The Disappearist

Chapter Ten: "A Meeting"

Sitting in Nicky's Diner was like sitting in a scene from The Godfather. The tables were all illuminated with a single candle and the restaurant was dimly-lit. The cloudy Wednesday afternoon turned into a clear night sky over the Dallas suburb of Grapevine, Texas as Wil and Bree sat down at their table near a corner of the diner.

The deep brown walls were accented by thick maroon curtains over the windows; there was no view outside (or, supposedly by design, there was no view inside). The tablecloths of each circular table were white, which seemed in contrast to the dark motif of the rest of the room. The diner itself was less than half full, and it seemed that nearly every patron only paid attention to the activities at their own table; no one seemed to ever look around.

"Well," Wil whispered to Bree as they approached the hostess to request a table, "this isn't exactly The Olive Garden."

As Wil and Bree ordered wine and calamari, they both looked around for anything resembling the transaction of information Iain described; essentially, the taker of the materials would be the hired and the giver would be the hirer — The Professor.

Wil didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he knew he'd know it when he saw it. Having a Ph.D. in psychology gave him a very solid insight into human behavior, so he simply sat and waited for what looked like the type of "meeting" he was hoping to find.

And then, Wil spotted it: A conversation between two men at a table away from every other occupied table in the restaurant. One man had a sealed manila envelope and was clearly directing the conversation. The man to whom he subtly gave the envelope was tall, plain, and unremarkable; he was the type of person who could blend into any crowd. And then, without any sort of noticeable farewell, the man stood up, picked up the manila envelope from the table, and walked casually out of Nicky's Diner.

The man who remained — by Wil's estimation — was The Professor. He sat tall and had very dark hair, but not quite black. His skin was tan, but not quite dark. His eyes were narrow, but not quite small. He seemed intimidating, but not quite threatening.

Without a word to Bree, Wil stood from his chair and approached this man. He didn't say anything to Bree, didn't acknowledge anything to Bree, he simply stood up and walked over to The Professor. It was as though he knew he needed to approach this man and sit down at his table before he had time to consider the ramifications of this course of action. So he just stood up, walked over, and sat down.

"Who the fuck are you?" The Professor said; half-puzzled, half-offended.

"I'm the next member of your organization," Wil said with as much confidence as he could muster.

"I don't know what you're talking about," The Professor replied in a tone-of-voice which indicated he knew exactly what Wil was talking about.

"I want in," Wil said. "I have a specialty, different from any of your other contractors, and I want in."

The Professor narrowed his eyes, clearly intrigued, clearly cautious, and clearly curious. "Prove to me you're not a cop," The Professor said insistently.

Without missing a beat, Wil stood from his chair and approached the closest waiter. "Excuse me, fuck stick," he said insultingly.

The waiter — a 20-year-old man who looked like he ran marathons in his spare time — turned around with a What the hell? expression on his face.

Without a word, Wil landed a punch on his chin so hard he could see the waiter's tooth shoot out of his mouth and bounce several times on the restaurant bar several feet away.

The waiter fell to the ground, stunned and furious.

Wil casually sat back down at The Professor's table.

The furious waiter leapt to his feet, ready to charge full-speed at Wil. But with the raising of one hand, The Professor stopped the waiter in his tracks without even touching him. This simple hand up — this simple gesture that said Stop — was enough for the waiter to overlook the fact that a stranger had just punched him in the face so hard, his mouth was full of blood and he was now missing a tooth. The waiter simply walked away.

It was at that moment, Wil knew he had the right man. Wil knew he was talking to The Professor.

"Interesting," The Professor said, lowering his hand as the waiter stormed off to the kitchen. "That's one I've never seen before."

Wil glanced over his shoulder at Bree. She was clearly trying to hide the horrified look on her face. "Well," Wil said arrogantly, "that's how I do things."

"Explain this specialty of yours," The Professor said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, stroking his beard (which reminded Wil of old pictures of Leon Trotsky).

"I make people disappear," he said. "I leave no body, no trace, no evidence, no nothing." He paused for dramatic effect. "Call me The Disappearist."

"And how exactly do you do this?" The Professor asked.

"That's my business," Wil said, surprising himself a little at the brazenness of his demeanor and speech.

"Be here tomorrow afternoon," The Professor said. Thirty-seven minutes After 3PM — sharp. Or never show your face here again."

"I'll be here," Wil replied.

"Alone," The Professor added, throwing a glance at Bree.

"Understood."