by Jason Starr
“So you gonna get the money or not?” Charlotte asked.
“Where am I gonna get twenty thousand dollars?” I said.
“You got a bank account.”
“I’m a reporter. You know how much I make?”
“So you must got a few thousand bucks in the bank. That’ll keep Kenny quiet till—”
“Do you have wax in your ears?” I said. “I’m broke. My credit cards are maxed out, I have nothing in savings. You’d be better off going out on the street and trying to blackmail a homeless guy.”
“I’m not blackmailing you,” she said.
“Wait, I have an idea,” I said with fake enthusiasm. “Why didn’t I think of this right away? What was your bottom price for sex—twenty-five bucks? That means you’d only have to fuck eight hundred guys to make twenty grand. Better get started.”
Charlotte managed to maintain her serious, slightly frightened expression, but I knew she was in on this. Kenny was probably at her apartment right now, waiting for her.
I looked away again. There were still about a dozen drunks at the front of the bar, but Charlotte and I had the back to ourselves. The grunge song ended and the bar was much quieter again; it was possible to make out people’s voices.
“Let’s say I come up with the money,” I said, nearly whispering. “How do I know you’ll stop?”
“I’ll stop?”
“You and Kenny.”
“I don’t know why you keep—”
“Okay,” I said, placating her. “How do I know Kenny’ll stop? I could give him the twenty grand tonight and tomorrow he’ll ask for another twenty.”
“He won’t.”
“Really? And what makes you so sure?”
“Because he said he wants twenty grand—that’s it.”
“Oh, so now I’m supposed to trust a guy who makes his living picking pockets and running blackmailing scams? You think I’m gonna give him twenty grand, shake his hand, walk away, and think it’s all over?”
“You got a better idea?”
She was looking right at me, and there was a different, more sincere tone in her voice. I was starting to believe her, at least about not planning all of this with Kenny.
“There might be another problem,” I said. “I saw one of your neighbors last night, while you were out with Kenny. I mean, one of your neighbors saw me.”
“What neighbor?”
“Light-skinned black guy.”
“Andre?”
“We didn’t introduce ourselves.”
“What about him?”
“He looked out of it,” I said, “but he saw me—in the hallway.”
“Why were you in the hallway?”
“I was just . . . It’s not important.”
“Forget about Andre,” Charlotte said. “He’s an ex-con and a dealer—he’ll never talk to the cops. What about Kenny’s money?”
“Tell him I need time.”
“He won’t give us—”
“One day,” I said. “Tell him we’ll give him a payment tomorrow night.”
“Why can’t you get the money tonight?”
“Because I don’t have any fucking money,” I said, raising my voice.
A couple of guys at the bar looked over. I ignored them and they turned away.
“Can’t you get anything tonight?” Charlotte asked.
There was a different kind of desperation in her voice, and I realized she was more concerned about getting her next fix than getting Kenny his money.
“Just get the hell out of here,” I said. “I can’t deal with any more of this bullshit right now.”
“What about the—”
“Just go.”
Charlotte sat there, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, then said, “You better get some money tomorrow—at least a thousand bucks. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at Starbucks on Astor.”
“I won’t have the money in the morning.”
“Then I’ll meet you at noon.”
“I have to work tomorrow—”
“Six o’clock,” she said. “You better fucking be there.”
Charlotte got up and wobbled toward the door. As she passed a few drunk guys at the bar, she stopped and said something to each of them, obviously trying to pick them up. Two guys ignored her, and then one old guy grabbed her arm, trying to pull her toward him. The bartender said something, and the guy, laughing now, let go. Rubbing her arm where the guy had grabbed her, Charlotte left the bar.
I remained seated, figuring I should allow some time for Charlotte to leave the block before I left.
After listening to the end of “Wish You Were Here” and a live version of “Sweet Jane,” I put the scraps of the ripped-up photos into my jacket pocket and went outside. It was raining lightly. I didn’t see Kenny or anyone else who looked suspicious, so I headed toward First Avenue. No cabs were coming, so I put my hood on and started walking uptown with my head down against the wind.
9
I CONTINUED WALKING in the rain. Somewhere around Fourteenth Street I dropped the ripped-up photo pieces into a sewer grating. At Twenty-third Street, the rain started coming down harder and my jacket was getting soaked and my face was wet, so I gave in and took a cab the rest of the way home.
At my apartment, Rebecca was still asleep in the bedroom. I changed out of my wet clothes into sweats, and then took a spare blanket and pillow out of the closet.
“You can join me anytime you want to, baby,” Rebecca said seductively, sounding wide-awake.
Without answering, I went out into the living room and plopped down on the couch. Eventually, I fell asleep.
