THE UP AND COMER

by Howard Roughan

  At six-fifteen I caught a cab up to the office.

  There was no wink this time. When I got off the elevator and passed the portrait of Thomas Methuen Campbell, his serene gaze seemed a little more on the forbidding side. I could feel his eyes following me. I thought about what Jack had once said and I wondered if he had indeed "consulted" Campbell about my situation. Surely it met the prerequisite of being a tough decision.

  The floor was nearly empty. What sounds I could hear were from offices far off the main corridor that led back to Jack. As I got closer I could see that Donna's desk was vacant. By then, she was most likely on the "Big-Hairy Ferry" back to Staten Island. I knocked on Jack's partially open door. "Come in," he told me.

  The same leather-inlaid desk sat between us, only now — pardon the symbolism — it felt a lot wider. Screw the small talk. Jack wasted no time in doing his shuffling of some papers and getting down to business.

  "I've always been straight with you, Philip, and I'm not about to stop now," he began, retaining much of that same subdued expression from when I had last seen him. "It's simple economics, that's all, and as if I couldn't figure that out on my own, Lawrence Metcalf was all too pleased to spell it out for me. In a nutshell, it goes something like this. If you stay, a lot of business goes. If you go, a lot of business stays." Jack shook his head. "That's some father-in-law you have there."

  "Had would be more like it," I corrected him.

  Jack nodded in agreement and went on. "I like to think that I'm capable of standing on principle. As for what that exactly means, I don't know. What I do know is that I'm responsible for the livelihood of every person at every desk out there behind you. That said, it doesn't leave me much of a choice… doesn't leave me much of a choice at all."

  I realized the other day that we're all at the age now where we can really only rely on our instincts and intellect in order to succeed.

  "Are you firing me, Jack?" I asked.

  When you think about it, from the ages of, like, twenty-eight to... oh, let's say thirty-four, we're all kind of just out there without a net.

  "Only if you don't resign," he said.

  I mean, when we're older than that, odds are we'll have collected enough experience — personal, professional, what have you — to get our asses out of almost any jam.

  "I guess that doesn't leave me much of a choice either," I said.

  And when we were younger, let's face it, nothing really too significant was expected of us, precisely because we didn't have any experience.

  "No, I guess it doesn't," he said. "I'm sorry, Philip."

  But those in-between years — right now — that's when we're really on our own.

  "So am I," I said softly.

  We traded our good-byes, brief and stiff lipped, and I was about to leave when I realized that there was one more thing. A small favor from Jack — that he would keep Gwen on at the firm, find a slot for her no matter what.

  "Of course," he told me.

  I walked out of his office, seeing no one as I headed toward the elevators. Then, around the last corner, I heard it. The low-pitched machine-like buzz. I recognized it instantly. Shep and his wheelchair.

  There was no long, drawn-out conversation. No awkward silences. No pitiful attempt at compassion. Shep simply rolled to a stop and peered up at me.

  "Look at it this way," he said. "At least you can fucking walk."

  We both smiled.

  I shook his hand and told him that I'd keep in touch. "Bullshit," he said with a chuckle. I knew I always did like him.

  * * *

  The next morning, with the pantry and Sub-Zero near empty, I ventured out of the loft and walked to the corner deli for an egg sandwich. On the way back a short man tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of the sidewalk. He had disinterested third party written all over him.

  "Philip Randall?" he asked.

  "Serve 'em over," I said.

  Which was precisely what he did. Divorce papers. Tracy had wasted no time in filing for the dissolution of our marriage. Outside of maybe paying the electric bill, our assets were to be frozen from that point on. What would follow was sure to be the bulldozer approach, named appropriately for how no legal stone would be left unturned in order to render me broke. All engineered by that same guy holding a Bloody Mary out in Greenwich. By the time the discovery phase alone of the divorce was completed, my legal bills would rival the gross national product of a third world country.

  "Have a nice day, Mr. Randall," said the short man with a smirk.

  "Fuck you very kindly," I replied.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Fact: the moment a guy gets kicked in the balls is not the moment he begins to feel the pain. There's a slight delay. A period of limbo during which the brain is almost in denial. It's receiving all the messages, but it seems unwilling to respond in immediate fashion.

  I was aware of all that had happened. I simply wasn't processing it. As I walked back home with those freshly served divorce papers in hand, however, everything seemed to register at once. It was life catching up to me. Life telling me — shouting, if you must know — that upon further review I was nothing more than veneer. Coating. Spread thin and destined to wear through. I was wifeless, jobless, and if Lawrence Metcalf had his way, soon to be penniless. There were no two ways about it.

  I, Philip Randall, had lost my shine.

  And it hurt like hell.

  I wanted to blame Tyler. Without him this whole damn mess would never have happened. I wanted to blame Connor. Why on earth did he have to take out that gun? But in the end, what I wanted and what I needed were two very different things. Because what I needed was to accept the truth. There was no one to blame other than myself.

  Oh, to be young, humbled, and hung out to dry in the city that never sleeps.

  * * *

  Another day came and went.

