THE UP AND COMER

by Howard Roughan

  May this compass remain as true as our friendship.

  Last night I went to my drawer and took out that old, scuffed-up compass and looked at it. You see, it's been my year to hold on to it. Come this fall, though, if you happen to see it on the ground by Tyler's grave, I respectfully ask that you let it be. Because that's when it will be his turn to watch over it.

  It's funny; to this day that compass still knows how to point north. But I'll tell you this much: it will never be quite as true as my good friend Tyler Mills.

  I stopped and I stood there for a second looking out at everyone. There wasn't a dry eye in the church. Even Father Whelan was choked up. One lady in the fourth row was sobbing so loudly her husband had to escort her out. Damn, I was good. I left the lectern and returned to my seat. The pew no longer felt so hard.

  Tracy, tissue in hand, leaned over to me and whispered, "Why didn't you ever tell me about that?"

  "Because it never happened," I whispered back, leaving off the you idiot.

  We stood for the final hymn.

  After the service you practically had to peel Mrs. Mills off of me. She rushed up and plastered a hug so hard it nearly knocked me over.

  "Tell me you brought that compass with you," she said. "You have to let me see it."

  Uh-oh.

  "I'm afraid I didn't," I said.

  "Will you send it to me? Please, will you do that?" she begged.

  "Of course," I told her.

  Right after I go and find one that matches the description in a pawnshop somewhere.

  Yep... I was going to hell, all right.

  That afternoon I returned to the office to find Jack insisting on a blow-by-blow account of Sally's DMV hearing. The fact that he'd been forced to wait until I got back from "my friend's funeral" had driven him crazy. To make it up to him I was embellishing the story whenever possible, such as claiming that attorney Jonathan Clemments could barely get Jack's name out of his mouth due to the fact that he had been stuttering so much out of fear. "De-De-De-Devine," I said, pretending to imitate the poor guy. Jack laughed so hard he was practically in tears. He joked that the finishing touch would be arranging for a copy machine repair guy to visit Clemments's office out in Westchester every day for a week straight. Jack went so far as to summon Donna into his office to make the necessary calls, though he quickly changed his mind. "On second thought," said Jack, "I hate end-zone dances."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I could've sworn he winked at me.

  From the portrait of him that hung in the reception area of our office, I could've sworn that Thomas Methuen Campbell had winked at me as I walked into work the following morning. It was coming up on a week since that night at Tyler's apartment, and here was the founding father of Campbell & Devine looking down at me from his perch on the wall as if to say, "Don't sweat it, kid."

  I was inclined to take his advice.

  All things considered, the only downside for me at that juncture was that I had quickly put on a few pounds. Tracy noticed and said she would use more recipes from Cooking Light in the future. I told her not to worry. While my hunger had been relentless, I knew it was finally starting to subside. Slowly but surely, I was beginning to feel like myself again.

  So was Raymond's mother, apparently.

  He was checking me into a room at the Doral Court later that day and telling me that his mother had finished with her chemotherapy. The cancer in her stomach hadn't spread, and she was in remission.

  "I told you the devil was no match for her," I said.

  "No, but those hospital bills might be," Raymond replied.

  I knew it was merely a knee-jerk comment on his part. He wasn't angling for a handout by any stretch. If I had thought he was, I never would've done what I did next — make a check out to him for a thousand bucks. I don't know what came over me; I just did it.

  "Give this money to your mother," I said, sliding the check across the counter.

  Raymond was genuinely shocked. "Mr. Randall, there's no way I can accept that."

  "Sure there is, it's easy. You simply put it in your pocket."

  "When I mentioned those hospital bills I—"

  "I know… you weren't playing me," I said, although I regretted the choice of words almost immediately after they left my mouth. There was nothing worse than a white guy trying to talk street.

  Raymond either didn't notice or didn't care. He was too busy trying to decide what to do about my offering. After glancing to see if his supervisor, or anyone else for that matter, was looking, he reached for the check with those long fingers of his.

