Now Leo was annoyed. He deserved better. “Come on, Nathan. Don’t be like this.”
“Like what? In a hurry?”
Leo tried to think of what he could say to persuade Nathan to stay. The credit card on the bar was a black Amex. Leo couldn’t believe Nathan was doing that well.
“Do you need money?” Nathan asked, noticing Leo staring at the card.
“What? No.”
“Because if this is about money, I can float you a loan. I can do that.”
“It’s not about money. Christ. Why would you think I need money?” Leo was furious remembering that he had thought about borrowing money from Nathan. Hell would have to freeze over.
“I talk to Victoria now and then.”
“Fantastic. Fucking fantastic. Victoria, the most unreliable narrator of all time.”
“To her credit, I had to drag the information out of her.”
“It’s not to her credit; she signed an agreement. In fact, I find it very interesting that she’s trying to turn people against me—”
“Cut the bull, Leo. I asked about you as a friend. I was worried. Nobody’s against you.”
Leo took a deep breath. “So put me on your calendar. Let me give you my presentation. Just hear me out.”
“You say you’ve done your homework?” Nathan said.
“I have.”
“So you know who our CFO is?”
“I didn’t memorize the organization chart, no.”
“Peter Rothstein.” Nathan signed the bar copy and started ripping his receipt into tiny pieces, which he carefully placed back on the edge of the plastic bill tray. Leo frantically tried to remember why the name might be significant. Nothing.
“His brother was Ari Rothstein,” Nathan said.
Leo felt a vague familiar nagging, but still—nothing. “Do I know him?”
“That’s one way to put it. The one who gets it done. Sound familiar?”
Leo’s heart sank. Ari Rothstein had been one of the last SpeakEasy stories of his tenure. A community college kid—kind of portly, dull looking—who sent in a video résumé for a tech-support job. Leo had come to the office one morning to find everyone standing around a monitor, hooting and laughing. The tape started with Ari Rothstein in an ill-fitting suit reeling off his technical experience and then absurdly and awkwardly interrupting himself by removing his jacket, putting on a baseball cap, and singing a nonsensical rap parody about tech support. The chorus was the inelegant and forgettable “I’m the one to get it done.” (I’m the ONE. I’m the ONE. I’m the ONE to get it DONE!) It was awful, and hilarious.
“We’re putting it on the site,” Leo had said, before he’d even watched the entire four minutes and thirty-two seconds. Everyone thought he was kidding at first, but he knew click-through gold when he saw it. It was SpeakEasyMedia’s first huge viral video, and Ari Rothstein had been vilified and mocked for weeks, everywhere—online, in print, on television. His clip ended up on a Today Show segment called, “How NOT to Get That Job You Really Want.”
“You hired that guy?”
“Noooo.” Nathan drew out the word as if he were talking to someone incredibly dim. “That guy is dead. He overdosed a few years ago. His brother was with the company before they acquired us, and he didn’t speak to me for more than a year. It took a long time to gain his trust, convince him that I didn’t have anything to do with the incident, and that I regretted it, which I do. What we did back then? It was okay. It was fun. But it wasn’t exactly honorable, Leo. It’s not what I want to be remembered for.”
“I don’t either. That’s my point.”
“I can’t, Leo. I can’t. I’m not saying the Ari thing is your fault—our fault—or anything like that. I’m saying things are different. The business world is different. I’m different. I hope you’re different. And I can’t hire you.”
Leo sat for the first time since entering the bar. He was trying to think of the right thing to say, the sensitive and appropriate thing, but what came out instead was a joke, one the old Nathan might have found amusing. “I guess Ari Rothstein really was the one to get it done.”
After a long silence, Nathan said, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Good luck, Leo. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Don’t be. I have other irons in the fire.”
“Good.”
“Not that you asked, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that in my opinion you should have some concerns about throwing your financial efforts behind Paul Underwood.”
“Is that right?”
“I like Paper Fibres, too, but things are completely chaotic over there. I don’t think Paul has the kind of leadership you’re going to need to bring this forward. I don’t think he’s your guy.”
