“You piss me off,” he said. “You know that?” He pulled the car off the road and parked it behind a warehouse. He pulled the trunk release and the lid popped open behind him. “Get out!” he snarled.

“What did I do?” I asked anxiously. “Where are we going?”

“Shut up!” He removed a snub-nosed revolver from a shoulder holster. “I’m famous for two things in the agency—always carrying a gun, and hating smart-aleck kids from Ivy League schools. None of my colleagues would be the least bit surprised if I actually shot you. Now get out of the car and get into the trunk.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Wrong!” He whipped the barrel of his revolver across my cheek, leaving a red welt. “Get in the fucking trunk, now!”

The trunk was dirty and dusty and smelled of gasoline. I climbed in carefully, trying not to rip my pants on the tire iron. “Don’t close the top, please. I won’t be able to breathe.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He closed the trunk and suddenly it was tight and dark. I heard him get back in the car and head off. He was singing loudly to himself, a Broadway show tune. We drove for perhaps twenty minutes. Finally the car stopped, and the lid of the trunk popped open. We were in a dark place that seemed to be underground. It felt damp and chilly.

“Get out, pretty boy,” he said. My legs were stiff and I had trouble standing at first. He laughed and pushed me to the ground. “Pathetic,” he said.

“Fuck you!” I swung wildly at him. He danced away nimbly, despite his age and girth. He pulled the gun out again and began waving it at me.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “If I didn’t like you, you’d already be dead. Now get in there.” He pointed to a wooden box a few feet away, not much bigger than a coffin. I did what he said, afraid of provoking him any more.

I was in that box at least two hours, maybe three. The cold, the wound on my cheek, the ache in my legs combined to make me feel miserable. I had no idea why he’d put me there, or when he would let me out.

When Frank finally opened the door I fell out of the box onto the concrete floor. I was thirsty, faint, sore. It was all I could do to keep from crying. Frank pushed me into a small room illuminated by a bright fluorescent tube. There were two chairs. Frank shoved me into one and sat down in the other himself.

“You’re not really a reporter, are you?” he said.

“Yes, I am. I work for The New York Mirror. I’ve worked for them since I got out of college.”