  "I promise you that I'll give this to her," he said.

  "I'm sure you will."

  "I don't know how to thank you."

  "Don't worry about it," I said.

  Raymond again glanced around the reception area, and again no one was looking.

  "Wait, I know how," he said. He gave me that slight smile of his, combined with that all-too-aware tilt of his head. He handed me my room key while at the same time stuffing my registration and credit card slip inside his jacket. "This one's on me," he said.

  Who was I to say no?

  I didn't tell Jessica she was a freebie that afternoon. There was no way I could share the story of giving Raymond's mother money without sounding like a braggart. Besides, since Jessica and I had officially resumed our matinees, our conversations had remained at a minimum, at least before the sex. There were lost orgasms to be made up for and only a lunch hour at a time to do it.

  However, as I hadn't seen her since Tyler's demise, she did manage to ask about my hand while I was hastily unbuttoning her blouse. It was amazing how one little bandage could trigger so many questions — all the more reason why I wasn't about to let Jessica see my second little bandage.

  "Why do you still have your T-shirt on?" she asked me.

  "Because I feel fat," I replied, mimicking perhaps every girl I had ever dated. Jessica laughed and let it go. Little did she know I wasn't completely joking.

  If you haven't already guessed, our newest favorite position had become that so-called butterfly of hers, especially when she told me that she hadn't really tried it with Connor. True to its billing, it made Jessica come harder than ever before. Though with the way she rested her ankles on my shoulders while I lifted her up by the hips, I wasn't so quick to agree with the name. "The wheelbarrow" seemed more like it.

  We were getting ready to leave.

  Said Jessica, "Tracy told me about the death of your friend Tyler. I couldn't believe it."

  "Neither could I," I said. "Nice city we live in, huh?"

  "There were no witnesses or anything?"

  "Apparently not."

  "It's kind of weird, having met him that one time. I didn't realize, though, that you really weren't that crazy about him."

  "Tracy said that?" I asked.

  "No, actually Connor said you had mentioned that to him."

  "Tyler was a little troubled, that's all. It was hard to be his friend," I said.

  "What'd he do for a living?"

  "I'm not sure he did anything."

  "You mean he was unemployed?"

  "No, I mean I don't think he ever had a job."

  "Sounds familiar," she said snidely, alluding to her brother.

  "Hey, you don't think Zachary is going to climb up a water tower one day with a high-powered rifle, do you?"

  "No, I don't think so," said Jessica, "...he's afraid of heights."

  I laughed about that all the way back to work.

  Later that afternoon, I was in my office with the door closed when Gwen buzzed me.

  "Philip, there are two gentlemen here to see you," she said.

  I wasn't expecting anyone. "Do they have an appointment?" I asked.

  "No, but they do have very shiny badges."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Whatever you do, Philip, don't freak.

  "Tell them I'll be right with them," I said to Gwen.

  I figured I had about
a minute. Anything less would come across as a little too fearful; anything more and they'd think I was crawling out on the ledge to escape. Instinctively, I reached for the Drawer. Bypassing the cologne, floss, and hair gel, I took a hit of breath spray while grabbing the comb. I went over to the mirror behind my door and checked for loose hairs. I needed to look collected. I also needed to look busy. Hastily, I grabbed a Redweld file and spread some documents out on my desk and coffee table. Gentlemen, do I look like I have the time to go out and kill somebody? Hey, with a little luck maybe they were just collecting donations for the Police Athletic League.

  That would take a shitload of luck, I realized.

  It was show time. I opened the door to my office and walked out.

  "Philip Randall?" said the shorter of the two.

  "Yeah, that's me," I said.

  Both men flashed their badges. Gwen was right; they were indeed very shiny.

  Continued the shorter one, "I'm Detective Hicks and this is my partner, Detective Benoit. We were wondering if you could spare a few minutes of your time?"