Nathan stared at the floor and then slowly looked back up at Leo, pityingly. “I was hoping you wouldn’t show up here and still be a prick, Leo. I was really hoping.”
“Don’t misunderstand. I like Paul—”
Nathan put out his hand and Leo reluctantly stood and shook it. “Best of luck, Leo. I hope you get your shit together. For Stephanie’s sake.”
“I’m going to have to take my ideas elsewhere.”
“Be my guest. Just don’t ever drop my name again.”
“Fuck you, Nathan.”
“Right back at you, mate.”
Leo watched Nathan make his way out the bar. He sat back down and took a deep breath, trying to process what had just happened. His phone on the bar started vibrating. He looked at the incoming call display and at seeing the name, his heart nearly stopped. Matilda Rodriguez.
CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR
Before he’d stupidly let Jack Plumb inside his house, Tommy had had only one scare concerning The Kiss. An FBI unit had knocked on his door one morning when he still lived out in the Rockaways, wanting to talk to him about a missing object from the World Trade site. He’d almost passed out until they explained that they were investigating reported thefts at Fresh Kills and just wanted to know if Tommy remembered seeing the Rodin and, if so, where he’d seen it last. Tommy assured the investigator that he’d delivered it to the Port Authority trailer just like he had with countless other artifacts and left it with someone there whose name he didn’t remember but who had said she’d take care of it.
“That’s the last time I saw it. Sorry, guys,” he told them. “Wish I could be more of a help. It looked like a banged-up piece of crap, to be honest.” The investigators shook his hand, told him how sorry they were for his loss, and that was the last he heard from anyone.
At first, Tommy kept the statue hidden in his bedroom closet in the house in Queens, covered with a pillowcase. He didn’t want his daughters to see it when they visited, approximately a thousand times a week. “Just checking in!” they always said in chirpy voices he’d never heard them employ until he was a widower. But having his wife’s gift in a closet like a shameful secret bothered him. He started to think about moving. The house he’d shared with Ronnie, where they’d raised their children, where they’d had family movie night with popcorn every Friday and had managed to make love every Sunday even when the girls were little, sometimes having to fit it in between commercial breaks on Nickelodeon—but they did, they always did—was too empty, too lonely.
His old friend Will from the fire department told him about Stephanie needing a new tenant. He’d always liked Stephanie. She was a good egg—funny and smart, a hard worker and completely down-to-earth. “What they used to call a real dame,” Ronnie had said, approvingly, when Will brought her to one of their legendary holiday parties and Stephanie had charmed the entire room by singing “(Christmas) Baby Please Come Home,” Darlene Love style, into the karaoke machine they’d hooked up to their TV.
The garden apartment was a little run-down, but he didn’t need much. He just wanted his own place where he could keep the statue and see it every day, somewhere far enough from the Rockaways so his kids wouldn’t drop by without calling first, where he wouldn’t
have to answer a lot of questions. The statue had been his well-kept secret. Until Jack Plumb walked into his dining room.
Having Jack Plumb inside his house, walking in circles around the statue like he was evaluating a used car, had caused an unpleasant shift in Tommy. Maybe it wasn’t only Jack, maybe it was the passing of time, the nature of grief, but when he took the statue out of its hiding place now, all he could hear was Jack Plumb saying, Where did you get this? For years, Tommy had worried about somebody seeing the statue, his daughters mostly. And now that someone had, he started to think more clearly about what might happen if he was caught. He hadn’t looked at the statue in more than a week.
Today, two of his three daughters were visiting. He almost always went to them, but a few times a year they planned a trip into “the city” and would detour to Tommy’s place first, delivering bags of groceries they imagined he needed.
His family never managed to hide their dismay at his living conditions and as Maggie and Val barged through the front door, five grandchildren between them now, he braced himself for their familiar complaints and pinched mouths.
