by Jason Starr
“That’s all right,” I said.
“Are you sure?” she said. “Because I know how—”
“Positive,” I said.
I heard her breathe deeply, as if she were frustrated with my stubbornness.
“I know you’re going to put up a stink about this, David, but I’m going to say it anyway. I really think you should see my friend Alice’s son Benjamin, the grief counselor. Even if you only have one session with him—”
“It’s not necessary,” I said.
“Are you sure, David? Because now I think you have even more reason to—”
“It’s okay—”
“—discuss what you’re feeling—”
“It’s okay—”
“—with a professional—”
“I said it’s okay,” I snapped. Then, in a calmer voice, I said, “I’m sorry, Helen. I really appreciate all your concern, but I can handle this myself—I really can.”
“I want you to call me tonight,” she said.
“I will,” I lied.
“Promise.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Hanging up was a huge relief. I made sure the voice mail was still on, and then I locked the door to my office and started working again. I still felt weak, but not as bad as I’d felt inside the restaurant; in a few hours I’d probably be fine.
I worked on another draft of my PrimeNet article, and then Matt Stern, a young reporter at the magazine, sent me his article to edit. It was a well-written piece about a chain of watch stores that was expanding around the tristate area. If Peter Lyons were still associate editor he would’ve decimated the article, extending the sentences into run-ons and adding adverbs and Britishisms. But I edited with a light hand, enhancing Matt’s own style, rather than imposing my own. When I was through I read the article over and was very pleased. I was a damn good editor.
Toward five o’clock, the effects of whatever had gotten me sick earlier had almost completely worn off. On my way home, I picked up some safe food to eat—bread, yogurt, ginger ale, and bananas. I was relieved to see only a few reporters camped out in front of my building, and I ignored the questions they shouted at me as I went inside. When I opened the door to my apartment, the phone started ringing. Figuring it was another reporter, I let the machine pick up, then heard Detective Romero saying, “Yeah, it’s Romero, NYPD again. When you get home can you please—”
I picked up and said, “Hello?”
“Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, hi.”
“I tried you a couple times today.”
“I was at work.”
“Really?” he said. “I’m surprised you didn’t take some time off.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Although I detected some suspicion in his voice, I wasn’t very concerned. I figured if there had been a really important development he wouldn’t be contacting me by telephone.
“Well, we’ve been continuing our investigation, but unfortunately we haven’t made much progress. We’re still not sure why Rebecca Daniels killed Charlotte O’Dougal, but it’s this other murder—Ricardo Alvarado—that’s getting at us. Alvarado was a strong guy. We just don’t buy that Rebecca Daniels was able to kill him, causing those kind of head injuries. On the other hand, when a guy and his girlfriend are killed less than a couple days apart we gotta think there’s some connection.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I said.
“I was hoping you might’ve thought of something you didn’t tell us yesterday,” Romero said. “We checked out those clubs you mentioned, but that didn’t get us anywhere. You have any other ideas how your girlfriend might’ve come into contact with Alvarado?”
“If I did, I would’ve called you.”
“Sometimes people forget things, or they think something’s not important so they don’t bother—”
“I didn’t forget anything.”
“I understand that, Mr. Miller, but I’m conducting an investigation—”
“There’s nothing to investigate,” I said, nearly screaming. “You know Rebecca killed that woman, and it’s obvious she had nothing to do with killing Alvarado.”
“Why is that obvious?”
I realized I was talking too much and I’d better shut up.
“Because,” I said, “like you said, he was a strong guy and—I don’t know, okay? Maybe Rebecca did kill him, but I told you everything I know.”
“Very well,” Romero said. “But if anything else comes up I’m going to contact you again. I’m sure you won’t hesitate to do the same.”
A few minutes later I was putting the groceries away, wishing I hadn’t lost my cool. Rather than saying it was obvious that Rebecca hadn’t killed Ricky, I should’ve tried to convince Romero that Rebecca had done it, suddenly remembering some story about a drug dealer she was in debt to. I feared that the longer Romero dug around, trying to figure out what had happened to Ricky, the more likely he’d stumble on the truth.
I had other messages on my machine and I played all of them. Aside from the messages from Romero and Aunt Helen, a few of my old friends had called, saying that they’d read about Rebecca in the papers and wanted to check on how I was doing.
I ate half a banana and a spoonful of yogurt, but I was too aggravated to eat anything else. I imagined Romero questioning Kenny, and Kenny turning me in or holding out to blackmail me—either way I’d lose. I considered beating Kenny to the punch and calling Romero back. I could swear that Ricky’s death had been an accident, but why would Romero believe me now? It wouldn’t help my case that Charlotte, the only person who could back up my story, was dead.
I was short of breath and starting to sweat.
“I need some space,” Barbara said.
“Oh, stop,” I said.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I think one of us should move—leave New York.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I applied to some firms in San Francisco.”
“What?”
“And if I get a good offer, I’m leaving.”
“Why the hell’re you gonna do that?”
“To get away from you.”
“Is this more crap from Dr. Kellerman?”
“No, this is what I think.”
“Yeah, right. What else did Kellerman say about me?”
