“Chicago,” you say, easier than saying Deerfield, Illinois.
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Neither do you.”
“I haven’t stuck around anywhere long enough to pick up an accent.”
The first thing you notice are greenish-blue eyes, model eyes that would seem manufactured if they were in a magazine. Blonde hair that might be real or colored falls several inches below bare shoulders. The look she gives is confident, curious, and relaxed.
You may decide it’s a dangerous look. Women might be the ones who claim to have intuitions, but you have some yourself.
“Where are you from?”
“Florida. And California.”
“Which one first?” you ask.
She shines another grin. “Does it matter?”
“No.”
“Florida,” she answers.
A waiter comes up and before even attempting to ask the woman, she orders another glass of something called “The Thief.”
“That’s the name of a wine?” you ask.
She nods. You tell the waiter you’ll try it.
It’s the end of a long week and you didn’t ask for her to be sitting there and there’s nothing wrong with sharing a glass of wine with a stranger in the middle of hundreds of other strangers. A single snapshot might be strange but you have an explanation and you don’t need an explanation anyway.
You’re too fried to even think about anything except wondering who this woman is.
“Heading back soon?” she asks.
She has a strong voice. Nothing about this woman is weak. Her gaze doesn’t waver and you keep your eyes on her and avoid looking at anything else. Or any other part of her.
“Tomorrow.”
“So with all the sights to see in New York, and all the things to do, what brings you here?”
“I order wines from this place … Thought I’d check it out.”
“First time to New York?”
“First time sitting here,” you tell her.
You came here with Lisa.
Lisa is your wife just in case you need someone to remind you.
She takes a sip from her wine and you look at her lips for a second longer than you probably should.
I’m tired, you think.
Perhaps this is reasoning.
“And you’re all alone?”
Now you’re the one to smile.
“Am I missing something here?” you ask.
“Uncomfortable with a lot of questions?”
“I’ve seen stuff like this on television shows. People getting pranked.”
“I just figured you might like some company. And I thought you probably wouldn’t take the initiative to join me.”
“And you’re all alone?” you repeat her question.
“At the moment, no. Just making light conversation to pass the time.”
You wonder if this is a New York thing.
“I’m Michael,” you tell her, finally being friendly.
“And what does Michael do for a living?”
You smile. “Michael sells for a living.”
“Sells what?”
“Does it matter?” you ask, teasing her.
“Come on. You already told me your name.”
“I could’ve made up it up. There are thousands of Michaels.”
“There are thousands of salesmen.”
“So what are you selling?” you ask.
Her gaze doesn’t waver and the grin doesn’t go away. “Please.”
“What?”
“A lot of women might take that as an insult.”
“A lot of guys might be too stupid to ask that.”
She sips her drink again and for the moment continues to watch the crowd. As if she’s done, at least for the moment, with the conversation. You don’t know if she’s a businesswoman but she might be. Wearing a skirt and a button down shirt. Black pointy heels that look expensive. A little purse that can only carry sunglasses and a couple of credit cards.
This is the way your luck goes. A beautiful outgoing woman with that look in her eye comes and sits down at a table with you to share a glass of wine and some light banter. There is nothing more that can happen because you are a married man with two children. And Lisa might wonder what in the world you’re doing in the first place with this woman talking and smiling and sharing a glass of wine.
It’s harmless and you didn’t do anything to prompt it and nothing else will come from it because nothing can come from it. And that’s your luck. Because as beautiful as this woman is, she is not yours and can never be yours and all she will be is a sweet smile to look at.
And eventually the risk factor fades when the unnamed woman says she must go.
“Thanks for the chat.”
“You’re—welcome.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already paid for my wine.”
“It’s fine,” you say.
She looks at you as if she’s contemplating something, sizing you up for something.
That is not a safe look. Nothing about that look is safe. It’s dangerous.
“You have a pen and a business card, don’t you?” she asks.