  I shrugged. "Sure, c'mon in," I told them. "Gwen, will you hold my calls?"

  She nodded. The way she was watching everything unfold, you would've expected to see a bucket of popcorn in her lap.

  I led the detectives into my office and closed the door.

  "Excuse the mess," I said.

  "Not a problem," said the tall one, Benoit, in a friendly enough fashion.

  You watch enough cop-buddy movies and you begin to think that all partners are supposed to look like direct opposites. Not these guys. Despite the height difference, they could've easily been brothers. Both looked to be in their forties, both had dark hair and mustaches, and both wore the cynical expression of having been exposed to every appalling thing you could ever imagine in New York City. As well as a few things you couldn't.

  I took a seat behind my desk as Hicks and Benoit helped themselves to the two chairs in front of it. They struck relaxed postures. A positive sign, I thought.

  "Do you guys want some coffee or anything?" I asked.

  They shook their heads. "No, thanks, we're all set," said Hicks.

  "So what can I do for you?" I said.

  The two exchanged glances. It was as if they were asking each other who wanted to do the talking. Hicks volunteered. "We understand you were a good friend of Tyler Mills," he said.

  "I don't know if good is the right word, but we were definitely friendly with each other," I replied. "I had a feeling that's why you guys were here."

  "You were expecting us to be talking to you?" asked Hicks.

  "Tyler's mother, Mrs. Mills, told my wife that there were no leads, at least right after it happened. I figured it was only a matter of time before you got around to all of Tyler's friends."

  "Turns out he didn't have that many friends," said Hicks.

  "So what took you so long?" I joked. I didn't care if they laughed. It showed I was loose. "Seriously, though, do you think Tyler was in some kind of trouble?"

  "What makes you say that?" came back Hicks, clearly a proud graduate of the "try to trip 'em up" school of interrogation.

  "It's been my experience that a victim often knows the perpetrator," I explained. I was a lawyer, after all.

  "It's been our experience as well," said Hicks with a nod toward his partner. "When was the last time you talked to Tyler?"

  I thought for a second. "I guess it was the last time I saw him. It was by accident, really. My wife and I were out to dinner with another couple about a month ago when we bumped into him."

  "You didn't hear from him or see him again after that?" asked Hicks.

  "No, I don't think so."

  "No phone communication?" Hicks pressed.

  I checked off all the calls in my mind, making sure that all of them after that night at Balthazar had been safely via pay phone. "No, I don't remember any," I said.

  "Did Tyler ever mention to you that he was planning on leaving the country?" said Hicks.

  The plane ticket to Bali. Although it certainly didn't implicate me, I had never thought to look for it in Tyler's apartment. The detectives had obviously found it. "No," I said, "he never said anything about going anywhere."

  Next question. "How is it that you knew Tyler originally?" Hicks asked.

  "We went to school together."

  "College?"

  "No, prep school."

  Oooooh, get a load of fancy pants here, I imagined the two saying to themselves. As if I couldn't have just answered "high school." It didn't help that at about the same time, Benoit — very much the silent partner to that point — was casually looking around my office. His eyes moved off the picture on my bookshelf of Tracy and me skiing in Aspen and stopped on the knitted pillow that was lying on my couch. "It's hard to be humble when you're from Dartmouth," it read.

  Great.

  "Getting back to Tyler being in trouble," said Hicks. "Was there anything that you and he ever talked about that would possibly make you think that was the case?"

  "To be perfectly blunt, I always used to think the biggest threat to Tyler was Tyler," I said. "You guys know he tried to kill himself once, right?"

  "Yes, we know all about that," said Hicks. "By the way, what happened to your hand?"

  "I cut it with a pair of scissors trying to open up a package," I replied, suddenly grateful for all the other times prior that I had had to answer the question. I was good and practiced. By this time the excuse sounded very convincing coming out of my mouth.

