by Greg Olear
CHAPTER 10
N
athan Ross, in a different but still completely black outfit, summoned the BR staff to the conference room, where they found a case of Korbel and enough appetizers to feed the Ethiopians, who in ’91 were still starving. When everyone had downed a few glasses, and spirits were sufficiently high, Nathan announced the changes he’d planned for Braithwaite Ross. “From now on, we’re working a flexible schedule. You all work more than forty hours a week anyway; as long as the work gets done, what difference does it make if you’re working here or from home? You’re required to attend the weekly ed meetings, but that’s all. Second, it was brought to my attention that the vacation policy was lacking. I agree. Starting in ’92, you’ll all have four weeks of paid vacation. I already covered the dress code. What else? Oh, the best part. On those days when you do find yourself at the office, for purposes of encouraging camaraderie, I ordered a pool table, an air hockey table, a jukebox, a soda fountain, and some arcade games for the break room.”
“Which arcade games?” asked Chris, after the shouts of joy had dissipated.
“Frogger, Donkey Kong, and Spy Hunter.”
“Awesome.”
“Did I mention the new computers?”
“No.”
“You’ll all be getting new computers.” Nathan held up a glass. “Last but not least, I have an announcement to make. My fellow publishers complain that young people don’t read anymore—that they’ve lost the eighteen-to-thirty-five demographic—and then they refuse to listen to their editors in that age group. How is that good business sense? If the rest of the industry is trending older, I say, let’s be contrarian. Let’s do the opposite. Let’s find ourselves new authors, young authors, edgy authors, authors we believe in. Let’s find them, let’s develop them, and let’s help them make Braithwaite Ross the best publishing house in the world. To that end, I’m pleased to announce that Angela Del Giudice will be our new editorial director.”
Nathan’s speech was met with a thunderous ovation.
Taylor drank in the moment. She felt blessed to be in such a position, a few months removed from college, especially in such a dismal financial climate. Her job involved working creatively, with creative people, when she felt like working. It was fun, it was intellectually stimulating, the benefits were great, the people were cool. She felt the buzz in the air, and was, for a change, happy.
But her happiness, alas, would prove short-lived.
Pravda, in chic Soho, was one of those hot spots that was hip for about two weeks, until they started selling T-shirts and baseball caps, thereby guaranteeing that no discerning New Yorker would ever set foot there again. In 1991, it was still undiscovered, and, therefore, cool.
Taylor arrived a few minutes after nine for her drinks date. Asher Krug was nowhere to be found, but when she dropped his name to the Christy Turlington look-alike hostess, she was immediately shown a private table. She slouched into the chair, ordered a Bellini, and scoped the place. The waitresses were all cast in the supermodel mold. The waiters were similarly beautiful—too beautiful to be straight. As for the patrons, they could have been an alternate cast of 90210—she was pretty sure she spotted Sherilyn Fenn, and, nuzzling in a corner booth, Judd Nelson and Justine Bateman. Pravda was where the Beautiful People lounged, and Taylor Schmidt, although she didn’t feel like it inwardly, was undeniably one of their number.
Her waitress, a dead ringer for Naomi Campbell, arrived with her $12 Bellini.
“Can I run a tab?”
Naomi stared at her blankly. Taylor handed over her Visa. Naomi looked at the piece of plastic like it was a Star Trek trading card.
“Never mind. Here.” Holding up a twenty: “Bring me change, please.”
The wisp of a waitress walked off. Taylor took a sip of her drink and a deep breath, and snuck a casual glance at her watch. Nine-thirty; Asher’d said nine sharp. In New York, even punctual people are late from time to time. Subways stall, buses break down, cabs collide. But half an hour…
More time passed. Taylor tried to nurse the drink but wound up finishing it. She flagged down Naomi, who looked annoyed.
“How much is a beer?”
Taylor might as well have asked the half-life of strontium 90.
“Never mind. Just bring me a Bass.”
