I pause and fish my wallet out of a breast pocket.
“What’ll it be, Bub?” a woman’s voice asks from inside the truck.
“A dog with kraut,” I say, taking a twenty out of the billfold.
“Anything to drink?” she asks.
“No, I-” And I look up to hand over the money. Something about the girl in the truck looks familiar.
She takes my money and hands me back my change. “What?” she looks at me puzzled. I’m staring.
It’s her. The girl from the elevator. She’s no longer wearing the pink pussy hat or the thick glasses. In fact, she looks good, despite the NYC Health Department hairnet and apron. She’s wearing lipstick. She gives me a crooked smile, like I’m being crazy. “What?” she says again. He voice is totally different. Thick, Bronx accent.
“What are you doing?” I smile. Is this some sort of joke?
“What am I doing?” she sasses me. “Getting you your dog, Bub. That’s what I’m doing.” And she hands over the hot dog, complete with sauerkraut. “Enjoy.”
“Eve?” I ask.
“Yeah?” she raises and eyebrow. I realize the name tag on her apron reads Eve.
“Sorry,” I shake myself. I’m a little young to be having a senior moment, but there’s no other explanation. “I thought you were someone else.”
“That’s okay, I get that a lot,” she says. “You must too.”
“How’s that?” I’m not really listening. I could swear that she’s the girl from the elevator...
“You know...’cause you look like...you know...”
“Oh yeah,” I nod. Well, I do.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she concludes, pointing at the dog in my hand.
“Yes. Thanks. I will.” I take a bite. Yum. I’m not disappointed.
I turn and start heading for the subway.
“Oh! Hey, Bub?” the girl in the food truck yells after me.
“Yeah?” I turn back, mouth full of hot dog.
“Tell me somethin’: what lies at the end of Maiden Lane?” she calls out.
I stand still, rooted to the spot.
Everyone on the street must have heard her say it. But nobody’s reacted. They’re just walking along like she’d told me to have a nice day. I look around, confused, then back at the girl. She smiles, that fire still burning in her eyes.
Okay, now this is more than just weird: this is creepy. Is she working with the guy in the limo? Is this some crazy recruiting stunt? But how could she get here ahead of me? How could she know I was going to ditch the limo here at 23rd Street? And how could she get here and change her clothes and put on makeup and wash her hair and totally change her voice? All in...what? Five minutes?
No, it wasn’t possible. This was starting to get freaky.
I decide to pretend I didn’t hear what she said. I wave, smile and take another bite of my hot dog. I turn my attention back to navigating the subway stairs, down to the platform. I want to run for my life, but I’m not totally sure from what. That girl? She seems harmless enough. From her question? What does lie at the end of Maiden Lane? Is she asking for directions? Tourist information? Do I look like a native?
No, there’s nothing to be afraid of, but I can’t quite shake the creeping heebie-jeebies. So I do what any New Yorker would do: I lower my head and try not to make eye contact with anybody on the subway.
I’m just trying to get where I’m going, Bub. And it’s nowhere near any place called Maiden Lane.
Chapter 3
I don’t have an MTA card, and the ticket vending machines aren’t taking credit cards, but I manage to get the right combination of dollar bills into one machine and get a ticket. I don’t know if it will get me all the way to JFK, but I’ll worry about that at the airport.
Suddenly, I’m in one hell of a rush to get out of New York.
I take the stairs down to the platform and stand with the other evening commuters, waiting on the 4 train. Okay, I might be a little overdressed for the subway. People are giving me some funny looks. But any port in a storm, you know?
Waiting, I take the chance to pull out my phone and type “Maiden Lane” into a search engine. The hourglass icon appears on my screen. I wait as the search executes. I don’t get a chance to see the result. A voice distracts me.
“Roderic Gant?” it asks.
I look up. Three men in dark suits are standing before me on the subway platform. Their suits are most definitely not Savile Row bespoke. They’re wearing dark glasses, despite being underground. And dark outside.
Their posture positively screams Federal Agent. But they don’t flash any badges. They just stand there, looking sinister.
