"It's impossible to bill that much."
"Not impossible," Elliott said.
"Listen. So this guy's a little stressed obviously. His deal's about to close, but his secretary fucks up royally. She loses the closing documents, leaves them in the photocopier. So you know what this guy does?" Raphael raised an eyebrow, paused for effect. "He friggin' loses it and slaps the bitch! Right in front of everyone!"
"Is he still here? I mean, at Sullivan & Adler?"
Elliott said, "Actually, the partners called an emergency meeting, fired him on the spot."
"And the partners were so fucking paranoid about being sued by the secretary, they had security pack up his shit and escort him out of the building."
Micah shook his head, finished off his beer, and ordered another. He began to wonder if they were toying with him.
"I know a story," Elliott piped up. "There was an associate who was so busy that he missed the birth of his first child. The associate was pulling all-nighters all week, insanely busy as you can imagine, and he was in a meeting when his wife unexpectedly shows up. There's some serious suits at this meeting, CFOs, VPs, and the like, and they're wondering what's going on. She just barges in, holds up the baby, and says to this associate, 'This is your daughter! She's been in this world for three days in case you were wondering what she looks like!'"
They laughed.
Micah jabbed Elliott's chest. "You're full of shit. You all made that up, didn't you?"
"No," Elliott said with an embarrassed smile, "that associate was me."
Micah looked at Raphael, who nodded a straight face.
"Which reminds me," Elliott said, "I should get home before my wife castrates me."
Elliott staggered away, disappearing into the crowd.
"Dude, snap out of it." Raphael patted Micah's face. "Now that the married fucker's gone, let me buy you some lap dances to apologize."
$ $ $
The club smelled cloyingly sweet from the perfumes, powders, and lotions of the two dozen women who worked there. Strobes and music bounced off floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and men slumped back in comfortable black leather couches in the darkness. Micah and Raphael were sitting in the back room, in a private booth with a champagne bucket on the table. Micah's head was feeling the effects of Cristal, and he tried hard to listen to Raphael's jokes, his whispering in the women's ears. Whatever he was saying, Raphael was making the two girls laugh and squirm in their lingerie.
"So do you hot tamales party?" Raphael asked.
"What?" the blonde one asked, cupping her ear.
"Party." Raphael touched his nostril. "Want some candy, little girl?"
"What do you think?"
Raphael clawed his way out of the booth, clumsily leaned against Micah's shoulder. "Keep 'em microwaved for me, Mikey."
"Where you going? Hey!"
Micah watched Raphael wander off into a murky corner, through a narrow doorway. It looked like an employee backroom. He suddenly felt the discomfort of having to entertain the women without Raphael's rapid-fire mouth.
The brunette poured herself another glass of Cristal and grabbed Micah's hand. "Raphael's sooo cool. How long have you two worked together at your law firm?"
She said law firm like it was The Vatican. He looked down at his hand and let her touch his fingers. "I've been there about nine months now. Long enough to be very pregnant."
She laughed. "Raphael said you guys work all the time. But it's worth the million dollar salary, right? And taking private jets and limos everywhere with your clients?"
"He told you all that?" He pulled his hand away from the brunette's grasp.
Both women nodded. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to laugh. Raphael reappeared with a disturbing grin. "He shoots, he scores! Everybody follow me to my private office."
Raphael led them into a bathroom with a long marble sink, condom samples, and dull light from vanity bulbs. He locked the door. The blonde sat on top of the sink counter, and Raphael wrapped his arms around her. Micah watched, trying to hold himself up against a stall door. He fought the dizziness and tried to block out the thumping music outside the room.
The blonde leaned her face down, snorted deeply from the counter. Micah tried to focus his glazed eyes, to see what it looked like. Like baby powder. Or flour. He smiled, why he didn't know. Maybe because it looked so harmless.
He said, "I'm fixin' to leave, Raph."
Raphael buried his face in the blonde's red satin bra and snorted up and down her chest. "Try some Bolivian Marching Powder." Raphael held the blonde, pointed at her powdery breasts. "It's my medicine, Mikey. Heal thyself, bitch!"
The brunette grabbed Micah's hand. "Do a bump with me?"
Micah looked down at the brunette's cleavage, the soft flesh in her black push-up bra. He said, "I drank too much."
"Come on, Mike. We're having a good time here. Right?" Raphael turned to the blonde, and they locked tongues.
