About Face

by Adam Gittlin

  Now it’s up to me to finish the job.

  The train starts moving. My eyes drift out the window as we slide past the platform.

  “So, I did what you asked. Now where can I find Jonah?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I turn to Morante.

  “He won’t be letting me know until tomorrow,” I add.

  “Where has he been all these years?”

  I don’t answer.

  Morante starts to shift in his seat.

  “Look, you told me you can me lead me to him when you returned from D.C. Now—”

  “I did. And I will. But things change. Like I said, now I won’t know where he is until tomorrow. As soon as I know, you’ll know.”

  “This is bullshit. I swear, if you’re fucking with me—”

  “I’m not.”

  Morante is about to speak again, but stops. He’s gathering his thoughts.

  “He killed that detective. The one they pulled from the river,” I start in, perking Morante up. “Only he did it in self-defense.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Jonah trusts me. We’ve spent a considerable amount of time together these last years. I don’t know if it was for my insight or if it was simply cathartic for him, but he told me what happened, what led to his fleeing New York City. He told me everything.”

  “He murdered my fellow officer.”

  “How do you know it isn’t my version?”

  “The self-defense crap you just spilled? Because everything used to dump and hold the body down in the water came from his father’s townhouse—the one he grew up in—on the Upper East Side. That’s why.”

  “I’m not saying Jonah didn’t panic, detective. That he didn’t try to cover up what happened. What I’m saying is that your fellow officer was up to no good. He was shaking Jonah down.”

  “What do you mean shaking him down?”

  “Danish Jubilee Egg. The one I came to see today. Jonah is the only reason that egg ever made it to the U.S. Capitol where it was scheduled to go on display. And that happened because he kept it out of your guy’s hands.”

  Morante shakes his head.

  “I don’t get it.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Try and stay with me.”

  Morante nods.

  “Danish Jubilee Egg is one of eight Imperial Fabergé Easter Eggs that went missing during the Russian Revolution. There was a family—is a family—out there who desperately wants those eight eggs.”

  “Why?”

  “Not important right now. You—like the rest of the world—will know the answer to that soon enough. Anyway, as I was saying, this family I’m referring to found a way to get their hands on this particular egg—only that plan got fucked up and Danish Jubilee Egg ended up in Jonah’s briefcase. Literally. He had no idea why.”

  Morante thinks for a second. He shakes his head.

  “Why didn’t he go to the police?”

  “Because he couldn’t. The world was looking for this thing. Jonah had no idea where it came from and he would have looked like nothing more than an accomplice who’d grown a conscience. Besides—”

  “Besides what?”

  In case you’ve forgotten, this hadn’t exactly happened at a time I was in the cops’ good graces. They were sure I’d been part of a white-collar crime that went down not long before and they wanted me to pay for it. Truth is, I had nothing to do with it. But the way to start addressing that would not have been to show up with the missing rare artifact in the news for having been stolen.

  “Nothing,” I back off. “Let’s just say there were a number of other things working against Jonah. What is and is not pertinent—I’ll leave that up to Jonah.”

  “Wait. So, what does this have to do with the detective?”

  “The detective was given the task, most likely for a handsome payday, to get it back and into police evidence to then be retrieved by the people trying to steal it. Only little did they even know this guy—your detective—was probably going to keep it for himself to extort the fucking extorters. Quality guy.”

  “Not possible. He was one of us,” Morante says, lifting his chin even higher. “And one of the best.”

  “What he was, Detective, was a scumbag who got greedy and got himself killed. Would you like to know how you might start believing me?”

  “Try me.”

  “Grand Central Station has eyes everywhere—something I’m sure you know as well as anyone, Detective. Has for years—well before any of this went down with Gray.”

  “Of course.”

  “And that footage is not only recording in a continuous loop, it is archiving in a continuous loop. I can give you exact dates, Detective. Exact dates and exact times to go back in time and look at the cameras by a certain bathroom in Grand Central. A certain bathroom where you will see your detective entering, then waiting for, Jonah Gray who he knew would be there.”

  Morante is in a near trance from my words.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Far from it. I can also tell you where he waited for Jonah outside of Grand Central with duffel bags filled with millions in drug money from the streets—money he was going to use as payment for the egg. I’m guessing there are plenty of exterior cameras that must have picked this up. You see, Jonah had goaded the son of a bitch into thinking he was going to play ball. But he was never going to turn Danish Jubilee Egg over to him or anyone else. Never. And that, Detective, is what got your boy killed.”

  As the Acela slashes up the Eastern seaboard, I tell Morante everything. All that went down from the moment Jonah saw Pangaea-Man until the moment Jonah killed him by accident when the car they were riding in nicked the curb. I also told him that it was not Jonah who actually disposed of the body. That in the moment, someone had offered to cover. And Jonah didn’t have the luxury of time to stick around and ask questions.

  “What do you mean? Then who?”

  I thought of Mattheau—my father’s longtime chauffeur who had covered for me, given me the assistance and room to escape. I have no idea where he is. Alive, dead, in New York City, another continent—zero idea. But Mattheau was a good man who had looked out for me. I can’t take the chance of putting him in harm’s way.

