Twisted City

by Jason Starr

  Of course, I had no intention of ever telling her anything about what was going on, but I couldn’t think of any better way to stop her probing.

  “Fine,” she said, “we can go to a cash machine after lunch.”

  “A thousand may be over the ATM’s limit. Can we withdraw the money instead?”

  Sensing the desperation in my voice, Helen gave me a long stare.

  “Yes, we can do that if you want,” she said.

  The waiter came over and took our orders. I welcomed the distraction, and when he left I changed the subject, asking Helen if she was planning to retire.

  “Me, retire?” she said. “What would I do without work?”

  “You could move to Florida with your sister, I guess.”

  “And play bingo until I drop dead? No, thank you. I love my job and I’m gonna stay till they get sick of seeing my face. So what’s with this promotion?”

  “I’m the associate editor now.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I read your articles all the time, and I tell all my friends to read them too. I liked the one you did about how the price of office space is starting to go up downtown.”

  “Yeah, that was an exciting one.”

  “I enjoyed it,” she said. “It was a very interesting article, and very well written too. You shouldn’t put yourself down that way.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I dipped a couple of fried noodles into duck sauce and chewed. Our wonton soups arrived and I started eating mine quickly, bringing the bowl up to my face the way the Chinese do.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Helen said, “but have you gone to see someone?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked without looking up.

  “I remember how devastated you were at Barbara’s funeral and how depressed you were afterward. I was very worried about you.”

  “I got through it,” I said, trying not to get upset.

  “Are you sure?” she said. “I know after Howard died my depression lasted for years. I wasn’t aware of it at the time either—I probably did a good job of hiding it from you kids. You and Barbara were so close, it’s natural that it would be harder than you think to get over her passing.”

  “We weren’t that close.”

  “Come on, you two were practically inseparable,” Helen said. “I remember the way Barbara used to light up whenever you came into the room. It was like there was a spark between you. And you used to spend so much time together.”

  “I’m over it—really,” I said, and I started eating my soup even faster.

  “My friend Alice’s son Benjamin is a grief counselor,” Helen said. “He’s a nice guy too. I met him a few times—your age, from West Orange. There was a write-up about him in New York magazine last year. Call him—maybe your insurance’ll cover it.”

  “I’m not calling anybody,” I snapped.

  I hadn’t raised my voice to Helen in years, maybe since I was a teenager, and she was visibly taken aback.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said, starting to eat her soup. “I shouldn’t’ve pried.”

  Our dishes arrived. We ate for a while without speaking, and then Helen said, “Good, huh?” and I said, “Yeah.” We had some more awkward conversation about minutiae. I was suddenly full and couldn’t finish my chow fun. Helen left over most of her chicken with cashews.

  When the waiter asked us if we wanted any dessert I said to Helen, “I think we should get to the bank now.”

  We went to the Citibank on Thirty-fourth and Seventh. I waited near the front while she went up to one of the tellers and withdrew the money. Then she came over to me and handed me ten crisp hundreds.

  “I really appreciate this,” I said. “And I’ll pay you back in two weeks, tops.”

  “You pay me back whenever you can, dear.”

  We went outside. The sun had been out, but now it was cloudy. We hugged good-bye; she squeezed a lot harder than I did.

  “Take care of yourself, David.”

  I smiled, as if she were being frivolous. Then I realized she meant it.

  “I will.”

  AT A FEW minutes past two, I arrived back at my office. No one seemed to be around—even the secretaries’ desks were unattended—then I noticed people crowded inside the conference room and I remembered Jeff’s meeting.

  When I entered the conference room everyone seemed to say at once, “Ah, here he is.” Someone made a crack about having to send out a search party, and then there was so much talking and laughing I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying.

  Jeff was at the head of the conference table. Raising his voice above the din he said, “We were getting worried about you.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Come up here,” Jeff said. “Let’s get this started.”

  I went and stood next to Jeff, feeling suddenly hot, the way I always did when I was the center of attention. I noticed Angie, standing in the back next to Roger Gibson, another reporter, and Debbie D’Mato, who worked in Sales. Angie was smiling, giving me the thumbs-up sign.

  “I’m sure most of you have already heard the news by now,” Jeff said, “but this morning Peter was let go.”

  A few people yelled out, “Yeah!” and “Hurrah!” and then everybody laughed, the way people at office meetings always laugh—a little too boisterously—at things that aren’t really funny.

  “I know Peter wasn’t the most popular member of our staff,” Jeff continued, “but we have a great man to replace him. I’m proud to announce that David Miller will be Manhattan Business’s new associate editor.”

  People cheered and shouted their congratulations. I smiled modestly.

  “David, of course, has an impressive background,” Jeff said. “He worked for years at Barron’s.”

  “The Wall Street Journal,” I said.

  There was more overly enthusiastic laughter.

  “Right, the Journal, the Journal, right,” Jeff said, obviously not giving a shit. “Anyway, he’s been with us for just three months now and—”

  “Nine months,” I said.

  More fake laughter.

  “Sorry, nine months, nine months,” Jeff said. “Nine short months and he’s already the associate editor. The way this guy’s going I better look out or soon he’ll have my job.”

