Night Movers

Carrie entered Il Forno’s restaurant on the Upper West Side at 6:45pm. Her meeting wasn’t until 7, but being on time was as essential as breathing in her world. The hostess welcomed her into the restaurant with a smile as dim as the lighting. “Name,” the young brunette said, chewing on gum like a rabid animal.

“Cavalier,” she replied, “Whitney Cavalier.”

            Carrie never used her real name. Twenty plus years had passed since she walked away from her old life and started anew in the Big Apple. New York City has changed. After the pandemic, that’s all everyone said. The truth was, New York City was the same way it had always been. The homeless were still homeless. The addicts were still addicts. The rich were still rich, and the poor were still poor.

What had changed was everyone’s ability to turn the other way and ignore their role in the problem. Except for Carrie. Ignoring every problem in her life, and those lives around her was almost a religion. Disappear and salvation shall be found. Hell, she built an entire business on that idea.  

The hostess picked up two menus and gestured Carrie to follow her. She gripped her briefcase tighter, as they headed to a small table. The hostess placed the menus at a table with two chairs. Carrie took the seat facing the door and placed her briefcase to her left on the floor. Everything she needed to protect herself was inside of that briefcase.  

“Thank you,” she said. Each table had a cordless lamp with a green shade. They reminded her of those Tiffany banker lamps from a time gone by. Maybe that’s what I like about this place, she wondered.

Carrie grew up in Minneapolis with her parents and older brother. Every Friday night, they went to the local pizza joint. Tony Gs was not as nice as Il Forno’s, but the small green lights and the checkered red and white tablecloths were synonymous with a happier time. Yes, Carrie disappeared without a trace. She had to, but some trace of her soul was still in Minneapolis.

Time is a strange thing. To everyone in Minneapolis, Carrie would be unrecognizable. Her dirty blonde hair was now cut into a black bob. She was twenty pounds thinner, had a more distinct jawline and dressed like a woman who owned a successful business. That was the whole point, of course. Become someone the man with the cross tattoo on his knuckle could never find. Even with all the changes though, Carrie often wondered if that timid girl was ever really gone.

Her watch said 7pm. She crossed her right leg over her left, and shook her Gucci heal under the table. Their new client should be here soon. Carrie touched her earpiece, turning up the volume. “Milo,” she said, leaning her mouth toward the small mic hidden by her collar, “any sign of him?”

“Negative, boss,” Milo continued, “quiet night for the west side.”

The front of Il Forno had a walk-up window, which is another reason Carrie liked this place. She peered out of the window where she saw Milo in position. He was across the street, standing by his parked motorcycle. They nodded at each other, then Carrie inhaled deep. The summer air was stale, causing her to clear her throat.  

“Alright, let me know when you see him,” she said.

            Milo had been in Carrie’s employment for almost six years. Former special forces. He showed up in Carrie’s office looking for the same thing as everyone else who came to see her. To disappear. Jōhatsu is a Japanese word that translates to evaporation. The word refers to the people who voluntarily disappear from their lives. This was a growing phenomenon in Japan. When Carrie read about the businesses or night movers that help people leave their lives behind, she knew she wanted to be a part of it.

Carrie has always seen night moving as the solution for people who don’t have access to a second chance. And she hated the assholes who said corny stuff like everyone can start again. or you’ll find a way through.  No amount of money, faith or therapy can pull some people from their circumstances. Carrie knew all about that.

In the case of Milo, he had inescapable gambling debts. Some of Carrie’s former clients were in loveless marriages or they ran their family businesses into the ground. I just wanted to escape was the most used phrased by her clients. Regardless of their reasons, they turned to Carrie for results.

She helped people discreetly leave their lives. Her fee was sizeable, and she only had one rule-don’t ever look back. Carrie knew there was a market in the United States for night moving, which is why she started her business. Of course, a job like this does not come without danger and threats, which is why she hired Milo for security.  

The young waiter arrived at the table. The dim lighting prevented Carrie from seeing his face, but she could tell he was handsome, nonetheless. Dark hair, well-built and his whole life ahead of him. Sometimes Carrie envied the younger generations. At forty-five, she was still young enough to convince herself that her whole life was ahead of her. Yet anyone going through perimenopause knew that was bullshit. 

"Can I get you anything to drink while you wait for your date?" the waiter asked, smiling in a way that both annoyed her and seduced her.  Even dressed in a white server coat, this kid knew how to charm people.  

"Not a date," Carrie replied, "but I will take a bone-dry martini. Extra olives."

"Coming up," he said. 

Carrie touched her earpiece again, "anything, Milo?" Being on time was as important to Carrie as looking good. Tardiness and running away from your life did not go well together. Carrie had one chance to make this work for a lot of people. She reached for her phone in her briefcase, then scrolled through her contacts, until an alert distracted her.

‘Twenty-one years later, more questions than answers in Michelle Gibbins disappearance.’

 The New York Times article was already trending and had close to fifteen hundred comments. This fucking case.

Night movers had one job. To be discreet. How they obtained passports, social security numbers, new identities and new lives was their magic. Yet the Michelle Gibbins case was anything but magic. She was Carrie's first case, and she became a sensationalized mystery that gripped the whole country. Even Keith Morrison took an interest in Michelle. Do people have anything better to do? 

Michelle's disappearance was unusual. She was drinking and driving when she crashed her car into a snowbank. Rather than involve authorities, she told oncoming traffic and concerned passersby to keep moving. When the police arrived, she was gone. Vanished into the night, like she never existed. Of course, that was the whole point of night moving, but her story grew increasingly more popular when human remains were identified near the sight of her crash. Those remains were not Michelles, but they did have a connection to her. They were her brothers.

Carrie slammed the phone face down on the table. The article and her prospective client’s tardiness started to annoy her. Her new client’s name was Rune. Like Carrie, he was in his mid-forties. He wanted to disappear from his life, because he was fired from his job. Rather than tell his wife the truth, he dressed for work everyday and hung out in the library until the days end.

“If Rune was as late for work as he is for our meeting,” Carrie continued through her mic, “I can see why he was fired.”

Milo always laughed at Carrie’s jokes. She wondered if he felt obligated to do so, since she was his boss. When she didn’t hear his usual courtesy laugh through her earpiece, she was extra annoyed. “Milo?” she said, “Milo, can you hear me?”

No answer. These damn comms. Carrie looked out of the walk-up window. A box truck had parked in front of the restaurant, blocking her view of Milo. What the hell.  “Milo,” she continued, “test, test.”

  She felt the waiter’s presence behind her. The waiter placed the martini in front of Carrie, then he knocked on the table three times with his knuckles, drawing Carrie’s attention to the table. Carrie shifted her glances between the martini and the rhythmic knocking. She never looked at the waiter. Carrie didn’t need to. She knew he was not the same one as before. The cross tattoo on his knuckles gave him away. Those knocks & that hand sent the hair on the back of Carrie’s neck straight up.

“Milo?” she whispered one last time, intuitively knowing something was wrong, then she inhaled.

Carrie reached for the briefcase to her left, but he was faster than her. He was always faster than her. He picked up her briefcase, then took the seat across from her. “Good to see you, Michelle.” She exhaled deep, then took a sip from her martini.