You find them and give them to her, still surprised, still stunned and wanting to know where this will lead.
She quickly writes down something and gives you back the card and the pen.
“Perhaps we can share another glass of wine later. If you’re not too busy.”
And she stands, and of course, you can’t help but look at her. She doesn’t even say goodbye and maybe that’s the whole point. She’s left you with a name and a phone number and now she’s turned and walking away and she’s leaving you with a great view you briefly lose yourself in watching.
What just happened and how did it happen to me? You’re not the sort of guy who gets a Jasmine to write out her number for you.
And you’re not the guy who calls that number, for whatever reason. To sample a serious vintage or to get yourself in serious trouble.
You’re not that sort of man despite the fact that your plane leaves in sixteen hours and you have nothing else to do.
Because if you were that sort of man, there would have to be some serious reasons to do so, right? And you’re a good guy. With a good family. And a good life.
You’re not going to do anything with that number.
But you slide it into your shirt pocket and keep it anyway.
6:15 p.m.
There’s anonymity in New York City.
It almost feels like God can’t even keep track of someone in the city, like there’s too much compressed into such a small space.
You are used to Chicago, living in the suburbs and working in the city. Chicago has character; New York has crowds. Something about the faces passing you by makes you feel small and insignificant. One of the millions. Still wearing a suit you were going to wear to dinner tonight. Still wearing that new tie Lisa bought you.
The smell of the hot dog vendor makes you almost stop to buy one but you see a disaster waiting to happen smeared all over your coat. You think back to the blonde, the long legs, the phone number you still have.
There’s no way.
Of course you think this. Of course you won’t call it. There’s some sort of catch and you’re not taking it.
Maybe she’s just like you. Alone in a city looking for company.
And she wants you to think this. Just like the guys you pass whowant you to spend $25 on a wallet that cost them 50¢ to make. It’s part of the scenery, part of the street, part of New York.
If you’re not too busy.
And you wonder how you’re going to kill the night. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to see.
A man could get lost in a city like this and nobody would know. Nobody would pay him any attention. Nobody would care.
God himself might not even care.
7:34 p.m.
You’re waiting for someone to pick up on the other line as you sit o
n the edge of the made bed, the room service tray right in front of you. A wet stain from the ketchup you spilled looks like it’s never going to dry. ESPN is talking about baseball, which doesn’t really interest you. Baseball seasons take so long. Football seasons feel too short.
You hear your voice on the other end and decide to leave a message.
“Hey—just wanted to call. Sorry I missed you earlier. I was out. You’re probably at your parents—I’ll try back in a little while. Love you.”
There is a tinge of guilt you feel.
I didn’t go up to that woman. I was sitting there minding my business when she came up to me.
But you didn’t answer your cell phone.
I didn’t feel it vibrating.
You look at the change and pen and key card on the desk next to you. Next to them sits the name and the number that seem to glow in the dark.
The room feels silent and lonely.
Jasmine.
Is that even a real name?
Your cell phone sits on the bed. Ready. Waiting.
For a minute you just stare at the name, the handwriting.
And a minute turns to ten, maybe twenty. You’re not sure. You don’t really know what you’re thinking. You can blink and see the woman’s face, her eyes on yours, her smile.
A beautiful woman is God’s gift to man. She knows it and he knows it and there is nothing a man can do but admit it. He’s weak and under her control.
You memorize the numbers. They’re just numbers. It’s just a name. A stranger passing you by, never to see you again, never to cross your path.
It’s ten numbers. It could be an apartment or a condo or a hotel or a cell phone.
A ring jerks you from your trance. You pick up the hotel phone.
“Mike?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing in your hotel room?”
“Finishing off a really bad burger.”
“Sad.”
“Where are you?”
“Just got back to O’hare.”
“Why didn’t you take me with you?”
“Just got your message. That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to tell Connelly?”
“The truth. What else can I say?”