Ten o’clock came and went. Lost Baldwin brothers detoured by Taylor’s table and offered to buy her a drink. She declined. Where was Asher? Had he really stood her up?
At ten-thirty she called him from the pay phone (no cell phones yet, remember; life was still a joy). No answer. She tried the office. Straight to voice mail.
“One more drink,” she decided. It was her fourth, and she nursed it, made it last. She could feel judgmental eyes cutting into her. Eleven o’clock on the nose, two full hours late, and Asher Krug was MIA. She left Naomi a tip and started out.
As she passed by their table, Taylor could have sworn Judd and Justine were laughing at her.
“Take me to the Dakota. On Central Park West,” she slurringly told the cabbie, having no idea where exactly the building was but hoping he would know. Luckily, he did—on the corner of West Seventy-second Street.
The Dakota was, and is, one of the poshest residences in a city full of them. When it was built in the 1880s, the Upper West Side was as remote as the recently settled Dakota Territory; hence the name. I saw a circa 1890 picture of it at the Museum of the City of New York; so little surrounds its ten mighty stories, it might as well have been built on the surface of Mars. The building itself—a magnificent piece of North German Renaissance architecure, beige in color, with soaring gables and ornate balustrades—is like a keep. Flanked by two gas-lamp sconces taller than me, a pair of wrought-iron gates, each weighing as much as a school bus, enclose a porte cochère, through which you can glimpse a quiet Parisian-style courtyard complete with fountain. Imposing without being garish, the Dakota is like a mini Buckingham Palace off Central Park West. The contrast between it and our apartment building is too stark to adequately describe. We might as well have been living in an igloo.
A stately doorman popped out of a gold-plated, telephone-booth-sized guardhouse and informed Taylor that Mr. Krug was not in. Because it was late, he allowed her to wait underneath the spandrel in the porte cochère, between the two gates.
She slumped against the terracotta wall and waited.
It was half past one when he showed his face. His hair was mussed, his suit wrinkled, and there was a stain on his collar that she assumed was lipstick.
“Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry…Jesus Christ, I…”
“You could of at least called.”
“I couldn’t…I…”
“Why the fuck not?”
“I…can’t tell you.”
“I want to know. I need to know.”
“Tomorrow. I can tell you tomorrow.”
“I want to know now.”
Asher seized her, powerful hands digging into her shoulder muscles, holding her fast. His eyes were devoid of the usual slyness. “Taylor, I like you. I like you very much…you have no idea how much. And as God is my witness, where I was tonight has nothing to do with us. I swear. I know you were waiting for me, and it kills me to make you wait. Kills me. But please. Please trust me. I’ll tell you why I was late. But you have to wait till tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Why tomorrow? What’s so fucking special about tomorrow?”
As he held her close and tight, Taylor had two realizations almost simultaneously. The first was that tomorrow was her follow-up meeting with Quid Pro Quo’s Director, whose name Asher had never mentioned, on the subject of reimbursement.
The second was that what she’d thought was lipstick on his collar was, in fact, blood.
CHAPTER 11
T
aylor stepped into an office that was the size of our entire apartment, closets, bathroom, and all. The décor was minimalist and sparse—everything was black, white, or gray. The fl
oors were a disorienting checkerboard tile. There was a modernist couch that looked cool but was not the sort of thing you could relax on without throwing out your back. In front of the couch was a glass coffee table. There was a sleek black chair behind a sleeker glass-topped desk—it was like Wonder Woman’s invisible jet; you could barely see it—and two more chairs up front. Two of the walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, no blinds, no drapes. The other two were bright white, the only decorations a series of framed black-and-white photographs, four along the far wall, one directly behind the Director’s desk. On the desk, a telephone, an ink blotter, a fountain pen. Nothing else. Between the sunlight and the floor tiles and the white walls, the room had the feel of a hospital. You could perform surgery in that office. Taylor took a seat and studied the poster-sized photograph behind the desk. It was a giant female eye—the left eye—wide open, looking up and off left. Said eye was lined with fake lashes thick with mascara. Beneath it, one on each side, were two spherical glass tears.