“Yes?” I reply weakly. Now what?
“You’re THE Roderic Gant?” another Fed confirms.
“Yes,” I repeat. How many Roderic Gants could there be?
“You’ll have to come with us,” the third says.
“What? Why?” I put my phone away.
“We can discuss that on the way,” the first agent says.
“On the way? Where?” But the two other agents are circling around me, each taking an arm.
“There’s a car waiting,” the first agent adds. That’s not really an answer.
“I’ve got to get to the airport,” I say. “I have a flight to catch.” But I sound like I’m whining. They self-evidently do not care.
“You’ll make your flight, Mr. Gant.” I’m being led in the wrong direction, back toward the stairs then back up to the street. Every part of my body screams No! I want to go THAT WAY!
The 4 train is pulling up to the platform.
“Where are we going?” I ask again.
“Why, Mr. Gant, you’ve going to a party,” the agent to my left replies. His voice is syrupy with false sincerity.
No, not this again! Who are these guys? The NSA? Is this some sort of interview tactic, too? Like the guy in the limo? They can’t just kidnap me off a subway platform. I’m sure as hell not going to work for any organization that treats prospective employees this way. “Hey, don’t wrinkle the suit!” I say, pulling my arm free from the agent’s hands.
At just the right moment, the 4 train starts unloading its passengers. For a few seconds we’re surrounded by commuters, pushing toward the stairs. There’s a guy with a bike. He’s in-between me and the first agent. The guy to my left is bouncing around in the crowd. This is my chance. I pull my right arm down hard, breaking the third agent’s grip. I duck down, dodge, swerve and pop up right beside the 4 train’s door. Before the agents can figure out where I am, the subway doors are closing.
They watch helplessly from behind their sunglasses as the train pulls out of the station. I give them a happy wave. They do not wave back.
I find a seat on the crowded train. I again fish my phone out of my pocket. I look at the search results for my “Maiden Lane” query. Nothing. No signal. I’m underground. I sigh, returning the phone to my breast pocket.
Who the hell were those guys?
They were serious. At least the girl in the elevator and the guy in the limo hadn’t gotten physical. Those guys were taking crazy up a notch. What sort of recruiter sends men to manhandle a client? This can’t all still be about a job. That doesn’t make any sense. What would the Federal government want with me? Or Megalytics for that matter? Was the girl with them too? And the limo driver? Hell, what evidence did I have that my generous benefactor was really the CEO of a certain dot-com retail giant? None. I hadn’t actually met him after all, face-to-face. Could this all be some sort of tick? The whole lap of luxury weekend? No, now I was getting paranoid.
I relax, take a breath, and look around the subway car. Regular people, going about their regular evening: office drones heading home from a late night at work; girls, made up for an evening out, heading for the clubs...
Oh hell, no! I quickly find something about my custom-made shoes to study. This is not happening. It’s just totally impossible. Sitting directly across from me on the train are
two girls, dressed in short skirts and glittery tops. They’ve got big, New Jersey hairstyles and more makeup than is certainly prudent. But the one on the right is most certainly the girl from the elevator. And the hot dog truck. It’s her. Eve. I’m certain of it.
I look up to confirm. It’s her. This is insane. It’s not possible. How could she have gotten on the train? She was up on the street, not five minutes ago. She wasn’t down on the platform with me. But nevertheless, here she is.
She looks at me, chewing on gum, and smiles.
“What the hell is going on!” I leap to my feet, shouting. The whole train is taken aback. I can feel everyone physically recoil. “Why are you following me? You can tell your thugs to back off, I’m not going to go to your damn party!”
She looks up at me, terrified. She says something. Not in English. She’s talking fast, babbling in something Eastern European. Russian, maybe? Croatian?
She’s scared, but a Croatian New Yorker is still a New Yorker. She’s not going to back down in front of a crazy guy on the subway. She’s going to give just as good as she’s about to get. She yells back at me, waving her arms, pointing up and down the train. The other passengers are emboldened by her strength. Two large men in high visibility vests climb slowly out of their seats.
