by Jason Starr
“Crazy?”
“That he thought he’d get away with something like that. I mean to expect that the police would actually think that Ed was killed during a robbery attempt while he was going to the bathroom! It’s just ludicrous.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I see what you mean.”
“But I guess it just shows his state of mind at the time. But I’ll tell you one thing, he can forget about an insanity defense. I’m no lawyer, but the way he planned this thing, trying to cover his tracks, I think it shows that he was clearly aware of what he was doing.”
I nodded silently, thinking about a lot of things at once.
“Anyway, the reason I wanted to speak to you,” Nelson said, “is now that Ed’s gone we’re going to need someone to run the Telemarketing Department and personally I think you’re the best man for the job. Do you think you’re up for it?”
“I’d be honored,” I said.
“Good. We’ll discuss the specifics tomorrow or the next day when things start to settle down. But today just try to run things the best you can. We’ll talk about your new salary tomorrow too.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “It’s hard to get happy on such a sad day.”
“You’re a good man,” Nelson said. “You deserve it.” As I was getting up, he said, “By the way, did you know this Greg Brown at all?”
“I worked with him,” I said, “but we weren’t friends or anything like that.”
“You know how I’m not really in touch with what goes on in the Telemarketing Department. I was wondering, before that incident when he went after Ed, did he ever give you any indication that he was, well, unstable?”
“Like I told the police yesterday, he made comments from time to time, but I never took any of it very seriously. I feel awful about it now, but I always thought he was just joking.”
“When you say comments, you mean racial comments?”
“Sometimes.”
Nelson suddenly looked angrier. His face was pinker.
“You know me, Bill, I’m an equal opportunity employer. I don’t have any black friends to speak of, but in or out of the office I certainly don’t consider myself to be a racist. But putting all that aside, if he really did this, I hope to God that there’s a hell, so Greg Brown can burn in it.”
I nodded in agreement, then went back to my office. I wished I could enjoy my promotion, but I was still thinking about what Nelson had said about the police finding the wallet. It was stupid of me to have dumped the wallet so close to my apartment. If the police ever had any reason to suspect me for the murder, they’d also realize why the wallet was found on the Upper East Side. I wished I’d dumped it in an out-of-the-way neighborhood or in another borough. But, I remembered, I hadn’t had time to do that. To make my alibi stand up I needed to get home as fast as possible and dumping the wallet where I dumped it may have been my best and only option.
By nine o’clock, most of the telemarketers who worked the morning shift had arrived at the office. The atmosphere was glum, subdued, and it surprised me how hard some people were taking Ed’s death. I mean I could understand how it could be traumatic to find out that your boss has been murdered, but he wasn’t exactly the most lovable guy in the world. A few people were crying and hugging and I went out of my way to thank everyone for coming in today. I’d been playing the role of griever for so long and I was getting so good at it that I was starting to believe in my grief myself. To me, the wetness in my eyes and the sincerity in my voice wasn’t fake, it was real, which made my performance all the more convincing.
Near the time clock I said hello to Mike. His eyes were red, as if he’d been crying.
“I don’t know if I can handle being here today,” he said.
“If you can’t, go home,” I said. “I’ll understand.”
“You?” He looked puzzled. “You mean –”
“Nelson told me this morning. I’m going to be running the department from now on.”
Although he tried to hide it, Mike’s jealousy was obvious. For the first time since I’d left Smythe & O’Greeley, I experienced how it felt to be in power, to control, and I remembered how much I liked it.
“Well, I guess I should congratulate you,” Mike said. “This was a lucky break for you, huh?”
“Fate,” I said. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”
I conducted the morning meeting. With an appropriately grim expression, I announced that I was taking over Ed’s position, but not to worry, I wasn’t planning any dramatic overhauls of the department. After a couple of weeks, I said, when things started to return to normal, I’d outline some changes I wanted to make. Until then, everything would be run the same as usual, or as usual as could be under the circumstances. I concluded that in light of yesterday’s tragedy, I didn’t expect people to make an incredible amount of appointments today, and that anyone who felt like it could go home early.
Afterwards, although no one was smiling, I could tell that everyone was happy I was going to be running the department. I was a well-liked guy – a lot better liked than Ed ever was – and I think people were glad that finally things were going to be conducted at the company in a sensible manner.
Marie Stipaldi came into my office. Since that day we had spoken with Greg in the room with the concession machines, I’d only spoken to her once. It was a day last week when we’d met to discuss her recent performance on the phones. She’d been doing well, averaging nearly fifteen appointments per week.
During the meeting, I’d noticed there was something different about Marie. Usually, I found her attractive, in an ethnic Italian kind of way. She had a thin, well-proportioned body and she always dressed well. But today her face looked paler, more drawn than usual, as if she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. When she came into my office the first thing I noticed was the darkness under her eyes.
“You have a minute?” she said.
“Sure,” I said. “Come in.”
I didn’t know why, but I had an eerie feeling about things. She sat down and started crying.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to cry.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Can I get you a tissue?”
