And in that moment I had a superherolike epiphany. I had been given hyperdeveloped senses for a reason: I could use them for the power of good. I could use them for protection. As soon as I was old enough I got a job working as a uni in a parking garage and I worked those kinds of jobs—even nights during college—for the next seven years. Seven long years in the colonies: at Upper East Side boutiques, JFK terminals, downtown hotel lobbies, private parties, front desks in Midtown offices. I worked part-time for a minimal wage and no benefits, broiling in polyester slacks and blazers and knit ties, doing my best to ignore the condescension of the professionals and bar-tenders and first-class passengers, the resentment of the custodial staff. Of course, there was the constant threat of violence, too. A shoplifter or pickpocket is a more unpredictable, hazardous character than professional talent. They don’t know what they’re doing. They make mistakes; they don’t have exit strategies; they think the only way out is a knife slash or gunshot.
It was hard, unprofitable, demeaning, dangerous work, but I kept up with it for seven long years, without complaint or blemish, because I knew one day I would get a shot at the big time: being a pulse.
When I got that chance, three years ago, and was interviewing with Po-Mo, I told him that I couldn’t stop that burglar from taking what didn’t belong to him: the lives of my family. But I stopped Eugene L. Sikes, all right. And I will stop anyone else who tries to come into my goddamn room and take my goddamn MacGuffin. You can count on it, I told him. Sure my scores are great, but that’s not why you should hire me. Look at me, Mr. Polizzi-Molanphy. Look me in the eye. And listen to this.
I wasn’t just born to be a pulse. My life was spared—and my family died—so that I could be a pulse. And I swear to you that I will never lose a single MacGuffin. I will never let anyone take what doesn’t belong to them.
Now, as I rock uncomfortably on my feet in front of Po-Mo, I assure him that I remember.
“Good. I’m glad. And do you remember who this person is?” he says, throwing a stack of bound papers at me. Opening it, I see that it is my file.
OTTO J. STARKS
119 Orchard Street, No. 7, New York NY 10002
(212) 523-6803
Professional Clients Philip Morris18
Lockheed Martin
Hatakeyama Museum, Tokyo
Übersee-Museum, Bremen
Adrian Sassoon, London
Dept. of Defense19
Albert Sarraut, Phnom Penh
Archaeological Museum, Sarnath
Sotheby’s, NYC
Cloudsplitter
Museum für Völkerkunde, Basel
Musée Guimet, Paris
Bodleian Library, Oxford
Christie’s, NYC
Galleria degli Uffizi
Orley & Shabahang, NY
Personal Clients
Suge Knight
Richie “Hammer” Lizardo
Ganz Collection
François Pinault
Guilford Montcalm Tennant
Earl Fistbeiner, Jr.
Elton John
Miuccia Prada
Liliane Bettencourt
August von Finck, Jr.
Immunities (short list)
• all naturally occurring neurotoxins from agotoxin to zaxodoxin