You can’t call the cops, and after what just happened you’re not going to ask Richard. You have to figure this out if you’re going to stop it.
No Neck appeared the day you met Willem. Did Willem hire him? Willem seemed like a straight shooter, but that could have been an act. Maybe he was suspicious from the beginning, and hired a tail to get the full scoop.
But journalists don’t work that way. You know who does work that way? Richard. Following you is the kind of thing Richard would hire you to do. Except Richard trusts you. You’ve known Richard forever. And if he didn’t trust you, why would he hire you in the first place?
The only thing that makes sense is the thing that scares you most. No one sent No Neck. No Neck sent himself, to reap some cosmic debt.
After an eternity, the train doors open at High Street. You get out and hurry up the long escalator. You’re panting by the time you reach the top, but you don’t stop to catch your breath. You push yourself forward, straight out of the station and across the concrete park toward Cranberry Street, on your way to your basement apartment.
Then a voice from behind yells, “Hey!”
You turn.
It’s No Neck. He’s running at you, full speed. Panic sweeps you up like a big wave. You spin around to run, and at the same moment No Neck dives, tackling you with a shoulder to your kidney, a sick stabbing pain, and you fly forward and down and your head hits the
* * *
• • •
YOUR PHONE IS RINGING.
Your face is cold.
Your phone is ringing again.
You blink your eyes open. The light is dusky, gray. A bus roars past. You’re in a park. You’re on a bench. You sit up slowly and fish your phone out of your pocket.
“Nick?”
It’s Haley—you recognize her voice this time. Your stomach flips over itself.
“Hello?”
You should say something. “Hullo, Hah-lee.” You sound like you’ve got a mouth full of peanut butter.
“I got your message! Seriously out of the blue, Nick!”
“I thought you didna check tha,” you say.
“What’s that?”
A coughing fit overtakes you. You hold the phone away from your ear and cough into your hand.
Haley is talking when you bring the phone back to your ear. “—to hear from you, but this is an absolutely insane time for me. I’m in the early stages of a new film, it’s a really important one to me, and I really don’t have time right now.”
There’s a splatter of pink in your palm; are you coughing up blood, or did you lose a tooth?
“Maybe this summer?” Haley says. “Can you call me in a couple months, and we’ll find a time for coffee?”
“Waith,” you say. “You won’ talk da me?”
“No, no, it’s just, this month and next are super insane, with this project, I barely have time to sleep. I’m sorry. But this summer will be better, we’ll talk this summer.”
You can’t believe it. Haley is blowing you off.
“Shoot, Nick, I have another call, I have to take this—I gotta go. But it’s great to hear from you! We’ll catch up this summer,” she says.
“But—” you say.
But she’s already hung up.
You stare at your phone. “You bith,” you say.
You try to stand up. Your right kidney disagrees. You sit back down. Your kidney thinks you should go to the hospital. Lindsey would tell you to call the cops. But what would you say? And you don’t have insurance for the hospital.
You check your pockets: keys, wallet. You run your tongue around your teeth: nothing loose, just a big gash inside your bottom lip. You touch your head: there’s a bump on your forehead, about the size of a golf ball. Except for that, and your kidney, everything seems to be in order.
“Okay,” you say out loud, and with both hands and teeth clenched you stand up again, and then you realize that Alice’s medical file is gone.
7. The Truth
Your neighbors are fighting again.
You’ve never seen these people. You’ve only heard them through the walls, you know them only by the loudest words they hurl at each other: childish and goddamn you and bitch. Your neighbors have money, their apartment has windows, but they, too, are alone.
You spend an hour trying to write a text message to Lindsey. You describe what happened a hundred different ways, hoping for her sympathy—mugged in the park! attacked in the park!—you delete a hundred versions. Finally you hit SEND: Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you and Katie.
At midnight the walls of your apartment shake when one of the neighbors slams out the door. You get up and piss, and thank God there’s no blood. You check your phone; no response from Lindsey. You wonder why Haley called you back so fast. She said she didn’t check those messages. As the night thins into early morning you snap the pieces into place.
If No Neck were out for vengeance he would have killed you. If he were working for Willem he wouldn’t have known to take the file; if he were working for Richard he wouldn’t have attacked you.
The only thing that makes sense is that he was working for Haley. Taking the file benefits Haley the most.
Why else would Haley call? An hour after you get attacked? And she’s calling just to blow you off? No fucking way. If she really wanted to blow you off she would have sent a text message. Nice try, Haley. She called an hour after No Neck attacked because she was obviously checking to make sure you weren’t dead. It’s the only evidence you’ve seen that she has any conscience left. You pace around until you realize that you’re pacing, then you make yourself sit.
You get up and drink water straight out of the tap, your head underneath the faucet. You check your phone, again and again. You dream of bourbon, thick syrupy sleep, oblivion.
