Remembering that scrap of paper with the telephone number on it, I stopped and dug it from my wallet. Seven digits, no area code—or country code for that matter.
Local? Dallas? Tokyo?
I started walking again, keeping an eye out for a payphone. If I got lucky, really lucky, the number might put me in touch with someone who could tell me what the fuck was going on. But nothing was ever that easy, and I wasn’t going to get my hopes up. Still, even if the number was for my favorite pizza restaurant, that would be something, wouldn’t it? Because the guy who ran the joint would likely know me and might be able to tell me something about myself other than my name.
At East Forty-second Street I turned west and walked the two blocks to Grand Central Terminal. I passed through the chaos of Vanderbilt Hall and found a bank of public payphones in the main concourse. I accessed Skype on the thirty-two-inch touch-screen display and dialed the unknown number.
Local after all because it rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Cursing, I hung up after a dozen rings.
Back amongst the hustle and bustle of East Forty-second, I paused out front a Kenneth Cole retail store. I was tired and sweaty and fed up with walking, and all I wanted to do was find a hotel—now that I had cash, renting a room anonymously wasn’t going to be an issue—where I could make a stiff drink and drown myself in blissful oblivion. Yet before I did this I figured I should purchase some new clothes. Because I would have to wake up at some point, I would have to start another day, and I couldn’t continue wearing the same smelly duds until my memory returned and reminded me where I kept my New York wardrobe. So I entered the store, ignored the snooty-looking salespeople, and picked out several pairs of socks and underwear, a pair of white-soled oxfords, five dress shirts, and two suits. I paid for everything with crisp hundred-dollar notes.
Burdened with shopping bags, I stopped at the first hotel I came to—The Roosevelt Hotel—but it was booked out. So was the Crown Plaza Times, and The Manhattan. I got lucky at The Plaza and splurged on a six-hundred-square-foot room that featured high ceilings, a comfortable sitting area, and a mosaic bathroom with gold fixtures and a marble vanity.
“Not too shabby, Harry,” I said to myself as I kicked off my shoes and hung the suits in the closet. I snapped on the flat-screen TV for company, dimmed the lighting with the iPad on the writing table, and poured myself a triple Scotch from the stocked bar tucked discretely inside a large armoire.
The news anchor on the tube was rambling on about the latest mission to the newly built lunar base. I couldn’t have cared less and went to the bank of tall windows, where I sipped my drink and watched as dusk stole over the harried city, blanketing it in layer of dark and anonymity.
CHAPTER 3
An hour later, riding a sluggish whiskey buzz, I sat at the room’s writing table, staring at the list I’d made. It was divided into two columns. The left read: “Know/like.” The right read: “Don’t know.”
Beneath “Know/like” was: name, address, age, bank, face, PIN, Scotch, Manhattan, Japanese food. After contemplating the pathetically short list I added “a good suit” because I suspected I liked—or was used to—wearing well-tailored suits of fine quality. This might seem like a trivial detail to add to the list, but right then anything and everything was significant. The fact I appreciated a good suit could mean I was some sort of businessman.
This led me to the first point in the “Don’t know” column. Occupation. And if there was one sliver of personal information I didn’t know about myself that I wanted to most it was what my job had been. Because in a way your job equaled your identity more than anything else. It defined you, explained you. An artist was not an accountant. A sales clerk was not a chief executive. Some Willy Loman might say he was a door-to-door salesman because times were tough and there hadn’t been much else in the classifieds. I didn’t buy that. Because Loman was ignoring the thousands of choices he’d made that led to his shitty lot in life. The subjects he’d pursued in school, the time he’d put into studying for tests, the people he’d socialized with. The way he treated others. Sacrifice. Punctuality. Integrity. Honesty. Everything. Every single choice, good or bad or neutral. These were what composed your identity. What made you President of the United States or a door-to-door salesman. Not the fact there were no other fucking jobs available the day you checked the paper.
