The Book of Thomas / Zachary Smolar
overnight into something toxic, a cursed pariah. He hadn’t understood why … Thomas’s mind snapped back to reality. Whatever this reality was. The elevator door opened and he walked to apartment 504. He stood outside. Stared at the door. Felt like John Travolta’s character in Pulp Fiction. Bending over, he opened his briefcase, pulling out a little blue pill. He took it without any water. Then he took four Advils. He could feel a headache coming on. He knocked on the door twice and heard a thick, barely-feminine, Russian-accented voice saying, “It’s open!” Thomas sighed again, but this time it came out as a shiver. He opened the door to find the owner of that voice: she was either fifty or sixty years old with dyed-red hair and a mole on her right cheek. She was thick, but not thicker than him. Her breasts looked fake. That was a positive. She was wearing a bathrobe the same color as her fake hair. Thomas really wanted to leave. “Wow,” she said. “You really look just like your picture—just like him.” Thomas nodded. He never spoke when he was on the job. He was afraid his voice would betray him. “Well,” the woman said, her face flushed. “Right this way.” And they walked into the bedroom. He learned that his customer’s name was Anna. He forgot it a minute after she told him. And then Thomas went through the motions. A little while later, when it was all over, Thomas was back in the truck. He had $750 in his pocket. That was a positive. He felt his phone buzz and checked it while sitting at a red light. It was a text from Jehovah: How was client 1? U on ur way to 2? 34