by Stephen Frey
I didn’t get home until after three, but I still couldn’t sleep. So after two hours of tossing and turning, I got up, showered, and returned to Bedford, intent on losing myself in my work.
During the drive in I still couldn’t get Melanie out of my mind. I couldn’t stop imagining that scene at the Two O’Clock Club—her up on that stage with all those men watching. The absolute focus of their attention. The drunken applause as each piece of clothing came sliding slowly off her body. The wild cheers as she exposed everything.
It’s a few minutes after seven in the morning as I reach for my third cup of coffee. Someone’s coming down the aisle, and I look up from my computer screen and strain my neck to see who it is.
It’s Daniel and he walks straight into my cubicle. He doesn’t normally get in this early, but then he isn’t usually trying to close on a five-thousand-dollar loan.
“Morning,” he says quietly.
Without answering I take one more sip of coffee, then place the mug down and reach across the desk for my checkbook. It’s a miracle I remembered to bring it with me this morning, but I try to honor my commitments.
“There’s no need for that, Augustus.”
I glance up curiously from the check I’ve already half scrawled. “I told you I’d lend you the money, Daniel. I won’t back out of our agreement. My word’s good.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s all right,” he says, a resigned smile coming to his face. As if he’s lost a battle, but defeat hasn’t turned out to be so bad. “I don’t need the loan anymore.”
“What happened? Did Seaver cut you a break?”
“No, nothing like that. Seaver’s a shark. He’ll be coming to my cubicle sometime this morning for his money.”
“Then how did you work things out?”
“I took your advice. I called my father last night after I got home and had a chance to sober up.” Daniel sighs. “That’s the hardest call I’ve ever had to make. I had to admit that maybe I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was. Then I told him I needed the cash.”
“And he agreed to give it to you?”
“He did when I told him I’d made a very bad mistake leaving Georgetown, and that if he were still willing to pay my tuition, I’d go back this fall and finish my degree. I started to tell him that I’d understand if he didn’t want to shell out the cash, but he said not to worry. He didn’t even make me beg like I thought he would. He went pretty easy on me.”
“I’m glad.”
“It’s been a long time since he and I have talked like that,” Daniel says quietly. “About things that matter. It feels good to know I have someone I can count on when I really need help.”
I always wanted that kind of relationship with my father. Maybe I at least helped Daniel find it.
He shakes my hand. “I needed somebody to knock some sense into me, Augustus. I was acting like an idiot,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” I can tell by the way he looks me straight in the eye that he’s learned something important over the past twenty-four hours.
He’s about to go but hesitates. “You okay, Augustus?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You look beat.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
He hesitates by my desk a moment longer, then heads for his own cubicle.
I remember that my phone is still forwarded to voice mail, so I switch it back, then check for messages. There’s only one—the one that came yesterday afternoon. As I listen to it, I forget everything. My despair, my exhaustion, my satisfaction over helping Daniel. My breath quickens, I grip the phone tightly, and I hunch over my desk. Suddenly I’m numb.
The message is from a man named Scott Snyder who says he’s representing the Great Western Insurance Company and he’s calling in regard to the death of Melanie McKnight. Snyder’s got a deep voice and speaks with what sounds like a Brooklyn wiseguy accent. He says the insurance company won’t send me the death benefit proceeds until he’s had a chance to sit down with me and ask a few questions. He tries to use nonthreatening language while he goes into detail about slayer statutes and being unable to check appropriate boxes on the insurance claim until we meet. But the tone of his voice makes me think he might as well be telling me he’s going to hack off my fingers with an ax if I don’t tell him exactly what he wants to hear.
Snyder leaves a number for me to call at the end of his message, and I have to keep replaying the message to make certain I’ve written the numbers correctly because he races through the digits like he’s double-parked. When I hang up the receiver, I’m sweating like mad. I’ve had too much caffeine this morning.