So me? My occupation?
No idea. I began jotting down adjectives I felt applied to me. Then, in the next instant, I scribbled across the page so violently the tip of the pen tore the paper. I scrunched the list into a ball and threw it against the wall.
What the fuck was I doing? A list! It was bullshit. It wasn’t getting me anywhere.
My mind was a tabula rasa, a blank slate, and maybe I was just going to have to live with that.
Tears burned in my eyes. I got up and paced the room before stopping in front of the gilded mirror on the wall. I stared at my reflection, stared hard, and told myself to get a grip.
Look, you ungrateful bastard, you’re a good-looking guy, and you have nearly a million dollars banked. Things could have been a lot worse. You could have looked like Steve Buscemi and been dirt broke.
Besides, maybe there’s an upside to having no knowledge of the past. It means no baggage. Fine, you don’t know what you do for a living, whether you have kids somewhere, what you did last Christmas. But you don’t have any bad memories either, do you? No heartbreak, no shame, no guilt, no regrets.
Tabula rasa? Good. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. You get to start over however you please. How many people get that opportunity? How many people get a second chance like that?
Holding onto these positive thoughts, I decided I needed to get out of the room, do something, anything. Sitting around getting drunk by myself wasn’t proving to be the solace I’d hoped for. So I showered in the walk-in waterfall shower, dressed in a new suit, and left the hotel.
The humidity of the afternoon had been replaced by a dry evening heat, and West Fifty-seventh Street buzzed with smartly dressed people and an electric energy. I didn’t mind the lights and noise, but the touts trying to hawk me tickets to comedy shows pissed me off, so I veered north into Central Park. I passed couples strolling under romantic pools of lamplight, dog-walkers trying to keep up with their eager canines, cyclists and joggers. The desultory clop of carriage horses echoed in the distance, accompanied by the occasional honk of a car horn.
Eventually I left the park and strolled through the 60s and 70s east of Park Avenue. The side streets were studded with nineteenth-century brownstones, most carved up into apartments. Madison, on the other hand, was thick with bars, restaurants, boutiques, and retail shops.
I found myself in the mood for something quiet and classy and entered an elegant-looking cigar bar. The crowd was predominantly male, white, and upscale—and I immediately felt at home. Also, one whiff of the pungent aroma of cigars and I knew I was a cigar smoker myself.
Something else to add to the list, I thought dryly.
I took a seat at one of two bars. A waitress dressed in tight black pants, a white tuxedo shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a black bowtie, and suspenders greeted me with, “What can I get you?”
“Chivas, neat,” I said.
“Won’t be a sec.”
I watched her as she made the drink. She was blonde, late thirties, tall and thin. Her lashes were long and full, her nose straight, her cheekbones prominent. The lashes were fake, the makeup heavy under the buttery light from the barrel-shaped light fixtures, but she was attractive nonetheless.
And her eyes—they captivated me immediately. They were blue, intelligent…and sad.
How could someone so beautiful be so sad, or at least cynical?
She set the Scotch in front of me. “Would you care to see the cigar menu?”
“I think I’d like something mild,” I said, pleased to discover several cigar brands pop into my mind. “A Gran Habano Connecticut woul
d do fine, thank you.”
While she disappeared into the humidor room, I sipped my drink and tried to puzzle out for the hundredth time the paradox of how I could know I liked something without any recollection of ever having tried it before. Dr. Singh had mentioned that different memories were stored in different parts of the brain, and I guess I bought that. It was just so bizarre to discover in the span of seconds that you possessed a preference, such as an appreciation for certain cigars, which would have taken you months or years to acquire.
This led me back to that stupid Know/Don’t Know list, and I ruminated over what other preferences or qualities or skills I possessed. Was I a wine connoisseur, for instance? Could I downhill ski? Hell, maybe I had a black belt in karate?
Maybe I’m a raging alcoholic? I thought as a quiet voice reminded me I was on my fifth or sixth drink of the evening and had no interest in slowing down.
