Read The Position for Free Online

nothing. *Marquez Blot. Historical Society. Frank Laney. Galla H, blk tie.* How the hell am I supposed to know what this means? Panic surges inside me until I remember the manual.  
    With shaky hands, I open the folder and begin to flip through the pages. I’m relieved to find it all there; every detail of what is expected, what Lazarus prefers, what he hates, and what behavior he will not abide. He expects a rundown of the events on his calendar for the day, where he’s expected to eat lunch and with whom, what the weather will be. He hates school presentations of any kind, whether high school, college, or grad school, and therefore does not consider them. He expects me to be prompt and on top of it. He hates personal phone calls or bringing outside drama into work. And he expects me to be available to him every hour of every day, if for some reason, he needs it.  
    I stare at the gleaming laminated page in disbelief. He’s got to be kidding. Available to him all the time? I wonder if this is what has caused him all the legal trouble. After all, how could a guy like Lazarus piss off so many assistants? It doesn’t make sense.  
    As if to confirm the intensity of this expectation, a chat window pops up on my computer screen. It’s from J. Lazarus and it reads: *Your cell number, please*. I look up and watch him at his desk, amused that he’d send a chat message from across the room. He doesn’t even glance my way. I dutifully reply, tapping out the digits of the precious cell phone that is my only constant connection with the civilized world—and is always on the verge of bankrupting me.  
    For the rest of the day I hit the ground running. Most calls are fielded by the receptionist; few make it all the way through to Lazarus’s office. Mercifully, the phone doesn’t ring until after I’ve read that section of the manual, so I know to take a message and compile it in a memo, which I will give him at the end of the day. The only calls I’m to put through immediately are those of his brother, someone named Mr. Marimoto, and a woman named Celestina Marquez. I read the last name with an irrational flash of jealousy. But I tell myself to get a grip. It would be against the laws of physics for this guy not to have some hot woman in his life.  
    By five o’clock I’m exhausted but almost entirely caught up to speed. Whoever put the manual together was so thorough and precise, they must’ve known Lazarus like the palm of their hand. It must’ve been hard to lose such a perfect assistant.  
    I’m just gathering my things when the phone rings. I consider letting it go through the voicemail, but I don’t want to be seen as lazy on my first day. The woman’s voice on the other end of the line is husky and confident, with an accent that sounds Spanish. She says only one word: “Lazarus.”  
    I’m thrown by her sense of entitlement. “Who’s calling?” I ask, looking forward to putting her in her place. *Mr. Lazarus doesn’t take direct calls. *
    “Celestina,” she says curtly, as if I should know better than to ask.  
    “Ah,” I mutter. “Right. One moment.” I get up and step out of my tiny office to find Lazarus standing at the window staring blankly into space. I hesitate for a moment, afraid to interrupt him. But what can I do? It’s in the fucking manual. “Excuse me, Jude,” I practically whisper.  
    He turns to me, his face strangely hard and dark. Then the shadow inside him seems to dissipate and he looks almost surprised to see me. “I’m sorry, Michaela. Did you say something?”  
    “Celestina is on the line,” I say quietly.  
    Lazarus nods and heads to his desk. He looks very tired, as if something distressing were weighing him down. Still, he gives me a smile. “Good work today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
    I smile back. As I cross the office, jacket and purse in hand, I watch him kick up his feet on the desk and pick up the phone. His voice is low and seductive, and I can