Mary arrives around nine and leans over the cubicle partition to talk as soon as she’s put her pocketbook down. “I’m looking forward to dinner tonight,” she says. “This restaurant is supposed to be very nice. It’s been written up in the Post a few times and gotten great reviews.”
I’d forgotten all about her invitation. I’m in no mood to chaperone her anywhere, and in fairness to both of us, I’d be terrible company. “Mary, I think I’m coming down with something, and I just want to go home tonight right after work and sleep it off. Would you mind if I took a rain check?”
“You’ll be fine by this afternoon,” she says confidently. “We’ll have lots of fun.” With that she’s off to the ladies’ room, giving me no chance to argue.
Just before the nine-thirty opening a number of large technology companies report lousy quarterly earnings and the markets crater at the bell. The Wall Street gurus have been predicting bad news for several days, and when it actually hits, the reaction is devastating. Within five minutes the Nasdaq is off two hundred points and the Bedford trading floor has turned to chaos. As if a switch has been flipped, people are suddenly screaming and cursing at the top of their lungs. The noise level is three times its normal volume.
Slammer didn’t make it to his desk until just minutes before the opening bell—which is unusual—and he’s totally unprepared for the disaster. Over the partition it sounds like a barroom brawl. He shouts and repeatedly kicks a metal trash can beneath his desk. He didn’t close out all of his long positions last night, and the prices of those stocks have dropped off the table this morning with the negative earnings reports. The bid sides of his positions are falling at terminal velocity, and he can’t find the rip cords on their parachutes.
“Jesus freaking Christ!” he shouts, hurling what sounds like a stapler across his desk. “This is a joke!”
“Having fun this morning, Slammer?” I ask through the partition.
I realize that my comment may spark a volcanic reaction, but I don’t care. I’m in no mood for his attitude.
“Screw you, Gussie,” comes the response. “You piece of shit.”
Like a rocket, I’m out of my chair and on my feet. “I warned you, Slammer,” I shout, bolting out of my cubicle toward his. Above the chaos on the trading floor, I hear Mary scream at me to stop, and in my peripheral vision I see Roger and Daniel leap up from their chairs. But I’m laser-locked on the short man with the crewcut who has been the bane of my Bedford existence, and everything else blurs around me as I sprint toward him.
My self-control has finally and completely evaporated. I’ve been trying to deal calmly with the fact that my murdered wife has turned out to be a total stranger, but I can’t stop myself from erupting at this little prick who can’t keep his damn mouth shut. No one could blame me for this, I think to myself as adrenaline pumps through me at the prospect of a fight I realize I’ve wanted since the beginning. We’ll see what kind of Army Ranger training Slammer really has. I’m going to rip him limb from limb. I’m going to smash his face into his computer monitor. I’m going to make him pay for what Melanie has done to me.
As I race around the corner of his cubicle, I see Slammer reach into his briefcase and smoothly draw from it the huge .44 Magnum revolver that Mary was absolutely certain didn’t exist. He points the barrel directly at my chest, and I freeze, six feet away
from him. I’ve never had a gun aimed at me before, and it’s an amazingly sobering experience. What impresses me most is how calmly he produces the shiny silver weapon with the black handle—like an experienced gunslinger drawing from his holster. He isn’t fast or slow, just silky smooth. He times it so the weapon comes into view exactly as I enter his cubicle. As if he doesn’t want me to realize what he’s doing until I reach his cubicle because I might be able to turn away and escape if I see what’s happening too soon. But now I can’t move. My shoes are glued to the floor because the crazy-calm expression on his face tells me he’s capable of anything.
“What are you going to do now, Gus?” Slammer cocks the .44, then waves it menacingly at Mary, Roger, and Daniel in turn. “Don’t move,” he warns each of them. Then the barrel is back on me.
I’m vaguely aware of people rushing for the trading floor exits. They’re shrieking and shouting and climbing all over one another to get out. I glance over at Mary and she’s sitting at her desk, back ramrod straight, hands over her mouth, unable to move. Roger and Daniel look like freeze-frames with their arms held oddly away from their bodies and their eyes wide.
