by Celia Hayes
«You’re not ashamed? Not even a little? You don’t feel like spitting in your own face when you see yourself in the mirror?»
I had no time to predict her next move. She picked up the glass of cola Greta had left unfinished and threw it in my face.
«Oh God, wait, let me help you».
Two of the waiters rushed to me, one with a napkin, one just embarrassed. My dress was stained, my face wet, and I still couldn’t react. I was still looking for something to dry myself up.
«Take her outside, call security».
The waiters helped me get rid of her. I wouldn’t have known how to do it on my own, I was not used to confrontation. I just watched people from a distance, lived their lives from the outside. It was the first time someone from that world I was used to describing in so much detail had noticed me. But it didn’t last long.
They dragged her outside, as she was trying to throw something else at me. I couldn’t figure out what, until it landed on my table.
«He’ll destroy you too, like he destroyed me».
It was a photo.
«Tell him I’ll find him and kill him. I’ll kill him with my own hands».
As the girl was being escorted outside, I picked the photo up and looked at it better.
It was blurry, but the one in the back was Richardson, the State prosecutor. He’d been caught in the same car with a prostitute called Liza Raisman. I knew because I’d been the one to take that photo. What I realised right then was that she was the prostitute, that woman in the blue dress with mascara running down her cheeks.
What is a trivial detail?
To me, maybe, but it must not have been trivial to her.
I knew immediately Nolan had slept with that girl. I knew from the way Liza hated him.
It was the same exact way in which, in that moment, I hated him too.
Eleven
I came back home trying to shake the feeling of the bad weather.
Temperatures had gone down, the rain which initially filled puddles on the pavement had turned to snow and was already started to paint the city white. If temperatures kept going down, we would have to watch the basket play-offs on TV that year. It being the play-offs, I expected crowded bars and empty streets that Saturday night. I was sure I would get into an argument with some Lakers supporters, seeing as I would always be a devoted fan of the Chicago Bulls.
«Hey, Zero».
I found the neighbour’s cat in my living room. Sometimes he found himself looked outside, so when he could manage, he snuck into my apartment and curled up on the sofa, waiting for me to come back from work and bring him back home. He’d figured out how to open the bathroom window, and I supposed he’d left it open like he always did. There was a fair chance I’d find water everywhere in the bathroom.
«Do you want to eat something?»
I liked Zero, he knew how to keep to himself. Presuming he was hungry, I filled a saucer of milk for him and went back to the living room. I turned on the radio, rubbing at my neck. It happens when you do nothing all day, you get caught into a sense of tiredness that’s hard to explain.
I took my clothes off, tied up my hair and lit a cigarette. My concept of a quiet night in.
I walked around the house in my panties, heating up to the maximum. I pretended to tidy up, but I was just wasting time.
I didn’t want to think about anything, and yet that weird discussion with Liza Raisman at the Meridian Cafe kept sticking in my mind. In the end I gave up, retrieved my purse and pulled out the photo she had thrown at me, before the two waiters carried her outside.
I studied it cautiously. The radio was playing a Twenty One Pilots song. With the park on the background, in a nondescript car, I had managed to catch State prosecutor Richardson with a bag of coke and his hands under Liza’s skirt. What stuck in my mind now was the mascara running down her face.
I’d been coming back from a party that night, half drunk, the smell of the dry-ice smoke from a disco club still sticking to me. I couldn’t imagine that my life was about to change. Then I’d drawn closer to that car parked in a driveway and I’d realised I had the most powerful man in town in my hands. I’d started taking pictures with my phone, he’d noticed and had climbed out of the car, in his underwear. His eyes were wide open, he was as pale as a corpse.
«Hey, you. Give me that thing immediately! Did you hear me? I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin you...»
He’d tried to rip the phone from my hand, but hadn’t managed. I’d run away, away to my office, without even stopping at home. My piece had gone off to print around midnight. State prosecutor Robertson, his electoral campaign paid for by the city’s escorts. I’d been hired around nine AM, I’d just become Gossip – Bake up!
My head filled with those memories, I pulled the chair back from the desk and turned my computer on.
I started rummaging through my old notes.
After the photos had been released, it had been Hell for Richardson.
Harry Richardson had got eight years in jail for corruption, possession of drugs, and a series of other felonies I couldn’t even remember. He’d done three, then he’d moved to New York for a new start.
Nasty story, but what was the link between all of that and Nolan Carter? I still had no clue. So I started searching until my digging around the internet uncovered an interesting story.
Around that same period, the police had arrested a gang of drug dealers. They called themselves the Black Hawks, a biker gang who routinely carried weapons and behaved like they owned the whole town. Richardson wanted to get them in jail. When he resigned, however, the case went on to his substitute and in the temporary power vacuum, two witnesses got killed. The case was archived. All of a sudden, the necessary evidence was no longer there to pursue it. The gang broke up, many of them got away with it. The evidence was tainted, there were appeals, and twenty millions worth of coke the police had recovered mysteriously disappeared.
