We sat on his bed holding mugs of jasmine tea in a room that was a mix of total
We sat on his bed holding mugs of jasmine tea in a room that was a mix of total chaos and essence-of-Nikko. Though he shared the apartment with five other people and two dogs, his tiny closet-sized bedroom was his alone, and it looked like him: theatrical, a little bit crazy, a little bit beautiful in unexpected ways. He had strings of twinkly lights draped across the ceiling. He had a bunch of those tall candles with saints on them from a Mexican store that filled the room with golden, flickering light. As I got up to refill my cup, I caught a glimpse of a picture on the wall behind the candles: a beautiful ghostly woman with big, dark eyes gleaming out of the shadows, a halo of gilt-edged dark hair fanning out around her, like a saint who people prayed to for wisdom and mercy. Then I realized it was just my own reflection in a mirror, and it instantly looked like me again. Not beautiful. Not wise. And no halo – just wild hair.
“So, the idea is to expose the FBI and their methods by setting up a replay of what they did to Wilson, right?” Nikko said. “I’ll be playing the role of a concerned citizen.”
“Yup.”
“Hi, yeah. I thought I should call you guys because, well, this friend of mine?” He held a hand up to his ear like a phone. “Um, maybe I’m overreacting, but he’s been saying some weird stuff lately. It’s starting to make me kind of nervous?” He sounded exactly like a guy calling a tip line, as embarrassed as he was worried. “Probably it’s nothing, but today he asked me whether I thought it would be better to bomb the federal building or the state capital, and I laughed because – well, I thought he was joking. But then he looked at me and . . . I don’t think he was.” He dropped his hand into his lap and dropped the voice. “Basically, I’ll be Zip, only not so devious.”
“Well, actually more devious, because you’ll be fooling both the FBI and the guy who you’ll be setting up. Like a double agent.”
“I always wanted to be a double agent. So who’s the guy who’ll be playing the role of terrorist?”
“Do you know Simon Meyer?”
“Sure. Everyone knows Simon.”
Good old Simon. Everybody’s best buddy. “Did you know he’s a rapist?”
“What, Simon? Where’d you hear that?”
I told him about Wilson’s housemate and what she had told me. I told him about the girl who sent me a message about being drugged and raped, though I made it sound like someone I knew, not a client. Nobody, not even Nikko, knew about my business and I wanted to keep it that way. As I spoke, Nikko looked away and frowned. I began to think I was losing him, and that made my voice sound bitter and angry, mainly because I was. “So, are you going to need proof or something?” I asked Nikko. “Because you won’t get it from Emily. She’s in jail, and besides, she tried to tell people and nobody believed her. And the other girl I told you about doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“But . . . Simon? He seems like such a decent guy. Progressive. A feminist. Nikko shook his head and I thought he was going to explai