The Three-Day Affair

by Michael Kardos

  “I called Evan,” I said. “Just so you know.”

  He turned to look at me. “What’d you tell him?”

  “He wasn’t home. I left a message for him to call here.” He looked at me with disapproval. “It was stupid of me to send him away yesterday. We need him, especially now.” His expression didn’t change. “It’s over, Nolan. The bribes didn’t work. It was wrong of us to try. This is as far as we can take it.”

  He stared at me a moment as if he might argue my point but then looked away and nodded at the glass partition. “What about crazy man over there? You’d better tell him.”

  I nodded. “My guess is he’ll be relieved.”

  Nolan moved the contents of the first-aid kit onto the floor and gently laid himself down on the couch. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here. For some reason I’ve got a slight headache.”

  When Jeffrey had taken Marie from the Milk-n-Bread, at first every minute had seemed precious. But now an entire night had passed, and the currency of time had inflated. Seconds no longer mattered, and minutes went by almost unnoticed. When I told Jeffrey that I’d called Evan, that I wanted him here when we let Marie go, he merely shrugged. “It’ll be nice to see him,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

  It was noon. I spent most of the next hour trying to clean the blood off the hallway carpet. I wasn’t too successful, but fortunately the hallway was always dim and the gray carpet was already terribly stained from years of grime and beer and cigarette ash.

  When an hour had passed, I called Evan again from the studio’s phone. The hell with not leaving a phone trail. I got his machine again and left another message—same content, more urgency. Then I called information for the number to his law firm. The operator directed me to the company directory, and after pressing the digits for his last name, I reached his work voice mail and left another message. Evan never went long without checking for messages. A client or partner might be calling. After another hour had passed, I nearly called a third time. Instead I went out to the sub shop on the corner and bought Italian subs for the guys and a veggie special for Marie. None of us had eaten all day, and my stomach was feeling somewhat better.

  I handed Marie her sandwich, and as she unwrapped it I told her that Evan was coming. That we were waiting for him and then we’d let her go. She didn’t deign to look at me, and started picking onions off the sandwich.

  “Just remember,” she said, “you made a pledge to me.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Good. Because I don’t feel safe around those guys,” she said. “I don’t trust them—especially the good-looking one. Though I’ll bet he isn’t so good-looking now.”

  Standing there in the doorway I wanted to say more, but through the glass, in the control room, Nolan was waving the phone receiver at me.

  While at the University of Virginia, Evan had made law review and was recruited heavily by the big firms, wined and dined and offered signing bonuses as if he were going to be throwing touchdown passes instead of writing memos and taking depositions. My uncle had been a lawyer in Jersey City, estates and wills and real estate closings, but Evan’s job was nothing at all like that. In the deals he worked on, billions of dollars were on the line. He wasn’t allowed to name his clients, but he implied that they were the corporations that advertised during the Super Bowl.

  He was calling from halfway across the country. The moment his boss learned that he wasn’t taking the weekend off in Jersey, Evan was whisked away to Minneapolis. A client needed his help on a deal that was close to being finalized.

  “Come home on the next flight,” I told him.

  “Can’t do that, Will. I just got here.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Drop what you’re doing. Whatever it is. Get to the airport as fast as you can and take the next flight to Newark. Rent a car. I’ll give you the address—”

  “Wait a second, now. Just slow down. The client’s in the next room. We’re in a meeting. You’re not being reasonable. So just slow down a minute and tell me—”

  “Listen to me, please,” I said. “Ditch. The. Client.”

  “Will . . .”

  “Tell him someone’s been in an accident. Or that your mother’s sick. Do whatever you need to do.”

  “Look, the weather’s awful out here. Even if I did try to leave . . .”

  “Just get here as fast as you can.” I glanced over at Marie. “Man, I promise you I’m not crying wolf over here.”

  He didn’t say anything, and for a moment I thought the call might have gotten disconnected, severing my only tie to somebody beyond this recording studio. But then his voice returned.