“Do you like it?” asked a voice from behind her—a voice husky from too many cigarettes, a voice possessed of a vaguely European accent, a voice that danced the line between low alto and high tenor but was, unmistakably, female.
“It’s a nice photograph,” Taylor said, rising. “If you’re into eyes.”
The owner of the voice wore a plain black kimono, white silk pants, and a medallion. Its design matched the one on Asher’s ring. Her thinning hair, so blond it was almost white, was cut in a rigid bob. The crow’s feet about her eyes and the wrinkles in her brow and neck, starkly visible in the naked light, exposed her as a woman of middle age—a member of the very generation Asher so vehemently despised. Her middle-agedness was the second surprise (her gender was the first) in a meeting that would be full of them.
“Not the loftiest praise, but I’m sure Man Ray wouldn’t object. Good morning, Taylor. Lydia Murtomaki.” Lydia extended a gaunt and well-braceleted hand, which Taylor shook. “Please. Sit.”
“Murtomaki. What sort of a name is that?” Taylor asked. “I hope you don’t mind my asking.”
“Finnish, and I don’t.” Lydia settled beneath the giant eye, her posture almost inhumanly perfect. “People usually assume it’s Japanese—until they see me. Don’t let the kimono fool you.” She opened an onyx cigarette case, produced a cigarette, and twisted it into an onyx cigarette holder. When the assembly was complete, she placed the mouthpiece between sharp, pointy teeth and lit up.
“You may smoke, if you wish.”
A smoke was, at the moment, exactly what Taylor craved. She rummaged in her handbag until she found her silver case. There was only one cigarette left, which she promptly dropped on the floor. As she bent over to retrieve it, Taylor fumbled the matches, too. Why am I so nervous? she wondered.
Then she remembered the blood on Asher’s collar.
When she finally had the smoke in her mouth and a match in her hand, the damn thing wouldn’t light. The strip had worn away. Lydia Murtomaki rose, leaned across the desk, and presented her onyx lighter. Cigarette at the ready, Taylor stood and leaned forward, and the Parliament caught fire. “Thanks.”
“Asher doesn’t approve of cigarettes,” Lydia said. “He says they cause cancer. He says it’s a nasty habit. I figure they’ll ban them sooner or later. They do so love banning activities in which people take pleasure. In certain parts of California, they don’t let you smoke in restaurants. Can you imagine? Ghastly place, California.”
“That would never fly in New York,” said Taylor, taking a long drag. She wondered about this careful dropping of Asher’s name—was the Director aware of their budding romance?
“Nathan Ross was a good hire,” Lydia said. “I hear he’s made some long-overdue changes.”
“He’s great. Braithwaite Ross is wonderful. I’ve been really impressed with everything.”
“That, my darling, is exactly what we like to hear. At Quid Pro Quo, we don’t want to just find you a job; we want to find you a perfect job, a job you really enjoy. A job you’d kill for.”
“Mission accomplished, then,” Taylor said. “I honestly don’t think I could have a better gig.”
“Lovely. Then let us proceed.” The Director smiled, flashing again her fang-like teeth. “If you should ever have a complaint about your job, come to us. If you should become dissatisfied and desire a new position, come to us. Any time you have need of us, Quid Pro Quo will be here for you. Are we understood?”
“Yes, Ms. Murtomaki.”
“Then we can proceed to the matter at hand: reimbursement.” Lydia took the remnants of the cigarette from the holder and crushed it into the ashtray. If this was designed to intimidate Taylor, it was a success. “We would prefer not to exact a fee for our services, but our overhead, for a variety of reasons, is considerably greater than that of our rivals. It costs a lot of money to maintain appearances, you must understand, and the rent in this building is usurious. So we must have our…pound of flesh, so to speak.”
“How much?”
“Twenty percent of your salary.”
“Twenty percent! I can’t afford twenty percent!”