AT EIGHT A.M., out of the shower and getting dressed for work, I decided I’d have to bring Charlotte the thousand bucks. I’d been going back and forth on it since leaving the bar last night, but I realized I had no choice. Paying off a blackmailer for something I hadn’t even done still seemed crazy, but the pictures were just too incriminating. Maybe if I made it clear to Charlotte that the thousand was all I had, Kenny would leave me alone. My only problem was that I didn’t have a thousand bucks, although I had an idea where I could get it.
I’d managed to get my work clothes out of the bedroom without waking Rebecca up, and I made it out of the apartment without another confrontation.
It felt strange arriving for another day of work when, after I’d left yesterday, I was convinced that I would never be back.
I was hanging up my coat on the hook in my office when Peter Lyons came by. He craned his head down to glare at me, and then, in the voice of a wannabe Shakespearean actor, he said, “Et tu, Brute?”
I looked at him, confused. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll get your just deserts,” he said. “All backstabbers ultimately do.”
Suddenly I remembered my conversation with Jeff yesterday and realized Peter must’ve been fired.
“I swear, Peter—I had nothing to do with this.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said sarcastically. “I’m sure you haven’t been campaigning for this behind my back for months. I’m sure you didn’t spread nasty rumors about me throughout the office and create a general feeling of malcontent about my editing style.”
Peter sounded like a parody of himself, and if I hadn’t been in such a bad mood to begin with, I probably wouldn’t have been able to restrain myself from laughing.
“Look, I really didn’t want to see you lose your job,” I said. “If you want me to talk to Jeff—”
“Don’t bother,” Peter said. “To be quite honest, I’ve been contemplating jumping ship for some time. The quality of this magazine has been deteriorating rapidly over the past few years, and with you as associate editor I am quite certain that the pattern is not likely to correct itself.”
Peter stormed away melodramatically. I felt bad that he’d been fired on account of me, and then it sank in that I was the new associate editor. It wasn’t exactly like getting an editor’s position at the Journal, but Manhattan Business
had a lot of subscribers in the New York area, and the job title would certainly help my résumé stand out. If I weren’t being blackmailed for murder I might’ve been excited about it.
I sat at my desk and called my aunt Helen at her work number. Helen had had the same job for years, as an office manager for an outerwear distributor in the Garment District. When I was a kid it was great, because I always got a new parka or down jacket every winter. Over the years, she continued to offer me free coats, but they were all so dorky-looking I always had to think of inventive ways to decline. I spoke with my aunt on the phone every once in a while, but I hadn’t seen her in over a year. She still lived alone, in the house I’d been raised in, in Dix Hills, Long Island. Her husband, my uncle Howard, had died of a heart attack a few years after my parents were killed, and Helen had never remarried.
Helen’s voice mail answered. I left a message for her to call me back as soon as she could, and then I booted up my computer. A memo had been added to my calendar about a two o’clock staff meeting that Jeff was conducting in the conference room. I wondered if the meeting was to announce my promotion.
My phone rang and I answered it. It was Helen.
“Thanks for calling me back so soon,” I said.
“No problem, David. I was just on the other line—it was so good to hear your voice. How are you?”
“Okay,” I said.
She must have detected my uncertainty. “Is something wrong?”
“No, everything’s fine—totally fine,” I said. “I just need to see you. Can we meet for lunch today?”
“You sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Can you do lunch?”
“Of course.”
“How’s noon?”
“Noon’s okay,” she said, sounding concerned.
“Great, I’ll come by your office,” I said, and hung up.
I called my voice mail and listened to an angry message from Robert Lipton, the CEO of Byron Technologies. He said that a fact-checker had faxed him a copy of the story I’d written, and that if the magazine published “this bullshit” he would take legal action. He was still screaming at me when I deleted the message.
I went down the corridor to where Theresa, Jeff’s assistant, sat and said, “Who fact-checked my Byron Technologies story?”
“Sujen,” Theresa said. “Why? Is there some problem?”
Sujen was the new intern, a young Korean-American student from Columbia University.
“She faxed the CEO the entire story,” I said.
“She wasn’t supposed to do that,” Theresa said.
“Really?” I said sarcastically.
I went to Sujen’s cubicle, ready to give her hell, but when I got there and saw this pretty, innocent girl sitting in front of her computer monitor I lost my edge. She’d been working at the magazine for only a few weeks, so it was understandable that she’d had a slipup. We’d had one conversation, in the elevator one morning. She’d told me she was a journalism major and hoped to write for the Times someday.
“Hi, Sujen,” I said.
“Oh, hi, David.”
I was surprised she remembered my name.
“Did you fax Robert Lipton my article?”
I could tell she was nervous.
“Yes,” she said, “but only because he said I should.”
“Weren’t you told not to do that?”
“Yes,” she said, “but he said he spoke with you and—”
“In the future could you try not to do that?” I said. “I mean, it’s no big deal, but in the future just check the quotes, okay?”
“I’m so sorry, David. He swore to me he spoke to you and you okayed it. You weren’t around, so I just faxed it to him. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Just don’t do it again, please.”