“This place could be nice, Dad,” Val said for the hundredth time, “if you’d put in a little effort.” She was unloading groceries onto the kitchen shelves, opening up a package of bright green sponges and using one to wipe down the cabinetry.
“You don’t have to do that,” Tommy said. “Sit.”
“I don’t mind,” she said.
“Why don’t you get some furniture that actually fits in here?” Maggie said. “We could go look for a new sofa today if you want. We could help you pick something out.” She was right. The sofa he’d kept was meant for a much larger room, not the narrow proportions of a brownstone parlor.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not expecting Better Homes and Gardens to drop by and take photos.”
“Why is this locked?” Val was standing now in front of the built-in china cabinet in the dining room. The top half was meant for display and Tommy had put a few pieces of their wedding china on the shelves, his one attempt at “decorating.” The bottom half of the cabinet was meant for storage. He’d removed the interior shelves and the bottom baseboard but left the doors in place to conceal the cavernous interior, which neatly fit the statue on its dolly. He could wheel it in and out when he wanted. The doors were padlocked now.
“It’s nothing. A few valuables.”
“Mom’s stuff?” Maggie had an edge to her voice.
“Everything that belonged to Mom is in the boxes I gave you. Like I’ve told you.”
She was staring at the cabinet. “Is this neighborhood that bad? You need to padlock valuables?”
He didn’t know how to answer (the neighborhood was fine), so he just made a dismissive sound and tried to move everyone back to the living room.
“Oh my God,” Maggie said. She grabbed his arm and spoke quietly so the kids wouldn’t hear. “Do you have a gun in there?”
“What?”
“You look as guilty as sin. You have a goddamn gun in this house, the house where we bring your grandchildren.”
“There’s no gun. Calm down. And I don’t like your tone, young lady. I’m still your father.” Tommy was desperate to distract her from the cabinet.
“What else do you own that you need to keep under lock and key in an empty dining room?”
Maggie’s youngest son (Ron, named for the grandmother he’d never met) was clinging to his mother’s leg and whimpering.
“What?” she asked, bending down and making her voice bright. “What’s wrong, peanut?”
“I don’t like it here.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “This is Grandpa’s house.”
“I like his old house better.”
Tommy didn’t know what to say so he just watched Maggie stroking the child’s head, comforting him. “Let’s have some lunch and then we’ll go for a nice walk,” she said. “There’s a park nearby with a playground. Right, Dad?”
But Ron couldn’t be soothed. “This house isn’t friendly,” he said, crying in earnest now. He whispered something into Maggie’s ear, and she shook her head and hugged him tight. “No, no, baby. That’s not true. Everything here is friendly.”
Val took the kids into the kitchen to make lunch, and Maggie pulled Tommy aside. “Dad, I’ve got to tell you. There is something wrong about”—she waved her arm, taking in the surroundings, the misfit furniture, the leftovers from previous tenants, the dust and disorder—“all this. After all this time.”
“I’m one person,” Tommy said. “It’s all I need.”
“I’m not talking about space.” She crossed her arms and he could tell she was steeling herself to say something difficult. She looked so much like her mother he had to stop himself from staring at, touching, her face. “Do you know what Ron said when he was crying? He said this felt like a haunted house. Like there was a ghost here. I mean he’s a kid, but kids pick up on things. It’s dark and dreary and depressing. At least buy some lights. A couple of floor lamps. Up your wattage.” She pointed to the lone living room ceiling fixture.
“Maybe he’s right,” Tommy said, fed up. He never asked for their help, hadn’t invited them to visit. “Maybe it is haunted.”
“Daddy,” Maggie’s eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip. He felt bad, but he felt worse not talking about Ronnie, trying to ignore the ghost they all carried with them.
“It just breaks my heart,” she finally said, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand.
“You think my heart isn’t broken, too?” he asked.
“I’m not talking about Mom. I know she’s at peace. I know it. I’m talking about you, Dad. You break my heart. If there’s a ghost in here … it’s you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE
Melody believed in battle plans; she believed in analysis and strategy and contingencies, and that was a good thing because she and Walter were most definitely at war. He was advancing on two fronts: mortgage and college tuition. Melody was truly out of her mind at the thought of losing their house. It wasn’t even like they were selling to cash out since their mortgage was still significant.