  “That … that I’m not sure of. You’ll have to take that up with Jonah.”

  My stomach is in a full-out riot as I recount all of these moments. It’s not like I haven’t relived each second before—just not to the detective I barely eluded when the world turned upside-down on me. I can’t believe I’m actually talking to him. I’m staring in his eyes, but all I see are white backdrops—oval-shaped, white, backlit backdrops in his head projecting images from my life, one after the other. Vintage Perry in our Manhattan office before this ever happened appears in the left eye. Perry behind the bar at supperclub in Amsterdam pops in the right. Tommy pops in the left. My father in the right. Jake of old in the left, fatter Jake I just saw the day before in the right. I see the chalet where my transformation happened—and Max and Gaston, then Perry again—in the left. I see an image of me and Detective Morante speaking in front of my father’s townhouse just minutes after Pop’s head was blown apart. The slideshow goes on and on, the soundtrack of Morante’s voice behind them. It’s like a scene ripped from the fucking Twilight Zone. If only this guy knew.

  We finally pull into Penn Station. I’ve certainly given Morante more than enough to run with in beginning to see the truth, beginning the process of clearing my name. I look at the Perregaux. Time is mad tight. I still have work to do. And a flight out of here in a couple hours.

  “So, when will I be hearing from you?” he asks as we ride the escalator up from the platform.

  “According to Jonah, should be tomorrow,” I answer. “Soon as I know, I’ll get in touch with Jake. He’ll tell you where to meet me and we’ll go from there.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Uh-huh.

  I don’t care for “Uh-huh
.”

  We ride a bit farther up in silence.

  “So, you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t feel comfortable giving me your name, but you still haven’t mentioned anything to me about your relationship. How you know Gray. Why you’re here. Anything.”

  I turn to him.

  Because, Detective, I’m a ghost.

  And that doesn’t change for you or anyone else until I can safely walk the earth again as Jonah Gray.

  “That’s right,” I say.

  Something is happening, telling me to be on alert.

  Though I’m not sure what.

  “Why is it such a secret?”

  He then adds a chuckle to his words.

  “I mean, you two meet in a Turkish prison or something?”

  We hit the landing. I pretend to be unsure of where I am.

  “Let’s see,” I say as we keep walking side by side, stride for stride. “Where would I find a taxi stand?”

  “This way. Seventh Avenue,” he replies.

  “Ah.”

  We slightly shift directions. But our pace remains the same. We head up yet another escalator and exit onto the sidewalk on Seventh Avenue between Thirty-First and Thirty-Third Streets, right under the main entrance to Madison Square Garden. Off to my left I see the taxi stand line.

  “I appreciate your efforts today, Detective,” I say, as I get in line.

  I extend my hand.

  “And as soon as I know, you’ll know,” I continue.

  He shakes my hand.

  “I’d better.”

  He looks at his watch.

  “You know, probably best for me to take a cab as well since my car’s up at the precinct. Mind if I wait with you?”

  Not good.

  React.

  Now.

  “Actually, I’m on a really tight schedule,” I shoot back, now looking around wildly. “Ah! That. The One Line I think it was,” I say.

  I jump off line and start heading to the subway entrance on the corner of Thirty-Third and Seventh for the 1, 2, and 3 lines.

  “I believe we took that train yesterday. Anyway, Detective, thanks again.”

  “You sure? The line moves really fast,” he says to me.

  He isn’t waiting for my answer. He’s jumped off the line too and is coming my way.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I go on, disregarding his words.

  I turn and get moving. My walk becomes any faster and it will officially be a run. The street is busy. I’m weaving the best I can, rubbing shoulders, excusing myself without looking back. I’m working the crowd, every muscle in my body clenched and ready for, absorbing incidental contact.

  I look over my shoulder.

  Morante’s working the crowd just as I am. He’s coming.

  Fuck!

  What did I say?

  What is he thinking?

  Once I hit the stairwell down into the subway, I stop with the charade. I start taking the steps two, three, four at a time, full speed. I avoid people coming up the best I can, but a few aren’t very lucky as they get my lowered shoulder or I crush their toes.

  Once officially in the station, the last thing on my mind is a MetroCard or paying. Like a track star, I hurdle the turnstile and take off down the platform for the Downtown One line. All of a sudden I hear a programmed woman’s voice come over the intercom throughout the station:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there is an Uptown One Train to South Ferry approaching the station in four minutes.”

  I keep going without breaking stride. The platform is crowded. I have no idea if Morante is keeping up with me or not. I look over my shoulder. Nice. I don’t see—wait—no, there he is. He’s caught in the crowd but still coming. I slow back down to that place between a walk and a run as I have good distance.

  In my last life as a commercial real estate broker in this very city, one thing was as much of a constant in my life as anything.

  The New York City subway.

  I don’t care of you’re rich, poor, black, white—there is simply no more efficient way of getting around this city for people who actually care about being on time. When you’re a powerhouse rainmaker with the biggest firms in the country waiting on you multiple times a day, like I was, the subway system becomes your best friend.