“I don’t know if you think this is funny, or what, but I’ve had enough!” I’m shouting over the girl’s steady stream of Croatian insults. “You play your little tricks and pretend not to understand me, but I know you can! Just tell whoever you work for that they can just forget about me coming to work for them! Okay? It’s never going to happen. Never. I don’t appreciate these sort of head games! Enough. Understand? Enough.”
“Yeah, buddy, I think that’s enough,” one of the construction workers says to me. The girl is still screaming her gibberish, a mile a minute. The train arrives at the next station. Nobody else moves. “I think this is your stop.”
“No wait,” I try to protest, but the two beef slabs in high visibility vests are having none of it. They bodily eject me off the train. I stumble out onto the platform. The girl is still screaming her Croatian after me.
Nobody else gets on or off. Everyone is just watching. The train doors slide closed.
As the train pulls away, I can see the girl mouthing something at me, her face still contorted in anger. I could swear she’s asking, in English: What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?
Chapter 4
I could wait for the next train, but everyone on the platform is shooting me disgusted looks. Suddenly I realize, in their eyes, I’m the bad guy. I’m the crazy guy who attacked a young woman on the train. Nobody knows about the elevator, or the hot dog truck, or the three guys in suits.
Speaking of which, they’re probably aboard the next train. I need to get off the platform, quick. I’m way out in the open. I don’t want to run into them again. So much for my working-man’s ride to the airport. I turn on my heels and sprint for the stairs. A minute later, I’m back out in the Manhattan evening.
I take a moment to let myself calm down. Breathe Roderic, I tell myself, just breathe. It’ll be fine if I can just get the heck out of Manhattan. I know what I would do in Pasadena in this situation. I reach for my phone, with every intention of opening up the Uber app.
But when I unlock my phone, the “Maiden Lane” web search is still open on the screen. Now that I’m back above ground, it’s completed. They’re a few thousand results returned, but at the top of the search engine screen is a drop pin in a map, indicating the street’s location and my relative proximity. It’s here in New York, Maiden Lane, and I’m only a few blocks away.
What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? I ask myself. Well, why don’t I go see?
More curious than smart, I set out north. Maybe if I can answer that question, the girl will leave me alone. It’s worth a shot.
I walk the long block down to Broadway to where it and Maiden Lane cross.
It’s just a street, cutting east to west. I walk a block or so east. I follow it until I can see where it goes under the FDR and ends in the East River. Is that the solution to the girl’s riddle? The East River? No, that make no sense at all.
I walk the other way, back to Broadway and look east. Here, I can see one of the new World Trade Center buildings and a glimpse of the Freedom Tower. But Maiden Lane seems to cut between them. From here, there doesn’t seem to be anything at the west end of Maiden Lane...
I briefly consider walking west to the Hudson, but I consider what such a hike might do to my brand new shoes. I look down to check their condition. I’ve been doing more walking than I’d anticipated. They look fine, but as I examine them, I notice a clock in the sidewalk between my feet. If that wasn’t curious enough, I quickly realize what time it’s telling me. Oh no! I quickly check my Submariner for confirmation. It’s accurate. I have less than an hour to catch my flight!
I once again reach back in my pocket for my phone and pull up the Uber app. There’s a car only two blocks away. I’m about to hit the request button, when I hesitate.
If the insanity of this evening proceeds unabated, what are the odds the driver of that Uber is going to be the girl? Maybe in a rastacap, sporting dreadlocks, but certainly the girl. Almost 100 percent? That’d be my bet. I put my phone away, contemplating hailing a cab.
I reconsider, taking my phone out of my pocket for a third time.
“Hey, Logan!” I call cheerily into my phone. “Yeah, Roderic. Roderic. Rod-er-ic. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s been a long time. I don’t know...what? Three years? Yeah- say, I know this is coming out of nowhere, but is there any chance you could give me a ride to the airport? Now. Now. Yes, New York. Broadway. Broadway and Maiden Lane. Yes, yes. RIGHT NOW.”
