A Hard Day's Night

by Cathie Dewey

Mickey Kostmayer closed the door of the Company owned van, put the key into the ignition and paused to rest his forehead on the worn steering wheel. "How long has it been," he thought, "since I've had a full night's sleep?" He just couldn't remember, but he knew it would not happen tonight either. Recovering his composure, he turned the key and backed the van out of the parking space.

Soon he was driving across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge to a remote area of Staten Island where, once again, he would be setting up survailence on the small house nestled among the overgrown bushes. Most of the time his work for Robert McCall was interesting...even exciting, but survalience was the one aspect of this work that Mickey could honestly say he did not enjoy. "Oh well," he thought. "It must be done," and shrugging his shoulders in resignation, he set the equipment in place.

This was actually the sixth straight night for Mickey to be watching this house, but because it was such a quiet street and there
had been no movement at all for the entire time, it seemed like six months. Mickey was, after all, a man of action.

From his seat in the back of the van, Mickey watched the hands of the clock slowly circle its face...once...twice...three times. He ran
his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, checked the equipment for perhaps the tenth time, and prepared to eat the peanut
butter sandwich he had stuffed into his backpack before leaving home. "This is some assignment!" he mused. "I should be sleeping like a log; not sitting here like a bump on one."

Finishing his sandwich, he make a ball from the wrapper, took aim, and tossed it at the wastebasket in the corner of the van! "Good enough to play for the Knicks," he murmered, then settled back once more to watch the dark and silent house.