“No, no, I have one. Just give me a sec, okay?” She took a tissue from a package of tissues she had and wiped her nose and eyes. “There, I’m better now, it’s just so fucking hard.”
I was getting impatient, wondering why she had come in here to talk with me. Did she just want someone to cry with or did she have some other agenda? Rather than pushing her, I decided to wait, say nothing. Eventually, she’d get to it.
She was staring at me. I wondered if she was trying to see something.
“So, Bill,” she said, “what do you think?”
“Think?” I said. “Think about what?”
“Did Greg do it?”
“Got me,” I said. “I hope not.”
“Me too. It looks pretty bad though, huh?”
“Sure does,” I said sadly.
“I just can’t believe he’d actually murder someone,” she said. “I mean he could talk a good game, but I thought that’s all he was – all talk, no action.”
“Me too,” I said. “But I guess you just never know with some people.”
She stared at me again, the same way as before.
“You Catholic?” she asked.
Caught off-guard, I laughed.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she said. “Just curious.”
“For the time being,” I said. “But I’m planning to convert to Judaism. I’m getting married.”
She didn’t seem to be listening to me.
“You know, I keep hoping the police will find some other suspect,” she said. “But the way they’re talking about it on the news it sounds like they’re sure Greg did it.”
“I heard he wants to take a lie detector test.”
“Yeah?” she said curiously. “I don’t know about you, but I’m posi
tive, deep down in my heart, that Greg didn’t do it. And I feel awful about the things I told the police. They wanted to know whether Greg ever said anything bad to me about Ed and I had no choice but to tell them what he said to us that day when we were by the soda machines. You remember, about Ed burning in a fire?”
“I know how you feel,” I said. “I had to tell them the same thing.”
“I tried to tell the detective that I thought he was just joking, but I don’t think he believed me. I think they want to believe Greg did it.”
For a few more seconds, Marie just sat there, staring at me. I was getting uncomfortable so I told her that we really ought to get to work now. I watched her go to her cubicle, waiting to see if she’d look back at me. She didn’t, but this didn’t make me feel any better. I was still afraid that she suspected me of the murder. Why else had she come to speak to me? If she just wanted to share her grief with me, she could have approached me in the conference room, after the meeting. But instead she waited until she could see me alone. Maybe she was hoping I’d slip up, give some indication of my guilt. Why else did she stare at me that way and ask me whether or not I was Catholic?
I had to keep an eye on her, I thought. Just in case.
Surprisingly, I didn’t think about the murder much the rest of the day. I got involved in my work and thinking about what changes I would make in the department. My goal was to double sales at the company in six months. If I could do that, it would give me something to brag about when I started interviewing again for jobs in advertising. I imagined the first agency I interviewed at falling in love with me, asking me whether I could start immediately. Of course I wouldn’t accept the first job that was offered to me. I’d go on other interviews and soon a bidding war would develop over me. Finally, I’d accept a job for six figures a year and then Julie and I could move out of our dump studio apartment into a doorman duplex with two bedrooms and two baths. On weekends, I imagined myself sitting in my health club by the pool, a cellular phone next to me. It would ring and I’d answer it, tell whoever was calling that I was busy right now, could they please call back later.
Passing Ed’s office, I paused, imagining how I’d decorate it. The paint on the walls was peeling so I’d have to order a paint job, and I had to buy some room freshener to get rid of the nauseating odor of Ed’s cologne. I remembered how less than a month ago I had been seated across from Ed in this very same office, listening to him pompously explain how he had no choice but to back up Mike’s decision to send me home early. I’d thought that would be the last day I’d set foot in this office, and I realized how strange it was how well everything had worked out for me. It was almost as if I’d written the script of my life myself, planned out in advance exactly how I wanted things to happen.
The only down part of the day was when Nelson stopped by my office late in the afternoon and told me that Greg had failed the lie detector test.
“So I guess that settles it,” he said. “And I’ll tell you one thing, there are going to be some hot coals waiting for that young man, if you know what I’m saying.”
Although I was happy that the police weren’t trying to search for any new leads, I was upset that Greg was still being blamed for the murder. That was the only part of the script I would change, I decided. Instead of Greg, the police would have arrested Mike or Nelson or anyone else. Like I’ve said, of all the people I’d worked with at A.C.A., Greg was the only person I ever considered a friend. I imagined Greg sitting in his prison cell on Riker’s Island, scared and confused, without any idea of how he’d wound up there. I wished there was a way I could help him, but my feelings of guilt weren’t strong enough that I was about to go to the police and turn myself in. If Greg spending the rest of his life in jail was the price I had to pay for my success, then so be it.
I left the office at about five-thirty. There had been a thunderstorm earlier in the afternoon, but now the sun was shining brightly. It was still very hot, but it felt more comfortable than before because the humidity had dropped considerably. I crossed Eighth Avenue at Forty-fourth Street and walked east. There were several theaters on this block and I was looking up at a marquis when I felt someone grab me from behind. My first instinct was that I was being mugged and I was prepared to give the person or persons whatever they wanted. I may have even said, “Take my wallet,” although I already had a hunch that it wasn’t my money they were after. I was forced into a black van where a man with a mustache and slicked back hair was smiling at me. A voice behind me said, “Go,” and the van angled off the curb and drove away. I knew my script was about to take a turn for the worse.