  Hicks was about to ask another question when Benoit interrupted him.

  "I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Randall's time," said Benoit, standing up. That surprised Hicks a bit, but he followed suit and rose to his feet. I had begun to notice a slight pecking order between the two of them, and from that last bit it seemed likely that Benoit had maybe a few more years on the job. He reached inside his Moe Ginsburg and took out a card. "If you can think of anything that might help, like why someone might have a beef with Tyler," he said, handing me the card, "please give us a call."

  "Absolutely," I said. I shook their hands and was about to show them out when I couldn't leave well enough alone. "Out of curiosity, how did you get my name?" I asked.

  "Tyler's mother," I anticipated hearing, when instead I watched as the two of them looked at each other again. Benoit volunteered this time.

  "Actually, Mr. Randall," he said, "it was your number we got first. It seems that the very last phone call Tyler made was to you here at your office the night he died."

  "Are you serious?"

  Hicks chimed in. "Yes. He called a little before eight P.M. Were you here?"

  Nice try, detective. He had fed me the time hoping once again to trip me up. If I answered yes or no directly it would've meant that I knew something only the killer or the coroner could know for sure — the actual day that Tyler died. I wasn't about to make it so easy for these guys.

  "Was I here?" I repeated back. "Well, that depends, what day are we talking about?"

  I detected a slight look of disappointment from Hicks. "Last Friday," he said.

  I pulled the weekly calendar on my desk toward me and I flipped back a page. "As a matter of fact, I was here working late," I said. "Not always in my office, perhaps, but I was here."

  "You don't recall speaking to him, do you?" said Benoit.

  "No."

  "... Or getting a message from him?"

  "No."

  "Of course not," Benoit said, as if correcting himself. "You would've mentioned that to us before when we asked. It's not like you would've forgotten, right?" Benoit stepped and opened my office door. "Thanks again for your time, Mr. Randall."

  "No problem," I said, struggling to keep the strain in check. "Wait, I'll show you the way."

  "Not necessary, we'll find it," said Benoit with an easy smile. "After all, we are detectives."

  The two men walked out past Gwen at her desk. As soon as her eyes were done following t
hem they snapped back to me. For sure, she was dying to know what had happened.

  Truth was, I wasn't exactly sure.

  I closed my door again and sat back behind my desk, thinking. A lot of it didn't make sense, starting with the bit about Tyler's last phone call. There was no way the detectives could've known about Tyler's calling me from a pay phone inside Billy's Hideaway that night.

  Wait a minute….

  I had only assumed Tyler had called me from a pay phone.

  That's when it hit me. The fucking hypocrite. Tyler had gone on and on about people and their cell phones, the way he would harass them, and what does he end up having? A cell phone. It all started to make sense. How else could he have always returned my pages so quickly?

  Like that, I shifted into lawyer mode. The 3 D's: deconstruct, discern, and deduce. Hicks and Benoit had obviously gotten Tyler's cell phone records. That's how they knew I was the last person Tyler had called. It immediately made me wonder how long Tyler's message to me that night had been. It was short, but how short? Under two minutes and it was plausible that he had called, gotten my voice mail, and hung up without leaving a message. Over two minutes and they would think there was a good chance they had caught me in a lie.

  I got up and started to pace in my office. As I walked back and forth, so did I waver on what really had taken place. The phone call bit aside, the meeting with the detectives had been too short and their questions too crafted. It was way too cat-and-mouse. Something was up.

  You're screwed, Philip.

  Or was it just my paranoia kicking in? Interviewing Tyler's friends was SOP for the investigation. If the detectives truly had something on me, I wouldn't still be sitting in my office, I told myself. But there I was, and they were gone. Forget it, they didn't have anything on me. How could they? I had gone to great lengths to cover my tracks, to remove any trace of myself from the threat of suspicion. So what if I was the last person Tyler had called? Somebody had to be. That hardly suggested motive on my part.