oh, this one was just a bundle of ambition, she could tell that. “That’s what I like to hear!” She leans forward a bit conspiratorially. “It isn’t always easy to keep up the enthusiasm. As a recruiter, you can face a lot of rejection. But starting off with the right attitude…that’s the way to go. Now, let’s get started by me telling you what our obligations are as recruiters for District Three.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Samuel listens as Giacalone rattles off the areas—pretty much all of Detroit and the suburbs within a hundred miles. It is a big territory and there are only four recruiters. Out of this mass of people, they are expected to get fifty recruits every three months. Of those recruits, the numbers are broken down between high-quality recruits, such as college-bound or college grads with prospects for becoming officers—and lower-quality recruits, such as kids who may or may not have finished high school and have no hope of ever being officers.

She wraps up her spiel, and Samuel notices her brown eyes, the way her dark hair falls to her shoulders. She’s got a pretty mouth, a nice smile. “Now, you’re probably wondering what’s expected of you.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Well, we expect each recruiter, even a rookie like you, to bring in some high-grades and one low-grade within the first three months.”

Samuel nods. “Okay.”

“Now, don’t put too much pressure on yourself, just take your time. The most important thing is to treat the potential recruits with respect. Even the ones that aren’t respectful to you. I’ll be understanding if you don’t bring someone in right away, but if I get a complaint over rude sales tactics, or anything unprofessional, it won’t be tolerated. You wear that uniform—you’re representing the United States Navy.” She holds her hands out—long, slender fingers, no wedding ring. “There. That’s my little nasty speech I have to give.”

She stands up and Samuel notes her hips. A little too large for his taste.

“Paul will show you to your office. Welcome, Samuel.” She holds out her hand, and he shakes it. It feels warm and slightly moist. Does she hold it for a beat too long?

Samuel says, “It’s good to be here.”