I executed a swift karate chop through the air with my right hand. The gesture didn’t feel natural or instinctual. I tried again, this time striking the polished mahogany bar.
“Do you have a grudge against wood?”
I glanced at the waitress, who had returned and was fixing me with an amused expression.
“I’m Harry,” I said.
She snipped the cap off the Gran Habano with a guillotine, handed the cigar to me, and lit the foot with a butane torch. I puffed, drawing smoke into my mouth. The sweet tobacco flavor was immediately familiar and pleasant.
“Satisfactory, Harry?” the waitress asked.
“I can’t remember having a better one.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before?”
“I don’t think I’ve been.”
“Don’t think?”
“I—no, I haven’t. Have you worked here long?”
“Too long,” she said as a tourist who’d been perusing the one hundred-plus bottles on display behind the bar waved her over. “But, hey,” she added over her shoulder as she left me, “don’t tell my boss that.”
***
Her name, I learned a short while later, was Beth, and I think she found me attractive. She kept pausing in her duties to talk to me at any rate. Maybe she was simply bored. There weren’t many customers at the bar. But I didn’t think this was the case. She didn’t bat her long eyelashes or anything melodramatic like that, but she seemed genuinely interested in sharing my company.
Nevertheless, whatever the reason for her decision to chat me up, she managed the impossible and made what was likely the shittiest day of my life a little less shitty. In fact, in her company, I was almost enjoying myself.
While I rested my cigar in the ashtray—it had burned itself out—Beth finished telling me a story about a German tourist who’d incorrectly believed a long, stiff ash was the sign of a cigar aficionado and accidentally tipped his two-inch ash down the cleavage of his date.
I took a swig of Scotch and said, “What are you doing later, Beth?”
Beth looked at my coyly. “Later?”
“What time do you get off work?” I asked. It was nuts, bloody nuts. My memory had more holes than Swiss cheese, I might be wanted by the police, and all I could think about right then was what sweet, flirtatious Beth had on beneath her tight black pants and tuxedo shirt.
Beth polished a spot on the counter with her rag that didn’t need polishing. “Ten,” she said without looking at me.
“Would you care to join me for a drink?”
“I don’t know anything about you, Harry.”
I almost laughed at the irony of that. “You know my name.”
“You could be a total scumbag.” And her deadpan delivery told me she’d likely had her fair share of scumbags walk through her life.
“Did I make that good of a first impression?” I asked, to lighten the mood.
She smiled.
“Give me a chance, Beth,” I said. “One drink, that’s all. Maybe two, when you realize what a fun guy I am.”
“Are you even from New York?”
I hesitated, thought about lying, then realized I’d hesitated too long to pull off the lie. “No,” I said.
She frowned. “Well, see, that could be a problem for me, Harry. I don’t do one-night stands.”
“Hey, I don’t either,” I said. “I’m in New York for a while.”
“A while?”
I nodded, deciding this was true, given I had no immediate plans to return to Dallas. “And like I said, a drink, nothing more. I’m just looking for some company.”
“Harry, you seem like a nice guy—”
“Look, Beth, when you get off at ten come by The Plaza. It’s only a few blocks south of here. I’ll be in the Rose Club. If you decide not to come, no hard feelings.”
“Is that where you’re staying?” she asked.
“Rest assured. I haven’t seen any cockroaches yet.”
“What did you say you do again?”
“I didn’t.” I stood and left a hundred on the bar for the cigar and the drinks. “So I’ll see you there?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
***
The Rose Club was dimly lit and opulent, though I found the rose neon garish. I settled into an oversized velvet chair at a table overlooking the lobby and ordered a Chivas. I wasn’t smashed, but I was definitely getting there. My thoughts felt slow and loose, my body heavy, and I decided I liked this feeling very much.