“It’s not about equity,” Walt said over and over. “We have to reduce our monthly nut. Especially with college coming. It’s that simple. Unless you can think of a way to bring in more money every month, we have no choice.”
She wouldn’t let him “officially” list the house. She would not see a picture of her house in the window at Rubin Realty in the center of town for everyone to see and speculate over. Vivienne agreed to show the house “quietly,” a pocket listing.
“We’re just testing the waters,” Walter explained. “Just seeing what might happen.”
Walter also wanted to sit Nora and Louisa down immediately and discuss the financial realities of the coming years and what it meant for college—in his opinion, state schools only. Melody refused. Some families took summer vacations; Melody loaded the girls into the car and they went on college tours. They’d go out for a nice lunch afterward, check out the local town, compare notes on what they’d seen. They had their list! The reaches and the possibles and the likelys—and every last one was private and required mind-blowing amounts of money.
When Vivienne Rubin called while Walter was at work one day to tell Melody about two good offers, one all cash, Melody didn’t panic. She thought for a minute and then told Vivienne to make a counteroffer. The number she named was ridiculous.
“Are you sure?” Vivienne said. “Walter is on board with this?”
“Absolutely,” Melody said. She wasn’t lying, she told herself, feeling calm and oddly optimistic when she hung up. This was a battlefield. Generals knew when to hold steady and when to deploy a strategic maneuver, when to retreat and when to advance. This was war and she wasn’t surrendering. Not yet. Not until she saw Leo.
CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX
After leaving repeated voice mails that Tommy ignored, Jack just showed up at his door one day—as T
ommy feared he might.
“You know you could get into a lot of trouble for having that thing,” Jack said when Tommy reluctantly opened his door after Jack waved a computer printout of a news story about the statue in Tommy’s face. Tommy had spent a few minutes denying that the statue in the article was the statue in his house, but then something within him, some resolve that had been slowly eroding over the past decade, gave way. He was tired. He slumped onto the folding chair in his front hall, despondent.
“Who did you say gave this to you?” Jack asked.
“My wife,” Tommy said, staring at the floor. “My wife gave it to me—”
“Cut the bullshit,” Jack said. “I seriously don’t care how you obtained the object in question. If you or your wife or one of your many fellow heroes took it as a prank or to sell or—”
Tommy moved so fast and with such strength Jack didn’t understand what was happening until he was pinned against the wall with Tommy’s forearm jammed under his chin. He couldn’t speak. It was hard to breathe.
“I didn’t steal this, you motherfucking asshole,” Tommy said; his face was so close that Jack could see the small spread of whiskers at the top of Tommy’s cheekbone that he’d missed that morning while shaving. Tommy spoke and spit a little in Jack’s face with each word: “This was a gift from my wife.”
Jack was surprised to find lurking somewhere in his memory the trick they were taught back when he was with ACT UP and they were constantly being hassled and arrested by the police. To just relax, not fight. He held Tommy’s gaze, maintaining a neutral face. Tommy’s face fell and his whole body sagged as he stepped away from Jack.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, and the words barely came out. He sat back down and looked at his hands as if they weren’t his own. “What’s wrong with me?” He turned to Jack. “It was a gift,” he said, as he put his head in his hands and started sobbing. “It was a gift from my wife.”
JACK FOUND HIMSELF in the peculiar situation of making tea for Tommy. He rummaged through the cupboards, a sad collection of items he imagined Tommy bought (Cap’n Crunch, Ramen, boxed mac and cheese) and things someone else had clearly delivered (organic canned chili, packaged quinoa, chamomile tea), and got him to sit at the kitchen table. Tommy spilled the story with little urging and Jack found himself feeling oddly sympathetic. Poor bastard. He would have to proceed delicately.
The Nest Page 20