  “Give me the address,” he said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Marie was motioning for my attention. Lunch was done. We were waiting to hear from Evan when his flight would leave. Jeffrey and Nolan refused to be in the same room together, so Jeffrey had eaten lunch in the recording room, and Nolan and I had eaten in the control room.

  I opened the door to Room A and Marie handed me the trash. Then she told me what she wanted. I had a feeling this was coming eventually.

  “I know the bucket isn’t ideal,” I began, “but . . .”

  “No way,” she said. “I’m not shitting in a bucket in front of you guys, not when there’s a bathroom fifty feet away.”

  I sighed. The bathrooms were out in the hallway, and the hallway led to the front door. “Wait a minute,” I said, and shut the door. Jeffrey, who’d overheard the conversation, shrugged. “It’s fine with me.”

  I went into the control room to relay the problem to Nolan. “Your call,” he said. “Just don’t let Jeffrey accompany her.”

  “I thought maybe you both could—”

  “Forget it. I’ll do it alone. I owe her an apology anyway.”

  “You know she’s scared to death of you now.”

  “Then this will be a chance to show her my soft side.” He got up from the sofa, groaned slightly, and went to get her. After a couple minutes of them chatting together in Room A, he had his hand on Marie’s arm and was guiding her out of the studio and down the hallway.

  When they were gone, Jeffrey followed me into the control room. “It’s probably too late to apologize to you for everything, but I am sorry, you know.”

  “Duly noted,” I said.

  He looked around the control room. “So other than kidnapping, what do you use this place for?”

  I’d almost forgotten that it was a place for music. I answered his question by cuing up a reel of tape. It was The Fixtures, the band I’d been recording all week. “They’re just teenagers,” I said, “but they’re pretty good.”

  And I liked them. We got along well. I had a certain way of dealing with young bands. I’d ask them, “Are you motherfuckers ready to play some rock and roll?” And they’d answer, “Fuck, yeah! You’d better fucking believe it!” They loved that I didn’t treat them like kids. That I was nothing like their parents or teachers.

  When I started engineering the band’s five-song demo a couple weeks ago, they said they wanted a “major-label sound.” They had big plans to sell the CD at shows and mail it off to record companies. The checks that they paid me with had Dr. Edmond Castle printed on them. These were the well-adjusted, bright-eyed kids of doctors and lawyers, kids with just enough talent, motivation, and family backing to approach the mountain that they’d spend the next five or ten years of their lives probably failing to summit. Someday, cynicism would likely creep in as it did with most musicians, but that was still long into the future. I was glad they’d come to me. A lot of studios would’ve treated them like free money, putting some intern on the console who’d only ever swept the floors, and given the band a quick lesson in rock and roll being a lousy business. At least I could prolong their innocence, give them a CD worthy of Dr. Edmond Castle’s generous checkbook.

&
nbsp; “They sound good,” Jeffrey said. “They’re good, this band.”

  They were, and it felt good to be listening to music, any music. Jeffrey and I had finished the last of my cigarettes late the night before, and I had been in such a hurry at the pharmacy this morning that I’d forgotten to buy more. But my craving subsided as we were transported, for a few minutes, away from this place. Neither of us said anything when the song ended. We wanted more. We wanted the next song, and the song after that. As long as the music kept playing, time would stand still and our problems wouldn’t exist.

  I leaned back in my chair. I’d slept last night, true, but it’d been a wakeful kind of sleep, and now I began to dream the moment I closed my eyes. My dream was a shapeless thing, more sound than image—bass drum becoming some universal heart beating, pumping blood into exhausted arteries. It seemed to go on a long time. Then gradually my vision returned. The shape of a man in the doorway. Not Nolan. Not Jeffrey.

  “Working hard, or hardly working?”

  I jerked awake, and the dream zippered itself shut.

  Seton Hall sweatshirt over baggy jeans. White stubble. Yankees cap.

  Joey.

  I sat up in my chair, then clumsily shut off the tape. “What’re you doing here?” He knew that nobody was booked in the studio this weekend.

