The Rendition by Albert Ashforth

toward him, he frowned, shook his head, then drifted up the sidewalk to where he was out of earshot.
    At that moment I was reminded of a long-ago barroom conversation with a veteran spook, a guy we called Bud, who was already well into his cups. “Once you’re in,” Bud said, slurring his words ever so slightly and raising his bourbon glass, “you’ll never again be out.” Bud’s observation was based on experience, his own no doubt. When he put down his glass, he grimaced. You were so right, Bud.
    Quietly, I said, “I have a feeling I’m going to be tied up for a day or two, Gary. Can you get Ross to help out on the delivery?” Ross is one of the more dependable locals, a retired New York City cop who we call whenever things get busy.
    Looking puzzled, Gary glanced toward Shenlee, who was now standing with his back to us and gazing off in the direction of Haystack Mountain, which was silhouetted against the bright sky. Shenlee’s greeting to Gary had been true to form, a polite nod, and I had a feeling Gary hadn’t exactly taken a shine to my old friend. Who could blame him?
    â€œI don’t get it, Alex,” Gary said after a second. “Why pay Ross? What’s up that’s so goddamned important?” Before I could answer, he shrugged. Maybe he saw an impatient glint in my eye. “Sure, Alex,” he said before I could answer. “No problem. I’ll call Ross.”
    Gary was too considerate to ask questions, and I was grateful to him for that. Gary is a good guy, hardworking and anxious to succeed,and Saranac is a friendly town. As I watched Gary climb into the cab and slam the door, I took a deep breath. When I saw him pick up his cell phone, I knew he was punching in Ross’s number. He loudly gunned the engine, and a couple of seconds later with the phone at his ear, he had the truck out in traffic and was gone.
    I felt a pang of frustration somewhere in the pit of my stomach as I realized I wished I was with him. We’d get our machines working, load up our trucks, haul the ice out to the club, and while the members partied in the club’s big ballroom, Gary and I would end the day drinking beer and laughing it up with the club’s crew. I didn’t like the idea of having to spend time with Shenlee—and discussing the topics I suspected he wanted to talk about. That stuff was all part of my past, and I wanted to keep it there—in the past. But I didn’t see that I had a choice.
    As we walked down the sidewalk in the direction of Sears, Shenlee said, “Pack an overnight bag. Be at the airport at noon. We’ll be taking a ride in that Cessna I mentioned.”
    â€œI have a date tonight. I told my girlfriend we’d—”
    â€œI’m sure your girlfriend has a telephone. Call her. Tell her you’re tied up.”
    â€œSuppose I say I’d rather not go? Suppose I say I’m through with special operations?”
    Shenlee flashed a disgusted look. “C’mon, Klear, don’t play games. You’re going. Get packed!”
    I felt as if a mule had given me a hard kick in the solar plexus. Shenlee was right. I would be going. There are certain people in our government you don’t want to get mad at you, people who you just don’t say no to—and Jerry Shenlee was now one of them. He knew that and I knew that.

Chapter 7
Friday, January 18, 2008
    â€œI could never get used to living in New York City,” Shenlee said. “Look at this traffic.”
    â€œIs D.C. any better during rush hour?” I asked. “You said you don’t like the Beltway.”
    We were in a rented Caddy, and headed south on the Van Wyck Expressway, a six-lane highway running through the borough of Queens. Our plane had landed at LaGuardia Airport, and almost immediately after driving out of the airport we found ourselves in a traffic jam.
    â€œLook at this!” Shenlee screamed suddenly