13
The man with the mustache had a gun. He had it in his left hand, out on his lap for me to see. The guy behind me, the one who’d grabbed me on the street, was putting handcuffs around my wrists. His hands were hot and sweaty. The whole van smelled like marijuana. It was very dark too. Black curtains covered the windows and the only light came from the small orange bulb on the ceiling.
“What you want me to do, Johnny?” the guy behind me said with a Puerto Rican accent. “You want me to fuck him up?”
Johnny, the man with the mustache, said something in Spanish, then he said, “We’ll see what my man has to say for himself first,” and then he said something else in Spanish. By his tone, I knew he wasn’t complimenting me.
He pressed the gun against my cheek. I tried to move away, but the other guy behind was holding my shoulders now. Up front the driver was laughing. I heard someone else laughing behind me so there were at least four people in the van.
“You know why you’re here, my man, so I don’t gotta waste no time explaining it to you,” Johnny said.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” I said. “I’m not who you think I am.”
Everybody in the van laughed. It seemed like the laughing went on for a minute, but it was probably only for a few seconds. Things were very distorted, like in a dream.
“You a funny guy, my man,” Johnny said, suddenly serious. “But I think you should know that me and my friends, we don’t make no mistakes. You the one made the mistake. That’s why you here.”
I thought about the murder, wondering if this was somehow related to it. Could these guys be cops? But why would undercover cops grab me off the street and take me away in a van? It didn’t make sense.
“Who are you?” I said. “What do you want from me?”
Again they laughed, talking in Spanish. Johnny said, “I got a bad feeling about you, my man. I usually don’t get like that. Ask anybody. I’m usually everybody’s best friend.” He said something in Spanish, then he said, “People come to me when they need help and I always help ’em out. Ain’t that right, Carlos?”
“Word,” the guy holding my arms said.
“But you, I don’t like you from the minute I seen you,” Johnny said. “You got this look like you think you’re better than everybody else, but meanwhile you’re just a piece of shit. I see shit like you every day on the streets. You act like you king of the world and shit, ’cause you got money and suits and ties and all that shit. But I can see through all that bullshit. I’m like the Puerto Rican Superman, but right now I’m dressed up like fuckin’ Clark Kent. I may not look so bad, but what you see ain’t what you get.”
The van made a sharp right turn, pulling me to the left, pushing the gun harder against my cheek. The curtains on the window moved for a second, letting more light into the van, but I couldn’t see where we were going. It got dark again quickly.
“I still don’t know what you want from me, man,” I said, trying to talk like I was street-wise. “But whatever it is, you can have it. I won’t fight with you for it. You want my wallet? If you want it, it’s in my right front pocket. You can have it if you want it.”
“I don’t want your fuckin’ wallet,” Johnny said. “I show you what I want.”
He swung his hand with the gun into my face like a backhand stroke in tennis. The butt of the gun hit my nose and I fe
lt like I couldn’t breathe. Then the pain came. I screamed, begging him to stop.
“What’s that?” he said. “You want some more?”
He hit me again, harder than the first time if that was possible. I felt the blood pouring over my lips like water from a faucet. I tried to scream again, but the pain was too severe.
“You hit my girl, you hit me, understand, my man? We the same person. Different body, same person.”
“I think he said he wants you to hit him again,” the voice in the back said.
The driver laughed.
“That what you want?” Johnny said to me. “You want the rest of your nose broke?”
“I didn’t do it,” I gasped. “You have the wrong guy.”
“See, now that’s what I hate,” Johnny said. “If you just a rich, white, suit-and-tie, king-of-the-world motherfucker, I can deal with that shit. But I hate liars. We all hate liars, right?”
Everyone spoke at once in Spanish.
Then Johnny said, “Carlos, show my man how much I hate liars.”
The guy who put me in the handcuffs pulled back the pinky on my right hand until it snapped. They put something in my mouth to keep me from screaming.
“I got a feeling my man still don’t understand,” Johnny said. “Show him again.”
The guy behind me broke my ring finger, then my middle finger, then my index finger. Every time a finger broke they laughed harder.
Johnny said, “Save him his thumb, so he can hitch his faggot-ass a ride home. But understand, my man, and understand me good, you ever touch one of my girls again, I’ll find you again, and next time I won’t be so nice. I’ll break your thumb, and I’ll break all your other fingers. Then I’ll break your hands and your arms and your legs and your feet and every bone in your goddamn stupid-ass body. Now get the fuck out my van!”
They took off my handcuffs and pushed me out the door. I landed on my back on top of something hard. The van sped away. I stayed on the ground a long time, my face in something mushy and fishy. I was in too much pain to move. I squeezed my eyes closed hoping this was all a bad dream. Finally, I rolled on to my side and saw I was in some abandoned lot. There was garbage everywhere. I pulled the old rag out of my mouth and coughed, trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t decide which hurt more, my nose or my hand. I tried not to think about either.