  “What am I doing here? This is my goddamn studio.” He glanced over at Jeffrey. “Who’re you?”

  Jeffrey watched me with pleading eyes. My terror matched his own.

  “This is Jeffrey Hocks,” I managed to say. “A friend from college. I was showing off your studio. Jeffrey, this is Joey Pitts. He owns the place.”

  Never a man of nuance, Joey seemed ignorant of our anxiety and shook Jeffrey’s hand heartily. “Glad to meet you, Jeff,” he said. “Sorry about your taste in friends.” He laughed at his own joke.

  When I asked Joey again what he was doing here, he whistled as if recalling a grisly traffic accident. “I had to escape my own house. The wife’s meeting there with her book club. She’s always reading about nuns in Bangladesh or kids in Iran who put on Shakespeare plays. Hell, I don’t know. Bunch of old broads get together once a month. Way I figure, it’s a chance for them to gossip and eat cake. I had to clear out for a few hours. Sometimes you gotta do that. You married, Jeff?”

  “What?” He was already backing out the door.

  “You’d understand if you were married. Will here understands, don’t you, Will?”

  Before I could answer, there came the sound of water rushing through pipes. Joey’s eyes narrowed a little.

  “Joey,” I said, “Jeffrey and I were talking about something kind of important.” Several weeks earlier I’d alluded to a wealthy friend who might want to invest in the record company. I hoped that Joey would get my hint and leave us alone.

  “Is someone else here?” Joey asked. No suspicion in his voice, just curiosity.

  Jeffrey and I glanced at each other. There was no ignoring the sound of the toilet being flushed. Then I heard a scream, blasting my heart to the top of my throat, but it was only the bathroom sink.

  “Like I said, Joey, I’ve got friends in town for the weekend.”

  “Nolan’s in the bathroom,” Jeffrey said. “I’ll go get him.”

  But Joey put up his hand. “Give him time,” he said. “Nobody likes to be rushed in there. I’ll wait.”

  “It’s okay,” Jeffrey said, “I’ve got to go anyway.”

  “Maybe I’ll use the crapper, too,” Joey said, and my heart lurched. “Join the crowd? Nah, I’m kidding. I don’t crap more than once every couple of days. Waste of time. Bet you didn’t know that Albert Einstein only crapped once a week. Da Vinci, no more than twice a month.”

  Go away! I thought. Go away go away go away!

  “Nah, I’m kidding again. I’m just a constipated old man. Like you’ll all be some day. Ah, youth.” He grinned at us. Jeffrey slipped past Joey, out of the control room, and went down the hall toward the restroom.

  Joey lowered his voice, asking if I thought Jeffrey was going to invest money in the record company. I told him I wasn’t sure yet, but I was hopeful.

  “I hate to kick you out of your own studio,” I said, “but our chances are better if it’s just a couple of old friends talking. I’m sure you understand.”

  Joey studied me a moment. “I’m impressed, Will. I’ve got to admit it. When you first mentioned starting a record company, I told the wife you were full of it. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you can pull this off. So my point is, I’m sorry. I’m apologizing to you right now.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” I said.

  “Everyone makes mistakes, though. You gotta agree with that.”

  I agreed. I’d have agreed to clipping his toenails if it would get him out of the studio.

  “All right,” he said, “I’m going. I’m thinking of bowling a few frames. You heard me! I haven’t been bowling in years. But what the hell, am I right?”

  He turned to leave, prompting a silent prayer of gratitude to every deity I could think of, and then he nearly ran into Nolan coming into the control room.

  “Holy crap, son, what happened to you?”

  “Car flipped over twice,” Nolan said, “back in Missouri. I’m lucky to be alive.”

  I made quick introductions: “Joey, Nolan. Nolan, Joey.”

  “Well, it obviously hasn’t knocked any sense into you,” Joey said to Nolan, “because you’re still friends with this guy.” He winked. “Okay, fuck it, I’m leaving. Enjoy the afternoon, boys.”

