The Unpaid Internship

By Joe Harrison

All Napoleon Davis wants to do after another long week of working multiple jobs for next to nothing is grab a beer at his regular bar with his roommates. Then, while on his walk home through Brooklyn, he finds a man bleeding out in an alley; all signs point to attempted murder. His decision to stop and help leads to him getting swept up in the elite world of the New York aristocracy where conspiracies, corruption, and betrayal run rampant almost as much as open bars, fine dining, and limousines. And what starts off as the act of a "good samaritan," quickly devolves into a fight for life itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Harrison
• Release date: Dec 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201236021

Joe Harrison

Joe Harrison is an actor, filmmaker, and award-winning screenwriter. The Unpaid Internship is his debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I’m sorry, but this isn’t right. Napoleon inspects the dress wrapped in a thin layer of plastic as he stands at the counter of the dry cleaners.

Da, it’s right, says the Russian woman sitting in a chair opposite him.

There’s a mixture of perspiration and contempt on her face. The perspiration is likely a result of the lack of air-conditioning in the cramped, poorly lit, shopfront. But as for the contempt, Napoleon isn’t sure if it’s her natural disposition from working in customer service, or if it’s a special air that she’s reserved just for him. 

At least she’s getting paid, he thinks.

No, I get that this might be the dress that’s connected to this number, he says, holding up the receipt he had been issued upon depositing the dress two days ago. But the dress I’m supposed to pick up is a bright yellow. When she says nothing, he elaborates further, "It has pockets, a black trim, and the name Cindy written on the label. He gestures to the dress. This one’s more of a flaxen color. It’s got no pockets, at least, as far as I can tell. And there’s no name on it."

In the pause that follows, the only sound of note is the whirring of a tiny desk fan rotating back and forth between himself and the Russian.

You are special guy? she asks.

His eyebrows launch upward. Beg your pardon?

Food can’t touch on plate? She taps the side of her temple.

Holy shit.

Nope, just detail-oriented, he says. Could you please double-check that the other dress isn’t back there?

She gets up from her chair without another word and walks off into the litany of conveyor belts. Eventually, she returns with the right dress and he’s able to step out into the dusky Brooklyn evening.

The cold dark blue of the sky complements the yellow glow of the streetlights bouncing off the brownstone. There’s also a rat dragging a used condom over to a sewer grate.

Napoleon’s several blocks away from his apartment now and keen to get home. At this point, he would usually be getting ready to leave for his night job at Sal’s Catering Service where he worked as a waiter. The pay was dogshit, but it was good cardio, and he’d figured it would be a nice change of pace from the obvious mental demands of a journalism internship.

Tonight, however, is his one night off this week and there’s a beer calling his name at the Next Best, his regular bar. Most nights, it’s run by a bartender named Tommy. A decent fella who lets Napoleon and his friends drink for free, purely out of the kindness of his heart– and because he’s sleeping with Napoleon’s roommate, Skylar.

Foot traffic is at a minimum and Napoleon’s making good time. A text from Burger informs him that Burger and Skylar are already at the bar, and he should meet them there. He decides to go home first so he can change out of his short-sleeve button-down and eat whatever’s in the fridge for the sake of not drinking on an empty stomach.

As he’s running through this itinerary in his head, he’s paying little attention to where he’s going and soon finds himself walking through a horde of bees, panic sets in almost immediately.

In the hope of putting some distance between himself and his attackers, he closes his eyes and flails his arms around like the world’s worst boxer. Thoroughly off-balance, he trips over a set of garbage cans and falls flat against the unforgiving concrete.

Ow, he wheezes.

As he lies there in the entryway of a particularly grimy alley, his ears ringing and the wind knocked out of him, he wonders how expensive it’ll be to go to the emergency room, given that he has no insurance.

It takes a minute for him to sit upright.

The first thing he checks is that the dress wasn’t damaged in the fall. Only after deciding that it passes inspection, does he turn to his own well-being. His ribs feel bruised but not broken. His forearm is cut from where it hit the ground, but the ringing in his ears is subsiding.

As he rises to his feet, he notices a set of legs protruding out from behind a dumpster farther down the alley. He quickly looks away, assuming it to be just another homeless man getting some much-needed shut-eye. Then a thought enters his mind that gives him pause:

Fancy shoes for a homeless man.

He looks back at the legs. And sure enough, whomever they belong to is sporting a pair of $3.000 loafers that appear unaccustomed to the streets of New York. The trousers tell a similar story: recently ironed, none of the weathering common amongst the clothes of the city’s homeless. They could’ve qualified as spotless if not for the blood.

Blood, Napoleon stammers. That’s—you’re bleeding. Help! Somebody get some help! He runs over to find a Caucasian man leaning against the brick wall of the alley. He’s unconscious. Or dead.

Definitely one of the two.

His face is also seriously bruised. And three bullet holes in his chest are contributing to an ever-widening pool of red around his body.

Not ideal.

Hey, Napoleon whispers as he moves toward the man. Hey, please don’t be dead. A part of him wants to try and wake the man up. But another, smarter part is telling him that if the man was dead, putting a handprint on his bullet-riddled corpse would be unwise. In the end, a third option wins out.

Nine-one-one what is your emergency? the operator asks.

Yes? Hello?! I need an ambulance! Someone’s been shot and there’s a lot of blood, and I think he might be dead!

All right, sir, please remain calm. Is the shooter still in the area?

No idea.