Sometimes, things that are apparently irrelevant catch our attention, and I don’t know why I kept reading up about those gangsters. There was no Nolan Carter named in those documents.
Zero came back, licking his chops.
«You liked the milk, didn’t you?»
I pulled him on my lap, but I no longer wanted to stare at the computer.
«All right, I’ll take you back to George,» I decided to take a break, hoping I could take my mind off it.
I was about to close my laptop when I found what I was looking for.
Suddenly I understood why I couldn’t find anything about Nolan’s past.
I had been right. There was no Nolan Carter. The real name of that man was Christopher Dunn.
His mugshot was among the documents I had managed to get from a cop I’d been going out with around those times.
It was him, there was no doubt. Same eyes, though the hair was shorter.
It was like a kick in the stomach.
Nolan had lied to me, but I had still managed to find out where he had come from.
«Yes, but where are you going?,» I murmured, staring at his picture. My hands went almost frantically back to the keyboard.
So I discovered the story of Christopher Dunn, twenty-eight years of age at the time, no penal records except for a couple of fights. He was a fixer for Jonathan Sloan, the gang leader.
When the Black Hawks got caught, Richardson offered him immunity in exchange for names, addresses, account numbers. Everything there was to find out about Sloan and his business. Christopher had agreed, then I’d made my entrance. Richardson had ended up in jail and the deal had evaporated.
To avoid finding himself in the slammer, Nolan had run, but he’d taken Sloan’s two cases of coke with him. How he’d manage to get into the Feds’ storeroom I didn’t know, but I figured Matthew Cosgrove was eager to find out. That’s why he was after him.
I also understood now why the FBI agent wanted my help. I could rummage around Nolan’s things. Take a look at his accounts.
; I turned the credit card I’d used that morning around in my hands.
I don’t know how much time passed before I heard my cell phone buzz.
I got up to check it.
Where are you?
It was Nolan.
We had a lunch date and I hadn’t showed up. He’d not found me at his place, coming back, because I had decided I would never again set foot in that apartment.
He didn’t know that, but he’d guessed it. As of that morning, I was done with him.
I remembered that night on the yacht when he’d said I could leave him, as long as I gave him back everything that was his.
It was a fair deal.
I looked at the bags on the floor, the clothes I’d taken off, the shoes. I picked up everything, everything at once, took out a black bin bag and threw everything in. End of subject, file erased. From that moment onwards Nolan no longer existed, not even in my wardrobe.
I’d slept with him, I’d let him touch me.
I couldn’t believe he’d thought me so stupid.
My eyes closed, running my fingers through my hair, I went from one room to the next. The music was still on, Zero was still staring at me from the desk with his green eyes, his expression grumpy.
The phone started ringing. Nolan again.
I closed the call without answering and locked myself in the bathroom, turning the shower on to the maximum, hoping the water would take his bloody smell off me, erasing it.
Nolan Carter already had someone to go back to, a bed to warm up.
That girl with the running mascara owed me a favour.
Christopher Dunn
«I’ll check in with you on Friday. All right. Yes».
I had a lawyer, Edison Crow. He was tasked with managing my contacts, writing the contracts I signed.
He was good at his job, knew his way around, and knew of my business. He didn’t care who I had been before that morning, he went by the number of zeroes he could add to the sum on his bank account. As long as the zeroes were growing, he was there. His policy was: if I can find it written that it can be done, then it can be done. I liked that way of thinking.
We met in his study right after lunch. We had a lot on our hands. I was about to become a shareholder in a bank. To tell the truth, I’d done it already, using the money I had stolen from the gang. Edison Crow had done the rest: found me a new name and a clean record, FBI-proof.
Right then he was on the phone, while I sat on the desk, my feet resting on the radiator.
In the end he closed the call and informed me: «You just gifted two million dollars to World Connection».
«I’m a generous man,» I pointed out.
«And the orphans in this town will be grateful for it». He clapped me on the shoulder, went and lit himself a cigar. How could he smoke those things?
«They’ve organised a charity gala. They’ll give you a plaque. Man of the month».
«A two-million-dollar plaque». I curled my mouth in a grin.
«It’s solid steel».
He realised I kept looking at the door of his office, without further comment. He thought I wasn’t keen to indulge him.
«It’s your society introduction, Chris. Take it like a debutante’s ball. There will be press, TV. The whole world welcoming you with open arms». He was excited, we’d tried something impossible and it had worked out. «Nolan Carter, businessman, benefactor, successful entrepreneur».
«Is that my calling card or do you want it written on my headstone?»
He stared me like I wasn’t getting it.
«It’s what you are, Chris. It’s your barcode. We’re all products for sale, that’s how the world goes. And you’re at the head of the chain of production. In two days you’ll be on the administration board for the BNG Group. How does it make you feel?»
It made me feel like a fraud.
I was the kind of guy who called himself Wolf. Then I’d put on a suit, a tie, and the world had changed.