“Put the gun down,” I plead.
“Screw you!” comes his loud response.
“Nothing good can come of this if you keep going,” I say. “But if you stop now, it’s no big deal. We can forget it happened.”
“How can I make certain you’ll never forget it happened?”
For several seconds I say nothing, carefully considering my response. “I didn’t mean that I won’t remember,” I answer respectfully. “I will. You’ve made your point.”
Slammer’s eyes dart quickly to the right, and he waves the gun at Roger, whose hands are dropping slowly to his sides. “Get ’em back up!” he shouts.
Immediately Roger raises his arms back to where they were. It’s as if Slammer can see in all directions right now. Maybe I have underestimated him. Maybe he really does have extensive military training, and Mary was dead wrong about him exaggerating his capabilities. After all, she was dead wrong about the gun.
“What did you mean?” he asks me.
“I meant that there’s been no real harm done yet. You’ve scared the crap out of us and made your point. I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I shouldn’t have come at you the way I did. I was wrong. I apologize. Now we can get on with our day as if nothing happened and make some money.”
Slammer laughs loudly. “Do you really believe that?”
The trading floor has fallen strangely still. There’s still a commotion coming from outside the swinging doors at the far end of the room, but other than the five of us, everyone else has made it into the lobby. “Believe what?”
“That at this point we could get on with our day as if nothing really happened.”
“Yes,” I reply, forcing conviction into my voice, “I do.”
“Then you’re delusional or, more likely, lying. You might be able to go on with your day, but they’re going to cart me out of here in handcuffs. Or a straitjacket. Hell, I’ll be lucky to ever get out of the psycho ward they commit me to.” Slammer’s eyes narrow. “I’ve been in a place like that before. It’s no fun, and I ain’t going back.”
Mary lets out a muffled sob and Slammer levels the gun at her. She shrieks and I take a step toward him, but he turns the .44 back on me and once again I freeze.
“So what’ll it be, Gus?” he demands.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode, it’s beating so fast. “What are you talking about?” I can’t believe how calm Slammer is. It’s as if he’s been down this road before.
“What will leave a permanent impression of this day on your brain?”
“You showing mercy.”
“Good answer,” he says in a friendly voice, smiling as if we’re playing a harmless board game, “but not good enough. I’ve lost fifty thousand dollars in the past two months. Everything I had. A few minutes ago I said good-bye to my last dime, so I think you can understand why I’m not feeling very merciful at this moment.” His voice turns even tougher. “In fact, I’m feeling like I really want to hurt somebody. Like I want someone else to suffer too.”
“Let’s talk about it. I understand your pain.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Gus. You don’t want to talk about anything with me, and you don’t have any idea about my pain. You just want to get your sorry ass out of this situation in one piece. Once you’ve gotten this gun away from me you’ll turn me over to the cops and that’ll be that. I’m not stupid.”
“No, you aren’t,” I agree quickly.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Sorry.”
“So, what’ll it be?” he asks again, raising the weapon slightly so that it’s pointed at my face.
Sweat is pouring from my body, and I wonder how a .44-caliber Magnum shell would feel ripping through my skull. I only hope his aim is good so I don’t suffer too much. “I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll have to make the decision myself.” Slammer swings the gun away from me, points it directly at Daniel, and pulls the trigger without hesitation. Daniel doesn’t even have a chance to react. The bullet hits him square in the middle of his chest with an awful thud, propelling him violently back against his cubicle wall, which collapses under his weight. He sprawls on the floor, grabbing his chest and struggling for breath. He makes a gurgling noise, then his body goes completely still. It’s all over before any of us can even move.
I gaze at Daniel’s body while Slammer scrambles over the wall into Mary’s cubicle, grabs her roughly by the hair, and jerks her to her feet. Then he shoves the gun barrel against her ear. “Get to the conference room!” he shouts at Roger and me, motioning toward the room off the trading floor where less than a week ago I agreed to be Roger’s mentor. In the wake of the gunshot Slammer’s cool has vaporized, replaced by sheer panic.