As far as you can tell, is there anyone or anything in the area posing an immediate threat to your life?

What kind of thing is that to say?

Well, not that I'm aware of, Napoleon frowns. I’m more concerned about this other guy, to be honest.

An ambulance is en route to your location. Can you identify a pulse?

Sure, I guess, that’s when you put the two fingers up against the neck, right?

Yes, sir. You’re going to want to place your index and middle finger just to the side of the windpipe. Or if you’re unable to reach it, you could try the base of his wrist. But if he doesn’t look to be breathing, I suggest the neck.

You’d suggest?

I’d recommend the neck.

Explain to me why you think that’s better?!

With a sudden intake of breath, the man jolts upright, and his eyes shoot open. His inhale is so loud that it catches Napoleon off guard, causing him to drop the call. Wha— Before Napoleon can finish this thought, the man’s pulled him forward by the fabric of the dress he’s still holding in his free hand. Woah, easy. Napoleon struggles to regain his balance. Try not to move. Help’s coming, but you’ve lost a lot of blood.

Desperate pants escape the man’s lungs in between gargled coughs. Blood trickles out of his mouth as his head rolls from side to side, presumably so he can find his bearings. It does a whole lot of nothing to instill Napoleon with confidence about the man’s chances of survival.

Someone shot you, Napoleon says. But I’m guessing you knew that already. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t happen to know if the shooter’s still around by chance, would you?

A look of surprise falls over the man’s face as though he’s just now realizing someone else is there with him.

Sorry, Napoleon says, I don’t know if I should be trying to keep you talking or not. Every movie I’ve seen where the guy’s bleeding out, his buddy’s trying to keep him awake until backup arrives and that’s pretty much the extent of my understanding of these situations.

The man lets out a muffled murmur that only vaguely passes for a word.

What was that? Napoleon asks more alert now. What are you trying to say?

He’s pulled forward again as the man musters up what’s left of his strength to say something, presumably, of great importance or relevance to his current situation.

Then again, Napoleon thinks. These could be his dying words. He isn’t sure which option he likes less. Despite his feelings, he cups his ear and leans forward to make sure he doesn’t miss a word. Of course, the second he does, the man decides to shout:

COCKSUCKER!

Ah! The hell?

The man coughs and more blood shoots from his mouth as the sound of an ambulance pulls Napoleon’s focus upward. His hearing strained, he frantically glances back and forth to either end of the alley; intuition tells him to go right.

Toward the bus stop.

Sprinting at full tilt, he narrowly manages to avoid getting hit by an oncoming car only to immediately find himself staring down the flashing lights of an ambulance. Seeing him, the driver slams on the horn which Napoleon interprets to mean he should jump up and down while madly pointing at the alley. Per his instructions, the ambulance cuts a hard left and quickly decelerates to a stop. At which point, two EMTs emerge and rush over to help the dying man.

You made the 911 call? one of them asks Napoleon as he approaches.

Yeah, Napoleon answers, picking up the dress. There’s a hole in the plastic from where the man grabbed it and several bloody handprints have stained the fabric.

Terrific.

The police are going to want to get a statement from you about what happened. You’re welcome to ride with us and give it to them at the hospital, or you can just wait around until the responding officer gets here.

Oh, uh, okay.

But this guy is in critical condition, so you need to decide like yesterday.

Right shit, I guess, I’ll come with you guys.

Then get in.

***

The hitman sets the metal briefcase down on the passenger seat as he climbs in behind the wheel of the hatchback. The knife he’d also taken from the target is wrapped in cling film to prevent the blood splatter on it from spreading. He was planning on cleaning the rental car before he returned it to the dealership regardless of these precautions. Still, it never hurt to be thorough.

The knife looks custom. Its design is similar to a military-issued Ka-Bar, but its weight and proportions suggest it isn’t standard issue. There’s also a tube on either side of the blade running down the length of it to its handle.

More examination would follow. Right now, he must deal with the wound on his shoulder; the sneaky son of a bitch had nicked him in the scuffle and the blood wasn’t clotting. Sliding the silenced Colt Model 1911 under his seat so it’s easily within reach, he fishes in to retrieve a key from his coat pocket. At which point, he leans over, unlocks the glove box, and pulls out a first aid kit. The wound’s going to need stitches, but he’ll have to arrange a more permanent solution for it back at the motel. If he can just get the blood to stop dripping down his arm for the time being, he can focus on more pressing matters.

For example, he’d been given bad intel. 

A superficial search of the target’s person had proved ineffective in locating the item he’d been instructed to recover. So, he had taken the briefcase with him as he’d left. With any luck, it would have what he was looking for inside; both his pay and professional reputation depended on it.

With the wound tended to, priority number one becomes opening the briefcase. His brow furrows as he realizes that he doesn’t have the necessary tools.

Then the sounds of laughter emanating from outside the car prompt him to look up and see a group of people walking across the street. He starts the car. If he’s on a job and has a choice between street parking and a lot, he always chooses the street; lots had cameras. But, that didn’t mean it was smart to hang around too long afterward.

Especially when one was openly bleeding.

Chapter 2

You are kidding me, right? Napoleon asks, his eyes wide with surprise.

The large woman examining a clipboard on the other side of the reception desk doesn’t so much as glance in his direction as she answers him, I’m sorry, sir but rules are rules and unless you’re a patient of this hospital, we can’t have your dress dry cleaned for you.

"How about if I’m a former patient?