“Listen to me—this’ll be good for you too. You’d be better off with me gone. You could meet somebody, have a normal relationship—”
“You just need a vacation. Maybe we should go someplace, the Berkshires or Vermont, or how about Europe? I saw an ad in the paper for cheap tickets to Paris.”
“You have to be your own person, David. You have to be a leader, not a follower—”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You can’t depend on me so much—you can’t follow me everywhere.”
“You’re not leaving me.”
“Yes I am.”
“If you go to San Francisco I’m going with you.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Oh, yes I can.”
When I left for work in the morning all the reporters were gone, and I decided this was a sign that things might work out for me after all. Some new story had probably broken that was more interesting than Rebecca’s, and pretty soon Rebecca’s story would fade completely. As for Kenny, now that he was being questioned and maybe watched by the police he’d probably decide that trying to blackmail me was too much trouble. If I was lucky, I’d never hear from him again.
At work, I remained in my office most of the day, editing several articles. I also worked on my PrimeNet article, which was getting even more positive. A few newspaper and TV reporters had left messages on my voice mail, but the Rebecca murder/suicide story definitely seemed to be petering out. Around lunchtime Angie dropped by, suggesting we go out, but I told her I was too busy. Later in the day I saw her talking to another report
er in the corridor outside my office, and I went in a different direction to avoid her.
On my way home, I said to Barbara, “Okay, you want me to become my own person—I’ll become my own person.”
I stopped at a wine store on Amsterdam and decided I’d become a wine expert. I usually never spent more than ten bucks on wine, but I asked the owner to suggest a cabernet in the thirty-dollar range. At home, I sipped the Chateau Montelena with my eyes closed, trying to appreciate its nuances, and then I decided I’d have to make other changes in my life. I’d throw out my rock CDs and replace them with a collection of light jazz and classical. I’d redecorate my apartment, get classier furniture from Restoration Hardware or Ethan Allen. And I’d take a class at the Culinary Institute, learn how to cook French food.
Wednesday morning I was still feeling upbeat about myself and the future when I entered my office building and got the shit kicked out of me. It happened so fast I didn’t realize what was happening until I was on my back in front of the revolving door and punches were landing against my face. Finally, a security guard pulled Robert Lipton off of me.
Lipton looked like a wreck—his thin gray hair hanging over his scruffy face, his eyes swollen and puffy, as if he hadn’t gotten any sleep in days. I realized that the edition of Manhattan Business with the negative article I’d written about Lipton’s company had hit the newsstands.
“Son of a bitch!” he screamed at me as the guard held him back. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
He continued yelling, telling me that, thanks to my article, he’d lost three of his biggest clients. Two cops showed up. After the security guard explained what had happened, one of the cops asked me if I wanted to press charges. I declined. I didn’t want any unnecessary involvement with the police, but I also felt bad about what I’d done to Lipton and I didn’t want to screw up his life more than I already had.
The injuries to my face from Ricky and Rebecca had almost disappeared, but now I had a fresh welt on my left cheekbone and my upper lip was swollen and bleeding. The security guard had given me a first-aid ice pack, but Lipton had gotten a few good whacks in and it didn’t help much. I was hoping to lock myself in my office and stay there all day to avoid any attention, but Mike, the guy Angie had dated, had been downstairs in the lobby while the cops were talking to me, and when I arrived in the office he had already told everyone what had happened. Holding the ice pack up to my face, I had to hold court in the office’s reception area, giving my account of the incident. Everyone expressed their sympathy, and then Jeff took me aside and tried to persuade me to press charges.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’d rather just forget about it.”
“You sure?” Jeff said. “Because we could send that prick to jail.”
I explained to Jeff that, given everything I’d been through lately, I didn’t want any more turmoil in my life. Jeff said he understood, but he still thought I was making a mistake.
In my office, I tried to block out what had happened with Lipton and focus on work. A few articles had been e-mailed to me for editing, including one of Angie’s. Since I’d been at Manhattan Business I’d always written my articles as quickly as possible, treating my work simply as a job, a means of making money. Now, as an editor, I worked much more diligently, laboring over every word, making sure each sentence was as good as it could possibly be. The only break I took from work all day was during my lunch hour, when I browsed the Net for information about upcoming wine tastings in the New York area.
Thursday was a repeat of Wednesday, minus the attack by Lipton. I was enjoying working late and spending a lot of time alone. For months I’d been so absorbed in Rebecca and our problems that I’d barely had time to myself, and now I enjoyed coming home to a quiet apartment.
Friday morning I was waiting for the elevator in the lobby when Angie appeared behind me. We exchanged hellos, and then the elevator arrived. Other people got on with us, so we didn’t talk during the ride up. When we got out on our floor I said, “See ya later,” and headed toward my office. Several minutes later I was settling in to start my workday when Angie entered and said, “Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I said.
She came farther into my office, but remained standing.
“Look,” she said, “I know awful things happened this week and I totally understand that, but I still don’t understand why you have to treat me this way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, all week you’ve been blowing me off, pretending that I don’t exist. Didn’t you even notice we’ve barely been talking to each other?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “I mean if you just need some space I totally understand that, and if you want me to back off I will. But if there’s more to it—I mean, if you’re angry at me for something, or if I did something wrong—”
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
She waited, then said, “Really?”