“Don’t do this, Max,” I plead, avoiding the nickname he hates as I stare down at the horrible expression on Daniel’s lifeless face. I hear shouts from the lobby outside the swinging doors at the far end of the aisle, but I can’t take my gaze from Daniel’s open, unseeing eyes. An expanding puddle of dark blood is spreading out on the carpet beneath him. The wound in his chest is massive. The bullet must have gone straight through him. “Let Mary go, Max. Please.”
“Get in the conference room!” he yells wildly. “Get moving or I’ll shoot her too! Right before I blow both of you away.”
“My God,” Roger whispers as he moves unsteadily out of his cubicle, his lip curling as he glances at Daniel’s body. “He’s going to kill us all.”
“Shut up!” Slammer shouts, roughly pushing Mary ahead of him. He waves the gun at Roger, then me. “Move it!”
Roger and I stagger ahead of Mary. She’s begging for her life. Slammer pulls her hair back tightly so she has to look up at the ceiling and can’t see where she’s going as he forces her ahead.
“Let her go, Max,” I say over my shoulder. “Please.”
“Shut the hell up! Now get in there!” he orders as we near the conference room doorway. “Get inside.”
When the four of us are inside, Slammer pushes Mary farther ahead of him, then slams the door shut. Now we can’t see what’s happening out on the trading floor. We’re totally cut off.
“Sit down over there,” Slammer orders. He indicates exactly where he wants us to go as he trots quickly to the conference room windows and lowers the blinds. “Come on, move it! On the floor.”
We sit side by side on the floor in the corner farthest from the door, as Slammer directs. He hustles back to the door, squats down, grabs a brown rubber jamb, and wedges it between the bottom of the door and the carpet. He stands up slowly, gun pointed at the door. “No one’s coming in or leaving until I say so,” he mutters.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask. “There’s nowhere to run.”
“Don’t talk to him,” Mary cries, grasping my arm tightly. I’m sitting in the corner a
nd she’s between Roger and me. “For God’s sake, don’t provoke him,” she pleads. “He’s lost his mind, can’t you see that?”
Slammer’s gaze snaps from the door to her. “You think I’ve lost my mind, huh, Sassy?”
Mary hunches down against the wall and shields her face, realizing that she’s made a terrible mistake. “No, no, I don’t. I’m sorry,” she whimpers. I can hear sirens wailing in the background. “Please get me out of this alive,” she whispers to me. “I don’t want to die.”
“If you don’t shut up, you’ll be the first one to go,” Slammer warns her.
“Oh, God.” She buries her face in my arm.
Slammer walks slowly around the table until he’s standing directly in front of us. “Get up,” he says to her.
“No, please.”
“Don’t do this to her!” I yell so loudly my vocal cords feel like they’ll snap.
“Shut up!” he yells back, waving the gun wildly.
For fifteen seconds we stare at each other until finally he reaches down—gun pointed directly into my face—grabs Mary by her hair again, and brutally yanks her to her feet. She screams in pain as he hurls her against the far wall. As I instinctively scramble to stand up, he points the .44 at me and fires twice. Two searing blasts thunder past my left ear. For a moment I’m completely deaf and feel like I’ve been sent into a kind of suspended animation where everything is happening in slow motion. Then I tumble to the floor, hands over my ears, fearing the worst. But in the seconds after the gunshots I realize I’m not hit. There are two holes pocking the wall above me, but I have no pain other than a sharp ache in one ear, and I’m still conscious. For some reason, Slammer wasn’t trying to hit me, just terrify me. He was five feet away when he fired, and I know he could easily have killed me.
I glance over at Roger. He has turned toward the wall on his knees and covered his face with his hands, cowering. He’ll be no help if I see a chance to make a break for Slammer and try to wrestle the gun away. His true colors are shining through—as everyone’s do when the chips are down.