“Maybe.”
“My daughter got a job with the city. She did it totally on her own. Headley found out, somehow. He thinks I engineered it. That I got her in here as a spy, for fuck’s sake.” She shook her head. “It’s not true.”
Vallins inched back slightly. “I can see why he might have thought that, though.”
“He’s going to have her fired, Chris,” Barbara said. “It’s not fair.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Barbara shrugged. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”
Vallins said nothing.
“I have to go,” Barbara said. “I have to find her. I have to talk to her.”
As she started to rise from her chair Vallins gently gripped her shoulders and held her in place. “Wait,” he said. “Just …”
“What?”
Vallins swallowed, took a breath. “I like you. I mean, I’ve always liked what you’ve stood her. I’ve been reading you for a long time. And, well, yeah, I like you.”
Barbara sniffed again. “Okay. I’m guessing the mayor doesn’t know you’re a fan.”
He managed a smile as he struggled with what to say next. “Maybe sometime I’ll be able to explain. But for now, I’m sorry.”
And then he did something she was not expecting. He leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then released his grip on her shoulders and wheeled back in his chair.
Barbara stood and studied him for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said, and left the room.
Fifty-Four
I’m an idiot,” Arla said. “It should have occurred to me that you’d already thought of this.”
She and Glover had settled into a booth at Maxwell’s on Reade Street. He smiled and took a sip from the copper mug that held his Moscow Mule. Tito’s vodka, ginger beer, and lime. Arla had gone for a glass of Sancerre. Glover had offered a taste of what he was drinking, and the face she’d made when she got a little of it on her tongue had made him laugh.
Arla had told Glover she thought the mayor had to get out there, be seen by and with all those New Yorkers struggling through the elevator crisis. Climb a few flights to take dinner to a shut-in, she’d said. Deliver a prescription from Duane Reade to an apartment dweller too ill to make the trip down and back up again.
“Yeah, those are good ideas,” he said to her, sitting across the table from her.
“You’re already doing this, aren’t you?” she said.
“I’m setting up something,” he said. “But great minds do think alike.”
“I brought this up at our department meeting,” Arla said, “and everyone looked at me like, ‘Who do you think you are?’ Sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”
“Not at all,” Glover said, leaning forward so he wouldn’t have to speak loudly. “The truth is, I was happy to get out of the building. It’s pretty tense in there.”
Arla had her fingers over the base of her glass, holding it securely between sips. Inches away, Glover lay his hands flat on the table, his fingers splayed as if reaching out to Arla, waiting to make a move.
“I’ll just bet it is,” Arla said.
“Yeah. Dad’s kinda freaking out. The news conference didn’t go well. All the TV pundits are ripping him to shreds.”
“When can people start using the elevators again?”
“Once landlords and property managers have done inspections, they should be able to start up the elevators in their buildings. So, maybe tomorrow? And you can be sure that nothing, absolutely nothing, will stop the Top of the Park grand opening tomorrow night.”
“That skyscraper at the north end of Central Park?”
“Right. Rodney Coughlin’s massive steel and glass erection.”
Arla smirked.
“After the Freedom Tower, it’s the tallest building in the city. He’s one of my dad’s biggest backers. We’re going to the opening tomorrow night.”
“Yikes. I’m not sure I’d want to be in on one of those elevators.”
“No kidding,” he said. “But I’m sure everything will be safe. Who knows. They might even catch whoever’s doing it by then.”
“I wonder who it is,” she said.
“Whoever it is, you gotta admit, he’s pretty brilliant. I mean, yeah, you have to condemn the act, but it’s hard not to be impressed by the ingenuity of it all. Being able to take over control of a building’s elevators. It’s amazing.”
Arla shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t see much to admire.” She turned over her phone, which had been resting facedown on the table, to check the time. “Look, if you have to go, I’ll understand.”
“I’m in no rush,” Glover said.
He inched his fingers forward until the tips of several were touching Arla’s. She did not pull back.
“I wondered how you’d feel about, you know, getting together outside of work.”
“You mean, like right there?” Arla asked.
Glover laughed nervously. “This sort of started out as a drink about work. But maybe sometime we could—”
“Sure,” Arla said. “I’d like that.”
He smiled. “Great. Do you have a favorite resta—”
“Hey,” said a voice.
They both turned to see Barbara standing at the end of the table. While Arla struggled to hold her jaw in place, Glover appeared unfazed to see her there.
“Barbara,” he said, taking his hand away from Arla’s. “Nice to see you.”
Barbara attempted to offer Glover a smile, but her face was glass on the verge of shattering as she focused on Arla.
“Uh,” Glover said, still not sure why Barbara was standing there, since she had not yet said why, “let me introduce you. Arla, this is Barbara Matheson, who you may know from her Manhattan Today column.” He managed a smirk. “Maybe not my father’s favorite writer, but believe me, he always reads her. And Barbara, this is Arla Silbert. She’s—”
“We’ve met,” Arla said.
“Oh,” Glover said, surprised. “Where do you know each other from?”
To her daughter, Barbara said, “I need to talk to you.”