  I picked up the phone and put it back down maybe a half dozen times. Jessica. Forget what I would say to her — would she even take my call? That she had kept it together throughout the police questioning was one thing. That she would have anything to do with me after things settled down was entirely another. I had no business thinking that the two of us could remain involved, let alone live happily ever after. Absolutely no business. But Jessica was all that I had left, and I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me holding on to the hope, no matter how slight or therapy worthy, that our relationship could somehow go on. I couldn't deny the fact that I still cared for her. If anything, at that point I cared for her even more.

  So that's what it feels like.

  She would have her questions, and I would be honest with her when I could, less than honest when I had to be. It was that or never see or talk to her again. That I couldn't imagine. Eventually, I picked up the phone and began dialing.

  The first attempt was to her and Connor's apartment. The recorded voice told me the number had been disconnected.

  The second attempt was to her mother's apartment. The same recorded voice told me that the number had been changed. I grabbed a pen to take down the new one. The new one, said the voice, was unlisted.

  The third attempt was to Jessica's office. I knew it would be too soon for her to be back at work — at least I could leave a message. Instead of her voice mail, however, I got some receptionist. Jessica Levine was no longer employed by Glamour magazine, she told me. Not what I had expected.

  I had run out of attempts. For the next two days and nights I drank, puked my guts out, and drank some more. Next stop, oblivion.

  That's when the phone rang.

  It had rung before in those few days. Plenty of times, in fact. Calls from Dwight, Menzi, and other people who had our unlisted number, and each time I would stare at the answering machine and listen as they left their messages. Some sympathetic, others just pathetic. But this call changed everything.

  "Philip, are you there? It's me."

  There was no mistaking the voice, nor the fact that there was only one it's
me left in my life. Jessica was calling.

  I hurried to the phone and picked up. "I'm here," I said and repeated. "You knew I'd be alone, huh?"

  "I figured as much," she said in a quiet voice.

  "Where are you?"

  "At my mother's."

  "I tried to call you there," I said.

  "The reporters were relentless. She had to get a private number."

  "So I found out. I also tried to leave a message for you at your office. What happened?"

  "I quit," Jessica said. "I wouldn't be able to go back, at least not there, not with everything."

  She was probably right.

  "You know, I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from you again," I told her.

  "You weren't going to."

  "What changed your mind?"

  "Lack of sleep," she replied. "Every time I close my eyes I'm back in that hotel room. I guess I was thinking..." Her voice dropped off.

  "That talking would help?"

  "Maybe — I don't know. I thought so; that's why I called," she said, though sounding increasingly hesitant. "Only now I'm not so sure if it's such a good idea. I think I should go, Philip."

  "Wait, Jessica, don't," I implored her. "Listen, I know how hard this must be on you. It hasn't exactly been easy on me either. The thing is, the more I dwell on it, the more I realize... for us to face what happened I think we first have to face each other."

  "I can't do that," she said, afraid.

  "I know it seems that way."

  "No, really, I can't."

  "You have to try, Jessica. Otherwise you're never going to be able to leave that hotel room, and neither am I."

  She said nothing. She was thinking about it. A good sign.

  "Do you want to come here?" I asked, and waited.

  More thinking. "No. It would be too weird," she finally said.

  I understood. It was, after all, where Tracy lived, or at least had lived. "How about a restaurant?" I suggested. Of course, had our last get-together only been at a restaurant....

  "Maybe," said Jessica.

  "It would have to be somewhere out of the way," I said, "if you know what I mean."

  "All too well," she replied. "Some things never change."

  "No, they don't, do they?"

  With that, Jessica acquiesced. We picked the place and the time. Nadine's in the West Village at eight o'clock.

  THIRTY-SIX

  At two minutes of eight I walked into Nadine's and turned down the first table offered to me. It was near the front. The one in the back, I explained, would be much preferred. Whatever, shrugged the guy with the menus. I was happy to see that not only did he not recognize me, no one else seemed to either. There were no double takes, nor anyone leaning over for a whisper and nod my way. I sat down and waited for Jessica. It was quite fitting that here too I was the early one.

  As for how I looked, the difference was truly night and day. That afternoon when Jessica had called I was going on seventy-two hours without a shower and even longer without a shave. That's the thing about an alcohol binge. It doesn't leave much time or desire for hygiene.

  That night, however, I was all cleaned up. Looking pretty good in my chinos and Ted Baker shirt, if I do say so myself. A ponytailed waitress came by and asked if I wanted a drink while I waited for the other person to show. No, thanks, I told her. I was pretty sure that I'd already had my quota for the rest of the decade.

  Jessica arrived. As she walked toward me and sat down, I felt a twinge of nerves.

  "Hi," she said.

  "Hi," I said back.

  She appeared tired, quite understandable given the circumstances. Minimal makeup, her brown hair tucked behind her ears, black slacks and a lime green cardigan buttoned up over a simple white T-shirt. Granted, it wasn't the most inspired of ensembles, but it was far from suggesting any early onset of Widow's Surrender.

  Initially, it kind of felt like a first date, albeit a first date with someone I'd slept with many, many times. There were a few pauses and hesitant moments that stalled the conversation. We were tiptoeing around the subject, not knowing exactly how to get into it. Headfirst, I finally decided.