“It’s officially off?”
“I tried everything. They’re done.”
“Couldn’t get a flight out?”
“Didn’t even try.”
“You got a night out on the town. I should be there with you.”
“That could be dangerous.”
“It could be fun. Look—you’re in Manhattan. It’s a Friday night. And you’re what? Watching Law and Order?”
“ESPN.”
“Harsh. They’ll be showing the same stuff in eight hours. Go out. Do something. Anything.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’d take you out if I was there. If you were a going out sort of guy.”
“I go out. I just don’t black out like you.”
“Funny. Hey—I gotta get my luggage. Call me when you get back in.”
“Sure.”
“And Mike. Man—don’t dwell on it. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Who said it was?”
“Connelly will.”
“Yeah, right.”
He laughs.
“See ya.”
You hear the phone click and you just hold it in your hands. You’d like to throw it or at least bash it over someone’s head. Maybe your own.
The line goes dead.
And the numbers draw you in.
You look back at the handwritten note. Very pretty handwriting.
Without thought, you dial each number.
One. After another. After another.
And then you hear the ring.
You don’t really want to do this.
But you stay on. And on the fourth ring, on what should be voicemail, on what should be you hanging up and tearing up the sheet and waiting for your wife to call, you hear the same voice you were talking to earlier.
“It took you long enough,” she says.
You feel a head rush and can’t say anything for a minute.
“I haven’t given my number to anyone else, Chicago boy.”
And you suddenly realize that this might not be a con, or an indecent proposal, or anything other than a stranger like you in a strange land.
“I didn’t expect to get you.”
The laugh she gives is gentle and friendly. “I’m here. For now.”
You can’t say anything. You have no idea what to say.
“You were more talkative in person.”
“Yeah.”
“So I’ll make this easy.”
Here it comes.
“I’m heading over to Atmosphere. A great lounge. I’m sure you can find a cab to take you there.”
“Yeah.”
Again, you hear her laugh. Not mocking. More playful, like she finds your Neanderthal conversation amusing.
“And I’ll be with several friends, so don’t worry.”
“About what?”
“I won’t bite.”
And before you can say something, she hangs up.
Again, you’re left with the receiver in your hand.
Your forehead feels sweaty but the air conditioner is cranked. You go over to the windows and open the drapes, revealing a New York just ready to turn on.
Go on out, a voice tells you.
You deserve a drink.
Make something out of this abysmal failure.
She’ll be with several friends.
There’s nothing wrong with going out and having a conversation and enjoying yourself. Nothing at all.
You stare at the city and the motion and you feel lonely and you hate being all alone. There’s something about the silence, even with white noise around you, that feels hollow. That feels threatening.
You don’t do well alone.
Tonight, you’re not going to be alone.
More from Travis Thrasher …
The Second Thief
ISBN: 0-8024-1707-8
Meet Tom Ledger. Disillusioned. Bored. Willing to sell his soul—or at least his company’s most guarded secrets—to the highest bidder. Tom has no way of knowing that within hours of committing his first felony he’ll be catapulted into a high-stakes drama as the airplane he’s on drops like a rock into a Nebraska cornfield.
Author Travis Thrasher takes readers on a fast-paced journey through the seamy underworld Tom encounters after the crash, replete with espionage, terror, and murder. Tom must confront his past and its consequences and decide his next steps.
More from Travis Thrasher …
Gun Lake
ISBN: 0-8024-1748-5
Five escaped convicts looking for freedom. A woman on the run from another life. A father carrying sins of the past. A broken county deputy who can become a hero. And a dangerous ringleader who will bring all their paths together.
Once again Travis Thrasher takes readers on a thrilling ride, this time through the story of escaped convicts and the people whose paths they cross. Weaving together twists of fate and fast-paced action, Gun Lake examines the consequences of evil and asks some compelling questions: Where do you turn when there is no hope left? How do you leave past mistakes behind?
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