The white-jacketed Bangladeshi waiter brought my drink, along with complimentary popcorn, dried fruit, nuts, and pretzels. I ignored the snacks, finished the whiskey in two minutes, and waved Bangladesh over again. He was a strange-looking fellow. Too big ears, too small chin that almost melted into his neck. A pencil mustache and thick, black-rimmed glasses added character to an otherwise unfortunate face.
“’nother,” I said, raising the empty tumbler.
“Of course, sir,” he said.
“Is there a problem?”
“Sir?”
“The way you’re looking at me. I don’t like it.”
“Sir?”
He was still looking at me the same way. How you looked at a drunk relative at Christmas dinner: wary, wondering if he might topple over at any moment. A rage warmed inside me. Because this guy, this meaningless waiter making minimum wage, was judging me?
“Is that all you can say?” I said. “Sir? Sir? You know, maybe had you tried a little harder in high school, you wouldn’t be pouring drinks to pay the rent. Or did you just get off a boat?”
His nonexistent chin quivered.
“Go get my bloody drink.”
He went to the U-shaped bar, where a guy in a suit and a guy in a military uniform were sitting by themselves, and proceeded to make my drink. Watching him, I felt like total shit.
For most of the day I’d believed myself—or at least believed whoever I had once been—to be an admirable person. I seemed polite and cultured. I spoke with an educated inflection. I had what I believed to be an above-average vocabulary. I felt I commanded a certain amount of respect. I’d even go so far to say I was charming. After all, I talked the receptionist at The Plaza into letting me pay upfront in cash, and I got Beautiful Beth to meet me for a drink.
But was this the real me? Or was it a civilized front masking a depraved asshole?
Go get my bloody drink.
Because, really, nobody was the person they presented to others, were they? Everyone had a private persona and a public one. In many cases these two identities meshed closely enough to lump them together as one. Off the top of my head I’d say roughly fifty percent of the population fit that bill. But then there was the other half. The smiling kindergarten teacher by day, the pedophile by night. The bubbly coworker with a fifty grand gambling debt. The successful doctor with a safe full of snuff videos. The handsome Ted Bundy next door.
Humans were masters of deceit and disguise. It’s what allowed them to live together in relative harmony in such large numbers.
Deceit and disguise.
My, Mrs. Harrison, you look lovely today. When are you going to get that growth burned off your eyebrow?
Great seeing you again, Steve. Give the wife my best. Or don’t, because I’ll tell her myself while fucking her in a Motel 6 tomorrow evening.
Your children are rambunctious little angels, aren’t they? Maybe if you learned some parenting responsibilities and showed a little tough love they wouldn’t be such snot-nosed brats.
“Your drink, sir,” Bangladesh said. He set the Chivas on a coaster before me. He was smiling. Not smug. Worried, like he feared I was going to lash out at him again.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Sir?” he said, then seemed to think better of that response and added, “Sumon, sir.”
“Listen, Sumon. I want to apologize for my behavior. I’ve been having a bad day.”
“No need, sir.”
I took a hundred from my wallet and pinched it between my fingers. “No hard feelings?” I said.
His face lit up. The bill disappeared into his tux pocket with a magician’s flourish. “None at all, sir.”
He returned to the bar, where alternating colors of light played behind the crystal glasses. My eyes drifted to the other patrons for the first time. No families or whining kids thankfully. Mostly couples and a splattering of business people racking up their company tabs with the twenty-five-dollar cocktails.
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was a Rolex, an Oyster perpetual model, steel, as unassuming as a Rolex could get. I’d noticed Beautiful Beth peek at it a few times earlier.
The hands read 10:42 p.m. Beth was already close to three-quarters of an hour late. Was she coming or had she stood me up?
Well, screw her if she had, I thought tiredly. It was getting late. The anxiety and depression gnawing in my gut like a nest of rats was stronger than ever, and Beth standing me up was the last thing I needed—especially when I had been so looking forward to seeing her.
Dark Hearts: Four Novellas of Dark Suspense Page 8