I knew how to go with the flow, that was all. My mum thought I would have been good at selling insurance. I had a way with people. I never said more than was necessary, I didn’t judge, if I promised something I did it. People figured out I hadn’t come out of Harvard, but they couldn’t quite place me. So they didn’t trust me, but they let themselves be persuaded, because I gave the impression of always having everything under control.
«I’m no longer sure we’re doing the right thing». I rubbed at my forehead.
Edison came and sat in front of me. He leaned against the wall, next to the radiator.
His study was quite nice. Shiny chrome, leather armchairs. Edison had money.
«You don’t have to worry about Sloan».
He’d figured what I was thinking about. I’d told him I’d met Liza that morning. Someone had told her I’d been spotted around, and it could only be Sloan. He’d been two years and a half in jail because of me, and when he’d got out he’d found himself without a gang, with no connections, and short of two cases of coke. I was sure he wanted to take me out.
«He knows I’m back,» I warned him.
«So what?» Edison couldn’t see where the issue was.
«I stole twenty million dollars from him».
«Not from him, the police had it». He smiled. He shrugged. «You came out of it clean. Even if he wanted to, Sloan couldn’t get them back. You used that money to buy your ticket to the world of high finance».
«I’m still a street kid».
«The world will never know that. They will read on the papers the story of a charming investor who grew up in Ohio and built his own future through the sweat of his brow».
I was still staring at the door, saying nothing.
Edison stopped tiptoeing around it.
«If she’s not going to write that piece, we’ll find someone else. You’ve had your night of victory, you have the money, a penthouse in an exclusive part of town. We keep climbing, we’ve got different targets».
For Edison, it was easy. For him Madison was only one step on the way up.
I kept saying to myself: really?
I’d waited for her for two hours that morning, and she hadn’t showed up. I’d tried to call her, she hadn’t answered. I had followed her footsteps by tracking the transactions on my credit card. She’d spent almost thirty thousand dollars of my money in two hours. Then she’d disappeared.
I wanted to talk about her column. It had been Edison’s idea, to have her interview me. He thought a cover piece on the Sunset would gain me the general approval and hijack the police investigation. He’d made up a backstory for Nolan Carter, something to explain where I’d come out of, with all that money in my pockets. Madison would have lent it credibility by printing it in her column.
I’d never agreed much.
I had already seen what she could do with her columns. I’d been through it once and I didn’t care for a repeat. But Edison was convinced it would work, so in the end I’d let myself be persuaded, and had tried again.
But Madison had pulled back and I kept staring at that door, as if she was going to show up at any moment.
Edison was a quick thinker. «But no, not like that. She was your target».
He’d finally found the real issue: everything was in jeopardy because of a woman. Years of work, months of preparation, contracts, agreements, acquaintances. Women are like that, they seem harmless, then they destroy everything and you haven’t even had the time to notice. He was not scared of the police, but he was scared of Madison. Edison held his breath. «We did all of this for her? No. No, Chris. Don’t tell me that,» he begged.
«It’s not what I’m saying».
I stood up. I looked at the time. Six PM.
«There are hundreds of women, you can have them all. You just need to apply the right leverage».
«Why doesn’t it work with her?,» I asked him. I desperately wanted to smash something against the wall, but I kept my calm. I’d learnt to keep everything bottled up when I was on the r
un.
«Maybe you’ve used the wrong strategy,» Edison suggested. That was one good thing about him, he didn’t give up. And I was like him.
«She has my credit card».
But it was no game, with Madison. She was the one leading the game, setting the rules. You only had to be careful she didn’t checkmate you.
«Always be wary of people who are not charmed by money. Idealists are… willingly doomed to self-destruction».
Edison had never met her, but he thought he had her figured out.
I shook my head.
I thought Madison was a world onto herself. One of those you’d better not risk landing on.
«Chris, I’m not going to push you. Whether you keep going or pull out is your choice. I’m only going to tell you one thing. You’ve done a lot, take what you can, leave the rest behind, and follow your path».
I put on my jacket. Looked at my watch again. It had started snowing, and I was on my bike.
I left the office.
«You’re not going to do it, are you?,» Edison asked.
«No, I’m not».
Twelve
I wasn’t expecting the doorbell.
Not that late in the day.
I went to answer, clutching a towel to my chest.
«Hello?»
Maybe I’d been wrong, because no one answered.
«Hello?»
Maybe it wasn’t for me, maybe they were in already.
I traced my wet footsteps back to the living room and turned on the volume on the stereo.
As I dried my hair I looked outside, wondering who could be crazy enough to drive in that weather. At this point, the streets were frozen over.
I put a knee on the edge of the window and looked down at the pavement. There was a motorbike parked there, a stuttering streetlight, a broken traffic light. More than anything there was winter, spreading like an oil stain on the street.
I kept looking at the melting snow, battered by the wind. The music filled every crack of the room.
When the guitar chords were interrupted by someone ringing at the door, I briefly wondered if I’d imagined that sound.