The blonde said, "You want some hand relief, daddy?"
Raphael smirked. "Forget about it, you kidding me? I can use my own hand."
"Oh," she said, "can you use your own mouth?"
"No, but I've been taking yoga classes!"
The blonde laughed as she got on her knees in front of Raphael.
Micah reached for the exit door.
A sudden pounding on the other side, and he jumped back.
"Fuck 'em!" Raphael held the top of the blonde's head, looked up at Micah. "I am so amped right now!"
Micah fumbled for the door lock. He twisted and shook the knob, but it wouldn't open. The brunette unlocked the door and pulled him out of the bathroom.
$ $ $
It was almost dawn. Not that he could keep his pupils focused on anything bright or his head from drooping. He knew it only because the city garbage trucks were beginning to rumble. And he could see the fluorescent glow in her hair. The brunette strands looked red, like Ashley's, up close. His shoulder was propped up against hers, a crutch, as she helped him inside the building door, up the steps, stumbling inside his studio.
He found himself on his back in bed, staring at the wavering ceiling above him. The ceiling fixture glowed, undulated back and forth, in and out of focus. The brunette leaned over him, taking his head in her hands, her wide eyes looking at him with sympathy and want. She held his collar, the first two buttons undone, straddling him as she got closer to taking off the rest of his shirt. Raphael would be proud. She pulled off the sleeves, let the shirt drop on the floor.
He tried to lift his head up, but the blood puddled in the back of his brain. Dizzy.
He looked up, smiled helplessly because he couldn't even put a sentence together. He didn't mean to smile. The brunette took a silver barrette from her hair. Her long soft strands fell around his face, a dark red canopy that smelled sweet and safe.
"You smell so good, Ash," he said, slurring.
"What?" she whispered above his mouth.
Her face hovered above his. Her hand ran along his chest, lower, curling around his navel, slower. Her nails traced around and held him, and he dug his heels into the bed, erect. He flailed his arms to stop her, clumsy and scared that it felt good.
"I'm sorry, wait," he said, as clearly as he could.
"What's wrong?" Her hand squeezed gently, stroking up and down.
Another "sorry" slurred out of his mouth, and his arm swung into the night table, leveling it, everything on it crashing to the floor. The noise sobered him for a second.
"Don't you want to? You do." She slid back and forth over him, taking off her shirt. Her nipples were already stiff and pink.
$ $ $
Car alarms, honking cabs, bums shouting in the street below. Nothing woke him up until the phone rang again and again. Three hang-ups. The fourth time, the message alert beeped on his cell. He called voicemail, and a shrill voice cut through his hungover head, making his teeth tingle. "Look, Micah," Hannah's voice said, obviously from her speakerphone at the office, "
I don't know where you are, but if you continue to use this excuse about not being able to work on Sundays, then you should be at your desk when I call on Saturday."
He sat up in his unzipped khakis, tasted the sour leftover of champagne in his raw throat. He rubbed his sandpaper eyes until he noticed the broken silver rectangle on the floor. Her Christmas present, the photo of him and Ashley at Keeneland, was on the floor, the glass broken in pieces. He carefully swept the shards into a pile, laid the photo on the night table.
He sighed, hating himself, looking at the list of emails on his cell phone before he rolled over with the covers above his head. He wanted to be back in the dreamy warm cocoon of sleep. His eyelids were heavy, and he caught himself snoring when the ringing startled him. He threw the covers off, stood up. He thought it was the phone again at first.
He trudged over to the door intercom, said gruffly, "Hello?"
"Surprise!"
"Ashley?" He glanced around at his wrecked apartment.
"Hello?" she said through the intercom. "Honey? Are you gonna let me in?"
"Course I am, sugar." Micah hesitated, pressed the buzzer. "Come on up."
A minute later, she was hugging him, her suitcase on the floor next to his dirty shirt. He felt guilty looking into those piercing cat eyes of hers, so he buried his head in her neck and soft red hair. "I missed you." He tried to pull her close, but she pulled away and walked around the room. "How'd you get here? I thought your flight was canceled?"
"I talked them into letting me fly stand-by this morning. I thought you'd like the surprise."
"I do." He tried clearing his raw throat. "I love it."
"Oh, and guess what?" She clapped her hands together. "I have a job interview on Monday! It's for a fifth grade teaching position at Bronx Prep Charter."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes. I'm so nervous. And I haven't told my parents. I'm afraid they'll think-"
"Who the hell cares what they think, Ash?" He regretted his words immediately.