  I hear the station woman’s voice again: “Ladies and gentlemen, there is an Uptown Two train to Two-Hundred and Forty-First Street approaching the station in one minute.”

  One minute.

  Shit.

  Without having to look, I know exactly where I’m going. At this particular station the Two and Three lines, both express, share another platform that requires me to go down another staircase—coming up on my left in about thirty yards—then take yet another one back up.

  Making that train is going to be tight. But without a second’s hesitation, I take off. I’ve undoubtedly just made it clear to Morante I have something to hide, but getting caught in his clutches without his first being forced into investigating some of what I’ve told him is not an option. For him to catch me now means everything unravels. For him to catch me now means too many others avoid exactly what it is they have coming.

  And I’m simply not having that.

  I bail from the platform like someone, well, running from the cops, and start barreling down the stairs. As I do, something unexpected pops into my brain. It’s the chalet. I see Perry. And Max. And Neo. And Gaston.

  Once I get to the bottom of the stairs, I run through the tunnel that heads back across Seventh Avenue underground. To keep going straight would take me to the Uptown One—a local train—as well as an exit back up to the street. To make a right halfway through the tunnel takes me up to the express lines.

  I hear the rumbling of a train approaching overhead. Then I hear some screaming and commotion coming from behind me. I turn for a split second.

  “Police! Please, move aside! Please!”

  Morante hits the bottom landing of the staircase. And he has two officers with him dressed in blues.

  Fuck.

  When did he call for help?

  Were we still on the Acela?

  Or were these guys by chance in the station?

  Our eyes meet for a split second. I turn and bounce up the stairs like I have springs on the bottom of my shoes.

  The train is coming. Rumbling.

  Louder.

  Louder.

  I’m almost there.

  I see the chalet again.

  Only I’m not seeing Perry, Max, Neo, or Gaston anymore.

  I’m seeing the surgeon who transformed me.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there is an Uptown Two train to Two-Hundred and Forty-First Street approaching the station.”

  The Two Train and I surface on the platform at the same time. I keep running. Until this thing stops and the doors open, I need to keep moving. Even then, I need to keep moving. I have to time this just right. Or I’ll be stuck either in the station, or on the subway car with Morante and two more officers.

  I’m dodging people left and right. As I do, the train comes up on my left, then past me. I look over my shoulder. I see Morante yelling something as he pursues me, but he can’t be heard above the braking train.

  The train is slowing down. Finally, it stops. The doors open, but I keep running. People file out of the train into my path slowing me down, but no doubt Morante is experiencing the same obstacle.

  The surgeon.

  I see him again in my mind.

  He’s saying something.

  Realizing I can use the influx of people now on the platform to my advantage, I crouch while still moving as fast as I can on low, crooked legs.

  I keep moving.

  Keep moving.

  Then—

  I break left, through the crowd, and onto the train. Channeling my last life, I truly feel I’ve timed it right. The doors start closing. I feel the air returning to my lungs.

  The doors bounce open again.

  No.

  Fuck! />
  Standing up again, I look out through the subway car windows at the platform in the direction we came from.

  Why? Why did the doors open?

  Is someone holding a door open for someone else to make it?

  Is there a hold-up up ahead?

  My heart is racing. My chest feels tight.

  The surgeon.

  I see him again.

  Only now, I can hear him too.

  Like a narrator; my life, the film.

  “No matter how we change the way we look, there is one thing we can never change. Our eyes. And there will always be a special few that no matter what you have done to conceal your birth face will always be able to recognize your eyes.”

  “No,” I whisper, “it can’t be.”

  I see Morante and the officers running into view. He’s spotted me. Preparing for war, I pull the gun from my waistline. He keeps running toward the subway, toward me, only now he has his iPhone up to his face.

  I’m trapped.

  “My guess—” I hear the surgeon in my mind say again, “those people will not let you know they have identified you until it is too late.”

  Realizing Morante is trying to get a photograph of me, I lift my free hand in front of my face. When I do, through my fingers, I see someone running full speed slam into Morante sending both of them flying just before he jumps on board.

  I’m as baffled as I am relieved.

  The doors close. We start moving.

  What just happened?

  Did he get a clear picture?

  I move to the door to look through the glass. Just like that—my last image of Morante—sprawled out on the platform. He’s gone, as we pull out of the station into Manhattan’s underground maze.

  CHAPTER 40

  NEW YORK CITY

  2013

  At Forty-Second Street, I transfer to the One Train, take the One up to Fiftieth Street, exit, head above ground, then head West toward Sixth Avenue. My nerves are jacked. I’m riled up. I’m pissed, amped, freaked. But I remain calm, cautious. Morante may have a halfway decent picture of me, he may not. Either way—that’s all. He doesn’t have a name, he doesn’t have a single piece of information about where I’ve come from, how I got here, where I’m staying, anything about me. No matter what he thinks he may know, what his gut’s telling him—I could give a shit. So long as I stick to my plan, I’ll be long gone by the time he starts making heads from tails. Hopefully, he’ll start going on all the information I gave him on our ride back from D.C. Or he’ll make this about finding me instead of finding the truth. I can only hope for the former. Truth is, who knows?