Finally you shower and shave, and at seven o’clock you’re outside of Haley’s office building, a cup of black coffee and three double doses of ibuprofen doing their job. For an hour you watch people pass, thousands of them, lucky bastards on their way to gainful employment. You can’t wait to yell at Haley. You can’t wait to tell her you don’t need the file; you’ll bluff, you don’t care, you want to scare her; you’ll tell her you have plenty to ruin her with. Even without the file, you now know the truth. You were going to let her off easy—but she upped the ante, and now you’re going to ruin her.
Then she walks down the block and your knees go weak.
She looks just like she did at seventeen. Her hair is darker blond, but pulled back in that same high ponytail. She’s wearing faded jeans and bright-red lipstick, and she’s tucked into a cream-colored jacket as neatly as a thank-you card in an envelope.
You dodge through traffic across the street. You call out “Haley!” sounding like Bobcat Goldthwait. You clear your throat and jog, you catch up, you touch her shoulder. “Haley?”
She turns and frowns.
“It’s Nick,” you say. “You know: Go Spartans?”
Her eyes turn into dinner plates. You laugh. “Have I really changed so much?” You’re fifty pounds heavier and a decade pickled in hard liquor, and you’ve got a black eye from where the lump on your forehead drained. You knew all of that five minutes ago—but now you see it starkly, reflected in the mirror of Haley’s face, and she hasn’t even seen your bad hand. “I know,” you say. “I’ve changed.”
Her mouth opens for a few seconds before she says anything. “Hi, Nick,” she finally says, and then she smiles, bright and fake. “What are you doing here?” she says.
You laugh, a bitter bark. “You wanted to meet me for coffee!”
She blanches, confused. “What?”
“Oh, wait, my mistake. That’s right, you said you didn’t want to meet me. I must have been confused! Sorry, I’ve been having a hard time keeping things straight, ever since yo
ur goon gave me a concussion.”
She takes a step backward. The frowning, confused fear on her face looks genuine. You’re amazed at her acting skills.
“Don’t play dumb,” you say. “I know.”
She takes another step backward. “I’m sorry . . . I have a meeting, I need to go meet a funder . . .”
“No, you have to talk to me. I read Alice’s file before you stole it. I know all about your movie. I know the truth. The file doesn’t matter. This isn’t over. Your movie is dead in the water, Haley, okay?”
The fear on her face disappears, and she frowns deeply.
You’ve got her.
She says, carefully, “What do you mean, you know about my movie?”
“I mean I know everything,” you say.
She studies you for a second. “Are you doing this for Richard? Did he send you?”
“Your conscience sent me,” you say.
She looks around the street.
You say, “This time you’ve gone too far, Haley.”
She seems to make a decision, nodding to herself. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”
You follow her into a bodega on the corner. It’s one of the nice ones, with a couple of metal tables in the back. There’s a line of people getting coffee and breakfast, but all the seats are available. Haley chooses a table and you sit down across from her.
“So,” Haley says, folding her hands. “Are you here to threaten me, or to offer me money, or what? What does Richard want?”
“It’s not Richard’s plan,” you say. “It’s my plan. I found out about Alice, and I think what you’re doing is despicable. Making the movie is despicable enough—but then hiring some goon to follow me, to attack me, that was really beyond the pale.”
She leans forward and slaps both of her hands flat on the table, interrupting you. “Nick! Listen to me. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know about your movie?” you say, narrowing your eyes sarcastically.
“I don’t know about someone attacking you.” Her face looks worried—worried for you—and suddenly you’re a little worried, too.
“Just stop lying for once in your life,” you say, petulantly.
She spreads her hands and shakes her head. “I don’t know what to tell you. Who attacked you? Did you talk to the cops?”
You look at each other for a second. Your anger is draining away and embarrassment is creeping in. You’d expected her to cave by now; instead you’re the one who sounds crazy.
“No,” you say. “I didn’t think the cops would believe me.”
“Are you okay, Nick? It seems like . . . like maybe you need some help?”
There’s a euphemism. You feel tears swelling up, clogging your sinuses. “I’m fine,” you say. You sit up straight and clench your teeth. “Fine. Forget the goon. What matters is that you have to stop this movie.”
She looks away and down, waiting for you to get yourself together.
You cross your arms and fight off the crying feeling. “You’re hurting people. This is such a mess.”
Very gently, Haley says, “How did you get involved in this?”
“Why couldn’t you just let it be? The old rumors. The stupid accusations. You had to go drag them up, trotting out that poor girl for a movie.”
“But Richard is the one who dragged her into this.”
“Oh, so Richard’s the one making a movie now?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” she says.
You watch her, the tears hot and threatening right behind your eyes. You want to get up and run away. You wipe roughly at your eyes, and wipe your nose. Haley’s eyes are spotlights.
She says, “Richard tracked Alice down, he reached out to her.”
“What?” you say. In a flash you think of the fundraising document: ten hours of damning interviews. Richard said it was Max; Richard said he didn’t remember Alice’s name; but Richard didn’t look you in the eye when he talked about it.