“How did you find me?” Arla asked.
“I saw you coming out of City Hall. This is about the hundredth place I’ve gone into, looking.”
Arla said, “I have a phone.”
Barbara shook her head. “I had to talk to you face-to-face.”
Glover, watching this conversation, had the look of a bewildered puppy. “I feel a bit out of the loop here,” he said.
Barbara said to him, “I went to see your father.” She paused. “It’s all about him.”
Glover shrugged. “It’s always all about him.”
“That’s not what I mean. All this shit with the elevators. It’s a message, meant specifically to get his attention.”
Glover was instantly alarmed. “What are you talking about?”
“Ask him. I’m done. I gave it my best shot. Anyway, you’re not why I’m here. I’m here to talk to my daughter.”
It was Glover’s turn to keep his jaw from dropping. Speechless, he looked at Arla, who had briefly closed her eyes, as if trying to make her mother disappear.
“Arla,” Barbara said.
She opened her eyes. “Please go.”
Barbara’s face began to crumble. “I’m so sorry. Somehow … he figured out who you were … are … to me.” A long pause, then, “Maybe even to him.”
Glover found his voice. “That’s your mother? And you just happened to land a job helping the mayor? Are you some sort of spy?”
“No,” Arla said. “She didn’t even know I was applying for the job.” She looked at Barbara. “I’m fired, right? Did Headley tell you that?”
Barbara nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Terrific,” Arla said, tearing up herself now. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
Glover was still struggling to put it all together. “I don’t—I had no idea. You don’t … have the same name.” He reached back across th
e table for Arla’s hand before she could pull it away. “I’ll talk to my father. He can’t fire you like that. I oversee your department. I’ll handle this.”
Barbara couldn’t stop looking at Glover’s hand on Arla’s.
“Don’t,” Barbara said quietly. Glover, startled, slowly withdrew his hand as Arla’s cheeks flushed.
Glover took a moment to compose himself and said, “I should go.” He tossed some bills onto the table to cover their drinks and slid out of the booth. Before walking away, he looked at Arla and said, “I’m going to sort this out.”
But Arla couldn’t look at him. Her head was bowed, she had one hand over her eyes. Barbara sat where Glover had been.
Without looking at her mother, Arla said, “I hate you.”
Barbara said, “I don’t blame you. And I think maybe you’re about to hate me even more.”
Arla took her hand away from her eyes and looked at her mother through tears. “That seems unlikely. You’ve lost me my job.” She tilted her head toward the door, in the direction Glover Headley had gone, and said, “Maybe more than that.”
“It wouldn’t have worked out with Glover,” Barbara said.
“Oh, and why’s that?” Arla asked. “Because you hate his father? If you’d been there for me more, you’d know I’ve got a mind of my own and don’t care whether you approve of people I see, or who their parents might happen to be.”
“It’s not … like that,” Barbara said.
“What, then?” Arla said. “Tell me. I’d really like to know.”
“It could never have worked out with Glover,” Barbara said slowly, “because he’s your brother.”
Fifty-Five
When she comes through the doorway, she is panting, desperate for air. “I think I need a drink of water,” she gasps. And then she begins to stagger.
The boy is sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching an episode of Star Trek. He jumps to his feet.
“Mom?” he says.
She puts a hand to her chest. “It hurts so—”
And then she goes down. First to her knees, then the rest of her pitches forward. She doesn’t even manage to get an arm in front of her to help break her fall. Her face has turned slightly, so she lands on her right check.
“Mom!” the boy screams, running to her.
She moves her lips, whispers something to her son. “I need … call your father.” Her eyelids close.
“Mom? Mom? Say something. Mom. Please don’t die. Mom? Mom. Open your eyes. Look at me. Mom. Mom! I love you, Mom. I love you. Oh, Mom. No no no no no.”
THURSDAY
Fifty-Six
No elevators plummeted Thursday morning.
No bombs exploded.
But the day was young.
Fifty-Seven
Eugene Clement, seated one table over from where they were in the hotel dining room the day before, asked, “Are you all packed?”
Estelle didn’t look up from her menu. “Yes. I’m good to go.”
“I’ll get us a car to the airport around ten,” he said. “I’ll have someone bring our bags down.”
“That sounds fine,” she said.
Things were less frosty than they’d been twenty-four hours earlier. They were speaking. Current events had brought about a thaw in relations.
After Estelle had toured the Guggenheim the day before, she’d crossed Fifth Avenue and strolled through Central Park for a couple of hours. It was while wandering the park’s paths that she heard people talking about something to do with elevators. She went onto her phone and read about the crisis engulfing the city. It was then that she suppressed the animosity she was feeling toward her husband and called to ask if he knew what was happening, to warn him not to use the hotel’s elevators. Or any other elevators in the city, for that matter.
“Good thing we’re on one of the lower floors,” he said.
So that evening they walked over to Pera, both ordering the lamb chops—their last New York dinner before heading home—and that evening, Clement even made love to her.
The things you had to do sometimes.
Clement still had another matter to take care of before they departed. One more meeting.