  Everyone laughed again, harder than before, as if my running the magazine someday were absurd. Kevin from Payroll, a big, burly guy with a booming voice, shouted, “Yeah, better watch out, Jeff!” and James, who worked with Kevin, yelled, “Go get ’em, Dave!”

  Jeff said, “But seriously. David certainly deserves this opportunity and I expect him to do an outstanding job. Congratulations, David.”

  Jeff and I shook hands.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m really excited about this opportunity, and I look forward to working with all of you.”

  Everyone applauded as I backed away, smiling. Jeff had ordered a few boxes of Krispy Kremes, and people hung around the conference room for a while, eating and talking. Just about everyone came over to congratulate me personally. Angie was one of the last to come by, and she said, “Better watch it with those adverbs, buddy,” then slapped me on the back of the shoulder, the way a guy would.

  When the meeting broke up Jeff took me aside and told me that I could start moving my stuff into Peter’s old office immediately. I spent most of the rest of the day moving my things over. Like my old office, the new one was really a cubicle, constructed with portable carpeted walls. But the new office was at least twice as big as the old one, and it had a door, and there was an L-shaped desk and much more shelf and file space.

  By four o’clock I’d almost completely moved into my new office. Charlie, the office manager, said he would move my computer and have it installed onto the network by tomorrow morning.

  I was in my old office, filling a last box with disks, pens, and other crap from my desk, when the phone rang.
I had a feeling it was Charlotte, or maybe even Kenny, and I hesitated, preparing myself, before I answered, “David Miller.”

  “David, Robert Lipton,” the man said.

  Fuck.

  “You didn’t return my call,” Lipton said.

  “I’m on the other line,” I said, knowing this excuse sounded lame.

  “You’re not printing that article.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said, “but it’s out of my control—”

  “I swear, I’ll sue your ass off if you run that article.”

  “I have to go,” I said. “My other line’s—”

  “That article’s full of lies—it’s libel. Our company’s in the midst of a major recovery, and you made it seem like we’re going bankrupt, for Chrissake. Our gross revenue quadrupled last quarter compared to the same quarter last year, our balance sheet’s improving—”

  “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed with the article,” I said.

  “You also misquoted me in several places, and you misquoted that analyst, Kevin DuBois. I faxed him what you wrote, and he’s considering legal action too if you print this shit.”

  “I really have to go now.”

  “You better not print this garbage. I’m warning you, if you print this—”

  I hung up and turned on my voice mail.

  I continued setting up my new office, and then I checked my watch and saw that it was already ten to five. I put on my coat, making sure the ten hundred-dollar bills Aunt Helen had given me were secure in my wallet, and then headed between the cubicles toward the office’s exit. Although I didn’t have to meet Charlotte until six o’clock and it would take me only a half hour to get downtown, I wanted to avoid the rush-hour crowds.

  I was about ten yards from the door when Jeff appeared from one of the aisles in front of me and said, “Ah, there you are.”

  I thought he was going to make a comment about my leaving early my first day on the job, but he said, “That CEO you wrote about called me before. He was screaming mad, talking about a libel suit.”

  Jeff’s eyes were bloodshot, and I knew he’d probably had at least a few drinks.

  “I know, he called me, too,” I said.

  “I told him I stick by my reporters,” Jeff said. “I know you wouldn’t write a story that was inaccurate.”

  “I only wrote it because you—”

  “You don’t need to defend yourself,” Jeff said. “He’s probably just desperate. It reminds me of how it was when all those Silicon Alley companies went under. He knows his company’s sinking and he’s clinging to a life jacket.”

  “That’s probably true,” I said, “but—”

  “Don’t sweat it, big guy,” Jeff said, slapping me on the back. “By the way, I just fired that Chinese girl, what’s her name?”

  “You fired Sujen?”

  “That’s it. She didn’t cry when I told her to get the fuck out of my office—I’ll give her that much.”

  “You didn’t have to fire her.”

  “Why not?” Jeff said. “Theresa told me the whole story, how she faxed your article to that CEO. That girl’s just an idiot.”

  “She’s a journalism major at Columbia.”

  “She’s a fucking intern. I’ll make a phone call right now and there’ll be ten more Japanese girls begging for that job.”

  I was going to tell him that Sujen was Korean, but I didn’t see the point.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Jeff said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take you out to lunch on Monday. We’ll have a drink or two to celebrate and we’ll talk about your new job.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  I left the office, thinking about Monday. I hoped I wouldn’t be spending it in jail.

  I MADE IT to the Forty-ninth Street subway station by a little after five. A train came right away, and at 5:22 I was heading along Astor Place toward Starbucks. I bought a tall decaf and sat on a stool by the window, waiting for Charlotte to arrive.

  All day I’d been rehearsing in my head what I was going to say, and I prepared one last time. After I gave her the thousand dollars I’d look her right in the eyes and say, Look. Kenny can try to threaten me and blackmail me all he wants, but it won’t do him any good, because this thousand’s the only money I have. I was fired from my job today and I’m broke. If he wants to go to the cops right now he can be my guest, because he’s not getting another penny from me. I figured if I spoke forcefully enough, she’d get the point, and I doubted Kenny or Charlotte was swift enough to check out whether or not I’d been fired. Then, hopefully, they’d forget about me and go on to scamming somebody else.