Haley folds her hands in her lap, looking down. “Alice is a ghostwriter. A few months ago she got an offer to work on a book project for a lot of money. She interviewed this guy for weeks, over the phone. She wrote a whole book for him. She had no idea who he was.” She looks up and searches your face.
“It was Richard?” you sputter. “But that’s crazy.”
Haley’s eyes widen and she spreads her hands. “It’s maniacal.”
“So the interviews in your movie . . .”
“Alice tapes her client calls.”
“Oh,” you say.
Haley frowns and leans forward. “You know about those interviews?”
You put your forehead down on the table.
“Did you see my grant?” she says, her voice a register higher.
You keep your forehead on the table as you nod. “You should be careful about where you fundraise,” you say.
And then you hear Haley’s phone chime.
You sit up and watch as she pulls her phone out and reads what’s on the screen. Her face falls. She blurts out, “Oh, Alice!”
“What happened?” you say.
“I have to go,” she says. “I have to make a call.” She’s gathering her things up to go, frantic, typing on her phone with one hand while pulling her purse onto her shoulder with the other.
You look around the bodega. “But I don’t understand,” you say. “Why would Richard hire Alice to write a book?”
Still typing, she says, “He was trying to pay her off without having to apologize. He wasn’t going to tell her who he was, but then he slipped up. She came to New York and asked me to help her make a film about it.”
“So you’re not exploiting her,” you say.
Haley looks up at you sharply and suddenly. Then she looks away. “I’m not so sure about that,” she says. She shakes her head and goes back to typing some frantic message on her phone.
“I don’t believe you,” you say.
This time, Haley raises her head very slowly. She gives you a stony stare.
“Richard would have told me,” you say.
“Can you imagine, Nick?” She stares at you, eyes wide, like she’s waiting for you to react in some way. “Can you imagine what it’s like to realize you’ve been talking to your rapist without knowing it?”
She just keeps staring. You don’t know how to answer. You feel numb and confused. “But Richard never actually touched her,” you say. “It was just a rumor.”
“Fuck you, Nick,” she spits, and stands up roughly, her chair scraping against the floor.
But you don’t understand yet. You need her to explain things. You reach out and grab her wrist. “Wait.”
She rips her hand away from yours. “Don’t touch me!” she yells.
The sound drops out of the bodega. Everyone in line looks at you. You feel them hovering, ready to help, and they’re not going to help you.
In the silence your phone starts to ring. Haley spins around and walks away. “Wait!” you say, as you fumble your phone out of your pocket. “I just want to—” The caller ID reads LINDSEY.
You answer, “Hey, Lindsey, hold on—” standing up at the same time, reaching for Haley, but then you run up against what seems like a dozen burly construction workers stepping into the line. They’re crowding the bodega, blocking your exit.
“Nick,” Lindsey says in your ear, and her voice is a warning.
“Just a second,” you say. You duck your head and try to break through the crowd. “Could I just get through, excuse me—” you say, but the men ignore you. You watch, in the space between their elbows, as Haley bangs out through the bodega door.
“Nick, why is there six thousand dollars in my bank account?” Lindsey says. Your attention snaps back to the phone, your heart leaps. You sit back down in the chair.
“Yeah,” you say. “I did it.”
“Nick, you’re not listening. You ruined my mortgage application!” Lindsey is screaming now. You hear Katie wailing in the background. “You ruin everything!”
“Wait, it’s not like that,” you say, and stand up too quickly. You bump into one of the construction workers from behind. He turns around and frowns at you, but you’re focused on the phone. “I’m sorry, Lindsey, I can explain—”
“What is wrong with you, Nick? I knew I couldn’t trust you,” she says, and hangs up.
You stare at your silent phone.
“Asshole,” the frowning construction worker says, and turns his back on you.
* * *
• • •
RICHARD ISN’T ANSWERING HIS PHONE. He’s in the Brooklyn office on Fridays, his receptionist says. But then the receptionist at the Brooklyn office says he’s in Manhattan.
You find him at his apartment in the early afternoon. “I know you’re in there,” you shout, banging on the door.
“Jesus, Nick,” Richard says as he opens the door. “What happened to your face?” He’s dressed in spandex and drenched in sweat, a towel around his neck.
“We need to talk.”
Richard breaks into a big grin. “So—you heard the news?”
You push past him into the apartment. All you can think about is the liquor cabinet he keeps in the living room. You walk over and look at it longingly. Then you breathe and turn and sit on the couch. “I fucked up.”
Richard is pulling on an old gray sweatshirt. It takes you a beat to recognize it, the heat-press number 36 cracked and peeling—his old lacrosse team sweatshirt. “What are you talking about? Haley’s movie is dead, right? Ed told me it was dead.”
“No,” you say. “I fucked things up with Lindsey. Maybe forever.”
Richard laughs in relief. “Oh! I thought you meant you’d fucked up the job!”
True Story Page 23