  Before he could change his mind, I shot out of my chair and took him by the arm. I escorted my boss out of the control room. After a couple of steps Joey turned around again, and I had to stop myself from murdering him on the spot.

  “Enjoy the weekend, Nolan,” he said. “Jersey’s a good place. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. Or do. What the fuck do I care?”

  Finally he left. After the door had closed behind him, I exhaled for what seemed like the first time in several minutes and returned to the control room.

  “Holy shit,” I said, trying to catch my breath. Nolan went to get Jeffrey and Marie. They led her back to isolation Room A. She went obediently inside and sat down on the floor. Nolan locked the door behind her. They both came into the control room.

  “Now that,” Nolan said, “is what you call dodging a bullet.”

  I nodded, glad at least to see that Nolan and Jeffrey were willing to be in the same room again.

  “I’ll tell you this,” Jeffrey said. “That girl deserves a medal. I agree with her—forty thousand dollars isn’t enough for what she’s put up with.”

  Nolan was sitting on the sofa, eyes closed. He didn’t even bother to open them as he gave Jeffrey the finger. I couldn’t help laughing.

  He opened his eyes. “Don’t fucking laugh. There’s nothing funny about this.”

  But I was giddy from the close call. The release of tension felt entirely welcome. We laugh at funerals. Why not now?

  “He’s right,” Jeffrey said. “Seriously, Will. Cut it out.”

  I balled up a sheet of paper, faked a throw at Nolan, and whipped it at Jeffrey. It hit him in the head. “You fucking crazy fuckmunch,” I said to him with as much feeling as those words can carry.

  “What did you just call me?”

  “You heard me, fuckmunch.”

  He smiled a little—not the crazed grin from before. A human smile. “You’re right. I really, really am.”

  I’ve heard that in mountain climbing, most injuries occur on the descent. This makes perfect sense to me. One’s attention can remain in a heightened state for only so long. When we head downward, we relax a little; we let ourselves appreciate the view. And that’s when we find ourselves tumbling into a crevasse.

  I should have followed Joey to the door and locked it behi
nd him. Everyone makes mistakes. Joey’s were trivial. He talked too much and he sometimes forgot to slam the damn door so it locked. I knew this about him. I should’ve followed him to the door.

  I rewound The Fixtures’ tape and was putting it back into its case with the easy arrogance of somebody who believed he’d be finishing that recording in a few days. That simple action, boxing up the tape for another day, revealed to me, in immediate hindsight, that at some deep level I still believed that when the weekend was over, I’d go back to my ordinary life and nothing would have changed.

  To my credit, the moment I set the box back on its shelf I realized what I’d just done, and what it said about me. But by then it was too late. When I looked up again, a man was standing in the center of the main recording room, looking straight at Marie and waving.

  CHAPTER 21

  He sometimes wandered in from the street when Joey left the door unlocked, which was why I never left it unlocked.

  “Get out of here!” I yelled, not that he could hear me through the thick glass. After a quick explanation—“Homeless guy”—I left the control room and went into the recording room. “Out of here, right now!”

  “Cute girl,” he said. “Who is she?”

  By now Nolan and Jeffrey were on my heels.

  “She’s nobody,” Nolan said.

  Marie was looking at us with an expression of mild curiosity. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d save anybody. She probably assumed he was another one of my friends.

  “She’s recording an album,” I said. “I mean it—out, or I’m calling the police.” I had him by the arm, and before Marie could change her mind and begin pounding on the locked door, I’d led him out of the studio and into the hallway.

  As soon as I let go of him, he stopped walking. He had a moldy, boozy smell. “My friend,” he said, “those submarine sandwiches you were out buying today were probably delicious. I could use one of them subs myself, if you could spare a dollar . . .”

  I didn’t like the idea of him watching me without my noticing. What else had he seen? Nolan got out his wallet, removed a twenty, and held it out. The man’s eyes got huge. “You’re going to leave right now and not come back. Isn’t that right?”