  I finished the coffee in several minutes, without realizing I’d taken more than a couple of sips. I bought a refill, then returned to my stool and stared outside. It was a mild evening and the sidewalks were crowded with college kids and people returning from work. A butch, militant-looking woman stood by the subway entrance shouting about the evils of pornography, trying to get people to sign a petition, but everyone passed by, ignoring her. On the island between Lafayette and Astor, near the giant cube sculpture, kids in baggy pants with cigarettes dangling from their mouths did tricks on skateboards, jumping off the curb, sometimes into traffic, coming dangerously close to killing themselves.

  For the next half hour or so, I watched the activity outside and the nearly constant flow of pedestrians, waiting for Charlotte to appear. By six-fifteen, there was still no sign of her. Uncomfortable sitting, I went outside and paced from the entrance to the subway to the corner of Astor and Lafayette. At six-thirty, I started getting the feeling that something wasn’t right. I wasn’t sure why I expected promptness from a slimy heroin addict, but I didn’t understand why Charlotte would be late for a meeting where collecting money was involved.

  I waited another five or so minutes, then remembered that there was another Starbucks a block away, on the corner of Third near St. Marks. She’d told me to meet her at the Starbucks on Astor, but maybe she’d gotten confused.

  I went to the other Starbucks, but Charlotte wasn’t there either. I stood on the corner for a while, and then, during a lull in the traffic, I heard my phone ringing. I took the phone out of my pants pocket and flipped it open.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?” Rebecca asked.

  Damn it, why didn’t I check the caller ID?

  “On my way home,” I said.

  “It’s almost six-thirty.”

  “I know.”

  I thought I saw Charlotte, waiting to cross Third, but then the woman turned toward me and I saw that she was young and very good-looking.

  “So when’re you coming home?” Rebecca asked.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Why are you yelling at me?” Rebecca said, acting hurt. I remembered how she’d threatened to kill me last night and how I definitely didn’t have to explain my whereabouts to her.

  “I hope you started packing,” I said, and clicked off.

  I waited awhile longer, then went back to the other Starbucks, to see if Charlotte was there. She wasn’t. I stayed until past seven o’clock, then gave up. I bought a slice of pizza on Eighth Street and ate it walking toward the subway on Christopher.

  TRYING TO IGNORE the schizophrenic sitting across from me who was engaged in a conversation with his imaginary friend, “Wally,” and the woman next to me whose pocketbook kept jabbing into my ribs, I hoped that Charlotte’s standing me up was a good sign. Maybe she wasn’t involved in Kenny’s blackmailing scheme after all, and she’d talked him into leaving me alone. I couldn’t think of any other reason why she didn’t show.

  Now if I could only get rid of one more person.

  Because of a track fire at Seventy-second Street, the train went out of service at Columbus Circle, and I decided to walk home rather than wait for a bus. As I opened the door to my apartment, I braced myself for another attack from Rebecca. Sure enough, it came.

  “Why’d you fucking h
ang up on me?”

  She was standing in the foyer, several feet in front of me, looking like hell. Her hair was a mess, hanging over her face, and she looked exhausted. The glassy look in her eyes told me that she was drunk, on something, or both.

  “I hope you found someplace to live,” I said.

  I tried to go around her, but she wouldn’t budge out of my path.

  “You can’t treat me this way,” she said.

  “Excuse me,” I said as she continued to block me.

  “Where were you?” Her breath smelled like alcohol. I glanced beyond her, at the kitchen counter, and saw the open bottle of whiskey that had been in the closet above the refrigerator.

  “That’s none of your business,” I said.

  “Were you cheating on me with Angie?” She smiled ambiguously, as if maybe she didn’t believe that Angie existed.

  “Maybe I was.”

  “You’re full of fucking shit,” she said, giving my face a nice shower of saliva.

  I tried to get by her again; this time she grabbed my arms, above the elbows.

  “If you don’t let go of me I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?”

  I backed away, freeing myself, then said, “I want you out of here tonight.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

  “Yes you are,” I said.

  She tried to kick me, but I reacted quickly, avoiding her skinny leg. I pushed past her and headed toward the bedroom, figuring I’d lock myself in for a while, when I felt the blow on the back of my head. I stopped and covered my head instinctively, not sure what had happened. I straightened up and turned around just in time to receive a hard punch to my chin. My head jerked back and my body followed. I landed on my back, and, before I could react, Rebecca was crouching on top of me, looking rabid, slapping me in the face. If she were in a zoo they would’ve shot her with a sedative dart.

  Rebecca’s face had turned dark pink and she was shrieking at me; her voice was so loud and shrill I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. She continued to slap me in the face—I blocked a few of the blows, but some connected—and then she leaned forward and started to bite me, just below my left cheekbone. I grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her off me. But she wasn’t through. Still shrieking, she started slapping me harder in the face, and I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just lie there and let a hundred-pound woman beat the living shit out of me.