The Director’s voice was sharp, impatient without being impolite. “Asher mentioned during orientation that our services would not be expensive, and they are not. Right now, you are paying twenty-seven percent of your salary to federal and state governments, correct?”
“Something like that.”
“Instead of paying the government twenty-seven percent, you will be paying us twenty percent. Not to mention that your base salary is markedly higher than it would be if you got the same job through one of our competitors.”
“Wait a minute. I’m confused. How can I pay you instead of the government?”
“You can either write us a check every month, or we can collect through payroll deductions. Most people opt for payroll deductions.”
“No, I mean, isn’t it, you know, illegal? Won’t the IRS have something to say about this?”
Lydia Murtomaki laughed—a most disturbing occurrence. With all the tar in her lungs, it sounded like a death rattle. “We adhere to all existing IRS regulations. Under the provisions of the Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act of 1985, the…well, I shall spare you the technical details, but essentially, nonprofit employment agencies can apply their fees to federal income tax. Most employment agencies are for-profit, so they don’t qualify. We do.”
“I’ve never heard of that before.”
“Unless you spend your free time analyzing arcane pieces of legislation, there’s no reason you would have. You look like the kind of girl who has better things to do than that.”
All through the discussion, Taylor couldn’t stop looking at the giant eye. Who hangs a photograph of an eye in her office? “That’s true.”
“As long as you keep working a Quid Pro Quo job, your income tax is remitted to our agency. That, my darling, is our sole source of revenue.”
There was an implied finality in Lydia’s tone, so Taylor started to rise from the chair. A crisp shake of the Director’s head prompted her to stay put.
“We’re not done just yet. There is a second component to reimbursement that must be discussed. You must perform a task. It might take a day, it might take two.”
This unnerved her. Taylor knew that the other shoe was bound to drop, and she dreaded where it would land. She tried to convince herself that her fear was irrational, and eventually she succeeded. Unfortunately, knowing her fear was irrational didn’t make her any less afraid.
“Before I get into the specifics,” said Lydia, “you need to understand why it has been so difficult for you, and others like you, to find gainful employment in the current climate. Bright, talented graduates of top-flight colleges, thousands of you every year, enter the workforce. But what are you doing? Killing time. Waiting. Working low-paying jobs that are not intellectually satisfying, or assuming major debt by earning superfluous graduate degrees.”
Out came the light
er. Taylor saw the reflection of the flame in the iris of the giant eye.
“Take you, by way of example. Smart, creative, articulate, attractive. Very attractive. And you are not alone. Thousands of bright, talented graduates like yourself, with limitless potential—none of them can find work. Why?”
Taylor, assuming this a rhetorical question, did not respond. When she realized that it was not, she said, “We’re not qualified, is what everyone says.”
“That’s the stock answer, but it is patently untrue. As you well know. You’re qualified to do just about anything. You’re overqualified for the job you have now. No, it has nothing to do with qualifications.”
“Then what?”
“Simply put: there are no jobs available.” Smoke billowed from her draconian nostrils. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke that made the giant eye tear. “Now. Why would this be?”
“Because the economy is stagnant?”
“Yes and no. Certainly the federal budget deficit, the trend toward corporate downsizing, the bulging Lorenz curve, and other economic factors do play a part. But there is a far simpler reason.”
Taylor’s freshly manicured fingernails dug into the armrests. The sword of Damocles was about to drop on her Nine Wests.
“Prince Charles is forty-two years old,” Lydia continued, “and he is still the Prince of Wales. Who ever heard of a forty-two-year-old prince? Princes are supposed to be boys, not gray-haired men with bad prostates. Most British monarchs were in their early thirties when they were coronated. George III was twenty-two. Henry VIII, Defender of the Faith, was just eighteen. The few who ascended to the throne late in life made no lasting mark on the pages of history. They could not; their best years were behind them. Poor Prince Charles is one of these, fated to fade into oblivion. He has wasted his life waiting. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting for his immortal mother to gasp her last breath, so the crown can at last be his. From the looks of things, that will not happen anytime soon.”