  "I thought you would hate me," I told her.

  "In a way I do," Jessica said. "Though not any more than I hate myself."

  "Those things I said to Connor at the end, the yelling and screaming, I was only trying to—"

  "Distract him... I know."

  "I didn't mean a word of it."

  "I understand."

  "Do you know where the funeral was?" I asked her, assuming all the way that she hadn't been exactly welcome at it.

  "Back in Providence, with his parents," she said.

  "I guess that makes sense," I said, nodding.

  The ponytailed waitress returned. Jessica asked for an iced tea and I remained fine with my water.

  Said Jessica when we were alone again, "Did Connor ever mention to you that his father was very religious?"

  "He may have, why?"

  "Because his father called me before the funeral and said that he wanted me to come to it. He quoted the Bible and proclaimed that he was willing to forgive me for what I had done to Connor. Can you believe that?"

  "You didn't kill him, Jessica."

  "But still..."

  "Yeah, I know."

  We dropped the subject for a bit, read our menus, and ordered. Jessica asked me about my job. I explained that, like her, I had also quit — the difference being that in my case there was no other choice. She wanted to know if I'd be looking to work for another firm in the city, or perhaps be moving out of town. I told her I hadn't thought about it.

  "How about yourself?" I asked. "Will you try to get with another magazine?"

  She hadn't thought about it either.

  We both had the pasta special. Penne with shrimp and broccoli. Jessica hardly touched hers.

  With the table cleared, we lingered over coffee. I was stirring in some cream when I looked up to see Jessica staring at me. Her expression said it all. We were about to get back into it.

  Jessica: "That day, when you first called me, you said we needed to talk. What happened?"

  "It was something Connor had said," I began slowly. "We were alone together in the limo the night before. He was about to get out when he told me that he knew for sure you were having an affair."

  "How could he have known for sure?"

  "He didn't say. Of course, he didn't want to say because he knew I was the one. I thought maybe you would have an idea."

  Jessica shook her head. "I don't."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Not that I can think of," she said. "So how did he find us?"

  "Simple. He followed me to the hotel."

  Jessica took a sip of her coffee. It was an oversized mug, and she held it with two hands. "There's something else, as you might imagine," she said.

  "What's that?"

  "The stuff about you and Tyler Mills. Connor said he thought you killed Tyler because he knew about our affair."

  I didn't flinch. "I'm still wondering about that myself," I said. "What's so weird is that you two didn't even know Tyler, so where Connor would ever get that idea I don't know. It certainly wasn't from me. The only possible explanation I can think of is that Connor was so angry he was saying anything to strike back at me. I mean, you saw him; you heard what he wanted us to do there in front of him — he was delirious."

  Jessica put down the mug. She looked at me and tilted her head. The words were deliberate. "I think you can do better than that," she said. I stared at her blankly as she folded her arms on the table. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

  "What makes you say that?" I asked.

  "Oh, I don't know," she replied, a quick edge in her voice. "Maybe it was the two visitors I had yesterday. I think you've met them — Detectives Hicks and Benoit? They said they had questioned you about Tyler Mills. Then they showed me the pictures."

  Easy now, Philip.

  "
What'd you tell them?" I asked, struggling for poise.

  "Nothing, you'll be glad to know. It was both of us in those pictures, and I was pretty sure they thought both of us had something to do with Tyler's murder. Besides, I wasn't about to tell them what Connor had said without first giving you the chance to explain. That much I owed you. Though not much more. Just please tell me that you can explain."

  "It's not what you think, Jessica."

  "The point is, I don't know what to think. You never told me anything about those pictures or the detectives. You hid all of it from me," she said. She leaned in over the table, her face illuminated by the light fixture overhead. "I did my part; I kept our stories straight. Now you have to do your part. You have to be straight with me."

  This was not the Jessica rendered helpless in that hotel room. This was the Jessica I knew. The Jessica that I used to take to bed. My kissable ambition. The girl who knew how to get what she wanted, and at that particular moment — with considerable leverage, I might add — what she wanted was the truth.

  So, fuck it, I told her.

  I told her because she had me. Because it was time the lying stopped. Because after the price she had paid, I thought she deserved to know. I told her because if she could be there with me in the wake of Connor's death, she could also understand my motive with Tyler, that he had been blackmailing me. Blackmailing us, when you thought about it. Surely she would understand.

  So I told Jessica about that first lunch at the Oyster Bar and how Tyler had been following me. The head games that ensued, culminating in his surprise visit to Balthazar. "My, you look familiar," Tyler had told Jessica. Yes she did, and he had the pictures to prove it. There was the meeting in the park and Tyler's upping the dollar amount, and there was my thinking that I had no other choice. It was either him or me.

  I described the plan. Then the night itself. My change of heart, my fit of conscience. The empty couch and Tyler with the knife. His throwing himself at me, and ultimately, that horrible clank! of his head hitting the radiator.

  I told her everything — all the way up through Tyler's letter, and when I finished, I asked Jessica with all my heart if she believed me.