“I think I’ll have the eggs benny,” Estelle said.
“Sounds good. If the waiter comes while I’m away, make it two. And would you ask him to bring more cream for the coffee?”
As he started to push back his chair, she asked, “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“You haven’t even had a second cup yet,” she said. “You already have to go?”
“I’d love to discuss my urinary tract with you, dear, but could it wait till I get back?”
He strode off.
Clement exited the dining room, crossed the lobby, then entered a hallway around the corner from the elevators. He pushed open the door to the men’s room. Standing at the last in a row of sinks was Bucky, leaning in close to the mirror, trying to pluck a hair from his nostril.
Bucky turned and offered the hand he’d just been working with to his boss, who declined to take it.
Bucky grinned as he withdrew his hand. “Sorry.”
“We leave at eleven,” Clement said.
“Sure, that’s fine,” Bucky said. “So you won’t be here for the next ones.”
“No, but I’ve been thinking, maybe the timing’s not right. We’ve been overshadowed. I think we should hold off for a while, or try a new location. There’s too much else going on here. Everyone’s on high alert.”
Bucky frowned. “I’m ready to go. I wanted to talk locations. What do you think about a subway station in rush hour? Or maybe a department store?”
Clement motioned Bucky over to the far wall. They each leaned a shoulder into it as they continued to confer.
“Listen,” Clement said, “you’ve done good work. And there’s more to be done. But it’s time to take this show someplace else, cities we haven’t hit before.”
Bucky couldn’t hide his disappointment. Clement offered a regretful smile. While he didn’t want to shake the man’s hand, a pat on the shoulder seemed appropriate. As he lay his hand there, he said, “We’ll find a way to talk when I get home.”
“Okay, that’s a good—”
“I knew it,” someone said.
They both turned. Estelle Clement was standing just inside the door of the men’s room.
“Jesus Christ,” Eugene said, taking his hand off Bucky’s shoulder. “You can’t be in here.”
She took five slow steps into the room. She glanced, briefly, at her reflection in the massive mirror that ran along the wall.
“It all makes sense now,” she said. “I think I’ve known all along. At least, for a while. The … lack of interest. How distant you’ve been. I … didn’t want to see the signs.”
“Shit,” said Bucky.
“How long?” Estelle asked, looking at her husband. “How long has it been going on? Is he the first, or just the latest?”
Clement was on the verge of a smile. “Wait, what is it you think—”
“I hid down the hall,” she said. “Yesterday. This man came out seconds after you did. The same man I’d seen before. Too many times for it to be a coincidence.” She shook her head sadly, then eyed her husband pityingly. “It’s all so pathetic. An entire hotel at your disposal, and still you meet in here. Is there some thrill attached to that? Tell me. I really want to know. God, it’s such a stereotype. Such a cliché.”
“Dear, you’ve misunderstood,” Clement said. “Bucky here—”
At the mention of his name, Bucky cleared his throat and gave Clement a disapproving look. Clement, realizing his mistake, paused to start again. But he didn’t get a chance.
“I kept wondering, why New York?” Estelle said, her voice shaking. “At first I thought, maybe you were trying to make a point. That it was some bizarre Flyovers statement, walking into the enemy camp, looking—I don’t know—for some kind of dialog
ue or confrontation or whatever. Then,” and she suddenly laughed, a short, almost hysterical hoot, “I even wondered, was it you? Did you make those elevators crash? Hire some genius to do it?”
“That’s absurd, Estelle,” Clement said.
“Well, I know that now!” she said. “I almost wish that was what you’d been up to.” She touched the corner of her eye to catch a tear. “It would certainly be less humiliating than this.” Her lip quivered. “God, I feel like such a fool. How long, Eugene. How many other men?”
Behind her, a man came striding into the room, already tugging at the top of his zipper. But he hit the brakes when he saw Estelle, then spun around and left.
Clement began to laugh.
“Oh, this is too much,” he said, and the laughs turned into guffaws. “Really, really, this is beyond outrageous.”
He looked at Bucky, clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder again and continued laughing. Bucky, however, did not see the humor in the situation. He pushed Eugene’s hand away and started heading for the door.
Estelle sidestepped to block his path. When he attempted to dodge around her, she moved again.
“Bucky, is it?” she asked. “Are you married, too? Does your wife know she’s married to a queer?”
“For fuck’s sake,” he said, glancing back at Clement. “Mr. Clement, with all respect, you need to straighten out your lady here.”
Clement nodded. “Estelle, I can tell you, in all honesty, that I am not having an affair with Bucky.” A short laugh. “If I was thinking of switching teams, it’d be with someone a little better looking.” He grinned at Bucky. “No offense intended.”
Bucky looked increasingly distressed.
“Then what the hell is going on?” Estelle demanded.
“Bucky here is … a business associate.”
“Oh, please, Eugene. Don’t treat me like a moron. What the hell business would anyone conduct in here?”
Bucky said, “Mr. Clement, I don’t think you should get into—”
“Bucky here is my number one … man in the field. An operative, you might say. He—”
Elevator Pitch (UK) Page 29