“I’ll come by your place at eight o’clock. Come on, what do you say?”
“Okay,” she said, “but if you wanted to go out, why have you been blowing me off?”
“Because I was a jerk, that’s why. I really want to take you out tonight. What do you say?”
She stared at me for a few seconds; then the corners of her lips curled into a slight smile.
“All right,” she said.
“Great,” I said.
She gave me her address on East Seventy-fourth, and I told her how much I was looking forward to tonight.
Later in the morning, I went downtown to interview the CFO of PrimeNet Solutions. During the interview I kept zoning out, thinking about Angie and getting excited about our first date. Back at my office, I conducted a few phone interviews for the PrimeNet article and had to edit the text for next week’s Company Report section. I was going to stop by Angie’s cubicle to say hi; then I had a better idea. I sent her a bouquet of virtual flowers with a message that read, Thanks for being so patient. After she received the bouquet she IM’d me, telling me how sweet I was.
I’d been staying at the office until seven-thirty, eight o’clock the past couple of days, but today I figured I’d leave at around six, which would give me plenty of time to go home, shower, and change before I went to Angie’s.
Around five forty-five, I finished up my work and went to the bathroom. At the urinal, Kyle from Sales told me a long story about his misadventures of trying to sell his East Side co-op. I continued chatting with him for a while outside the bathroom, then headed back toward my office, deciding that I’d take Angie out to a restaurant near her apartment, maybe to one of those little romantic Italian places off Second. It was going to be perfect, I thought, and then I entered my office and saw Kenny, reclining in my chair with his feet resting on my desk.
14
HE LOOKED THE same as the last time I’d seen him, at the bar the night I was pickpocketed. His long hair was messy and greasy, and he had about a week’s worth of beard growth. He was wearing a light blue short-sleeved button-down shirt, but he’d missed a couple of buttons and I could see his wife-beater tank top and sweaty chest hair. His body odor—a combination of sweat and Old Spice—had permeated my office.
“How’d you get in here?” I asked, although this was the last thing I cared about.
“I told the girl up front you were doing an article about me,” he said. “This is a business magazine, right? So how ’bout you do a thing about the blackmailing business? Come in, interview me, I’ll tell you exactly how it’s done.”
“What do you want?”
He laughed, then said, “Besides all your money?” and continued laughing. Finally he calmed down and said, “What do I want? That’s a good one. Please, man. If you make me laugh any more I’m gonna pull something.” He stared at me seriously, then said, “If I really wanted you to put me in your magazine you’d have to do it. If I wanted you to run around this office screaming, ‘Suck my
hairy cock! Suck my hairy cock!’ you’d have to do that too!”
Kenny’s voice tended to boom, and I was afraid other people in the office might overhear what he was saying.
“But I gotta admit, you had me scared there for a while,” he said. “When the cops came to me and told me about Charlotte, I thought you did her. I mean, it woulda made sense. She comes to you with the pictures, asks you for the money, then you whack her. Actually, you should thank me for saving your ass. That first night the cops were coming down heavy on me, they thought I did Charlotte and Ricky. They had me in lockup overnight. I was almost gonna finger you for both raps, but then the cops came to me and said they found out your little girlfriend did Charlotte. At first I didn’t know what to think; then I was glad ’cause I knew you were still my butt boy for Ricky’s murder.”
“I didn’t murder him,” I said.
“And I’m Mother fuckin’ Teresa,” Kenny said. “Tell me, was this a hobby for you and your psycho-bitch girlfriend? You went around town killing people for kicks?”
“I think you should get out of here,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t think you understand what’s going on here,” he said. “I control you now, not the other way around, you fuckin’ prick. I tell you what to do and you do it. Maybe I should make you take your pants down and run around here—that’d be a fuckin’ riot.” Kenny laughed. “You gotta give me credit—I was pretty swift, wasn’t I? I mean taking them pictures in the first place. I knew something was going on that night, the way Charlotte was acting, all fucked up, but I didn’t know what. Then, when I got her outside, I got her to spill it. You shoulda seen her, shittin’ bricks. She thought I was gonna take you both down; then I told her I was just gonna go after you—’cause you killed Ricky. I told her we could take you for everything you’re worth, and look what happened—I am!” Kenny laughed. “I told her, ‘Just make sure he takes the body down alone and I’ll take care of the rest.’ Of course, she went along with it when she realized she could make a few bucks. Holding money in front of her was like putting a dick in front of Linda Lovelace’s mouth. Yeah, Charlotte was a sweet little whore, all right, I’ll give her that much. I’ll miss her; I really will miss her. She knew how to suck cock like a pro, and you don’t see that in a lot of whores these days. Most whores use their teeth and start biting on you like you’re a fuckin’ hot dog. But Charlotte knew how to deep-throat it, all right. She took it up the ass, too. You gotta respect a whore for that. A lot of whores these days won’t let you anywhere near their assholes.”