#
Logan is less than pleased – both to hear from me out of the blue and to give me a ride to airport. We used to be roommates in college, good friends. But after graduation, we sort of went our separate ways. I went off to grad school, and he came to New York and the Stock Exchange. We always planned to keep in touch, but I never really held my end up.
“What are you playing at, you muppet?” Logan calls out as he pulls his black Audi up to the sidewalk.
I leap around the car and climb into the passenger’s seat, infinity relieved to be safe off the street. “Thanks for this,” I say, reaching for the seat belt. “You’re really saving my life.”
“What are you wearing?” Logan asks.
“Oh, this old thing?” I straighten my lapels.
“Nice threads, man!” Logan laughs.
“Will you drive!” I exclaim, pointing at the street.
“Oh, sorry,” Logan says, putting the car into gear and pulling out into traffic. “You know who you look like?”
“Yes!” I yell. “So everyone keeps telling me!”
“Sorry!” Logan holds up his hands in surrender.
“No, no, I’m sorry man,” I calm down. “But you can’t believe the crazy night I’m having.” I fill him in on the girl in the elevator, her reappearance on 23rd Street, the Federal agents, and the girl’s subsequent reappearance on the subway. When I’m done, Logan shoots me an awestruck look while still keeping one eye on the downtown traffic.
“You have got to be kidding me!” he finally says.
“No. No joke.” I shiver. Safe in Logan’s car, the adrenaline is finally wearing off. I’m getting the shakes.
“You know who it is?” Logan begins.
“It’s not-”
“Masons,” Logan finishes.
“It’s not the Masons.” I sigh. With Logan, it’s always the Masons. 9/11, World War Two, the Kennedy assassination, the moon landing, all perpetrated by the Masons. It’s some weird, East London paranoia of his. “I’m telling you, mate. Work here in the city long enough and you learn, it’s all the Masons. All of it. All those hedge funds, secret handshake boys. The whole thing – all of Wall Street, I tell you. All of it!”
“It’s not the Masons,” I say again.
&nbs
p; “How else-”
“Masons can’t teleport people.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know.”
The car comes to a halt. We’re in traffic waiting to get onto the Brooklyn Bridge. I’m almost off Manhattan. I can taste it.
“You think it’s got something to do with that new maths of yours?” With the traffic stopped, Logan turns and looks at me. “I read that article about you, in Popular Science. Megastatistics, is it?”
“Megalytics,” I correct.
“Right. You think it’s got something to do with that?”
“It’s got to be,” but I shrug. I can’t quite put my finger on how, exactly. “That’s why I’m in New York. With my thesis published, all the tech companies are trying to hire me. I’m sure this is some elaborate hiring pitch, for some dot-com company. I just can’t figure out how they’re doing it.”
“But pretending to be Federal agents,” Logan exhales. “That’s some serious business. You sure those guys down in the subway were legit? You know, working for...”
“The Masons?” I fish.
“No,” Logan laughs. “Well, not directly. You know...the Central Intelligence Agency. The spooks? They’d be interested in your Megalytics, too, wouldn’t they?”
“I guess.”
“Maybe this is one of those offers that a guy can’t refuse. You know?”
I don’t. But the car is moving again. We’re moving onto the bridge. I look back at Manhattan in the window behind me. I’ve made it!
“What is this Megalytics of yours, anyway?” Logan asks, his attention back on the road. “I mean, I read the article, but I didn’t understand any of it.”
“It’s the math of really, really big numbers,” I answer, distracted.
Logan looks confused.
I realize I’m going to have to explain the whole thing. Logan deserves nothing less. After all, he is getting me out of a pretty tight pinch. “Really really, big numbers. Think of the biggest number you can and add some zeros.” I’m more into it now, trying to sell it. I’ve given this speech a million times of late, to a million different CEO’s. It’s become like a personal mantra. “Not a dozen zeros, but a million zeros. A billion. You get it? Numbers like that have special qualities. Quirks.”
Maiden Lane Page 2