I headed back toward my cubicle, feeling like a wimp. Sujen was a bright girl, and she should’ve known better than to fax that article. Anyone else would’ve given her hell for it.
Sitting at my desk, I was checking my e-mail messages when Angie entered.
“Did you hear?” she said in a gossipy tone. Then she whispered, “Peter was fired.”
“I heard,” I said. I didn’t feel like having this conversation.
“So it’s official—you’re the new associate editor.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s so unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“How come you’re not more excited?”
“I am.”
“This is so great. I’ll have a normal person editing my stories now—not some pseudo-British freak. Do you want to go to lunch to celebrate?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m meeting my aunt.”
Angie looked at me as if she thought I might be lying, and then she said, “That’s cool—I guess we’ll do lunch some other time. Maybe Monday.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Angie started to leave; then she turned back and said, “I just wanted to say sorry for yesterday.”
“Sorry for what?” I said.
“I shouldn’t’ve butted in.”
“Come on,” I said, “you didn’t—”
“No, it was wrong,” she said. “I just got a little concerned, that’s all, but I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I just hope you’re not mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I felt bad about it all night.”
“Stop it,” I said.
Angie smiled, looking especially cute, then said, “Stop by later and say hi?”
“I will,” I said, and then I watched her leave.
I was glad that things seemed smoothed over between Angie and me, but now I was even more frustrated that I couldn’t ask her out.
To distract myself, I made some calls about the story I was doing on PrimeNet Solutions, a Silicon Alley DSL company. The company had recently downsized its operations and had a questionable financial position, but their subscriptions were soaring, thanks to outstanding customer service and competitive price points along its entire product line. Deciding that the article would definitely have a positive spin, I conducted a phone interview with the company’s CFO and scheduled calls with several analysts who I knew were familiar with the DSL industry.
At twenty to twelve, I left the office and took the subway downtown to Thirty-fourth, then walked back up a few blocks to the Garment District. My aunt Helen worked in one of the bleak, prewar, industrial-looking buildings on Thirty-seventh Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenue. I took the rickety elevator up to the sixth floor and rang the doorbell to her office.
A young gay guy greeted me, and then Helen came over and hugged me. She was sixty-three, but except for some deepened wrinkles she looked the same to me as she always had. Her short, curly hair had been dyed the same shade of maroon for years, and she was still about twenty pounds overweight. She always seemed to be cheerful and optimistic no matter what was going on in her life. I wished I had some of that quality.
“It’s so good to see you, David,” she said.
Her raspy, Joan Rivers–like voice reminded me of the way Barbara could impersonate her so perfectly.
“What’s so funny?” Helen asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s good to see you too.”
Helen introduced me to several people in her office, and then she reached into a big box of ugly brown winter jackets and asked me if I needed a medium or a large.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I just bought a new jacket last winter.”
“So?” she said. “You’ll need a new one next winter. Just take one.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “My closet’s so crowded—I really have to start throwing things out.”
“I’m gonna get you to take a free jacket one of these years,” she said, smiling.
We rode back down in the elevator and left the building.
“What do you want for lunch?” she asked. “Chinese, Italian, Japane
se—it’s on me.”
“No, I’m taking you out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in ages. This is my treat.”
I suggested that we go to wherever was closest, so we went to a Chinese place near Eighth Avenue. As we were looking at our menus we caught up on each other’s lives. She was considering selling her house and moving into a condo closer to the city, and she and a few friends had recently had a great time on a Carnival cruise to Nova Scotia. She asked me about Rebecca—she’d never met her, but they’d spoken on the phone a couple of times—and I told her that Rebecca was fine and everything was great. Then I told her that I needed a favor.
“Anything for you, David.”
“Something’s come up and I need to borrow some money,” I said. “It’s not much, and I promise I’ll pay you back.”
“Of course,” she said tentatively. “How much do you need?”
“A thousand dollars.”
She hesitated then said, “Okay, I can lend you a thousand dollars.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll give you the money back in a few weeks. I promise.”
“How’s your job going?”
“My job’s fine. I’m getting a promotion, actually.”
“That’s great. Congratulations.”
She was looking at me, confused, waiting for me to tell her why I needed the money.
“I just got into a little situation,” I said. “I got in over my head with something, but it’s going to be fine.”
“Is it drugs?”
I laughed. “No, of course not.”
“Because I remember in high school you had that pot problem—”
“I didn’t have a pot problem,” I said. “I smoked less pot than half the kids in my class, but, to answer your question, no, the money isn’t for drugs—I swear to God.”
“I trust you, David, but if you’re in some kind of trouble—”
“It’s nothing like that,” I said. “It’s just for something . . . personal.”
“Is Rebecca pregnant?”
“No, of course not—”
“Because if she is, I’d understand—”
“She isn’t pregnant,” I said. “Someday I’ll tell you all about what’s going on—I promise. I just can’t tell you about it now. I hope you can understand that.”