"I care what they think. What is wrong with you?" She moved closer to the night table, froze mid-stride, and gasped. She pointed at the broken picture frame. "What happened?"
"It was an accident. I knocked it over. I can fix it." He moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, but she was stiff. "I'm sorry."
She started shaking, saying, "Oh my God. Are you kidding me? You've got to be kidding me!"
"What's wrong, sugar?"
"Don't you fucking 'sugar' me."
She shook loose from his embrace and kneeled down on the floor. She turned around, held up a silver barrette. She threw the barrette at him and picked up her suitcase.
"My parents were right," she said, walking toward the door. "You're a fraud, just like your dad."
"Where are you going? Ash, what the fuck?"
He watched her leave.
She was halfway out the door when she turned. "You don't even know how much you've changed, that's the saddest part. The old Micah would've never let me get to the door. Don't call me. We're done."
22 Thursday
* * *
Gabe Weiss stood over the underwear on the kitchen counter. Rachel crossed her legs on the bar stool, leaned over the counter for a better look, examining the men's briefs. He watched as he held the knife that had been inside her lover the night before. The lover who had been inside her.
"What?" She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a baffled look.
"I found that in our bedroom, Rachel."
"Why wouldn't they be in our bedroom?" Her voice wavered slightly. "They're your underwear, Gabriel."
"I haven't worn briefs since I was a kid. Please don't lie anymore."
"Have you been drinking?" She leaned off the stool, tried to smell his breath. "You have, haven't you?"
"Stop." He pounded his fist on the counter, knife in hand.
This got her attention. She took a step back, held up her palms. "Calm down-"
"Don't tell me to calm down! I am calm!"
He struck the counter again and felt pain surge through his fingertips, but still he clutched the knife. He'd never seen her frightened since they'd met. She was always the confident one, the knot that bound them together through law school, through his partnership, through the kids.
"You're drunk. I'm telling you, it's your underwear."
"I just want to know why, Rachel. Why?"
Her eyes narrowed, unblinking and hard. "Why are you doing this?"
"After thirty years, the least I deserve is an honest answer from my own wife. Since you can't give me anything else now, that's all I want."
"You want an answer?" An ugly grin curled up on Rachel's beautiful face. "You want to hear that I slept with another man? Will that make everything better for you?"
"You didn't answer me." He tapped the knife on the counter top. "I can't believe how much I love you, and all this time, you were nothing but a common whore."
Her hand slammed against his cheek.
His eyes twitched and watered. He focused on the glint of metal in his hand.
"How dare you say that to me, Gabriel." She shoved his chest, but he wouldn't look at her. "I'm a whore? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You're the only whore I see."
"You did this to hurt me, didn't you? That's why you picked him-"
"No, it's not about you this time. You haven't needed me in years. That's your problem. All you care about is yourself. It's all about your feelings, your pain, your work. You've become the most selfish bastard-"
"Oh, so now this is about my work? The only reason I broke my back all these years was for you and Sarah. Did you ever think that? I did it so you could have everything you wanted."
"We wanted you! We wanted a husband and a father." She laughed, sad and defeated. "You used to be so different. You were a mensch. Now look at you, you're a shadow, Gabriel."
He put the knife in his left hand, caressed her shoulder. "Please don't say anything else."
She took his hand from her shoulder and stared through him. "I told myself that I'd never tell you this, but you want to know what the worst part was? I never wanted to leave the city. I didn't want to give up my career. I never wanted to move here, and I wasn't ready for a family. But I did it for you. That's making a sacrifice for someone you love. That's something you wouldn't understand. And what happened when I gave you what you wanted? You think you were a good father to your son? After he was… gone, you think you were good with Sarah?"
Gabe sat down on the bar stool, reeling. He pulled at his hair.
"And now you have the gall to call me a whore? You're the whore, Gabriel. You."
"Please don't. I want to make things right. You don't understand."
"No, I understand you too well. You should have made things right a long time ago."
He dropped the knife onto the floor. He wanted to weep, to feel tears on his face, but nothing came. Just emptiness. "Rachel, I did something terrible. Please, I need you-"
"Why would you need a whore like me? Go to hell."
She threw the underwear at him and walked out the front door. Her car shrieked down the asphalt, and the wail of the engine slowly faded away in the distance.
$ $ $
Gabe was sitting in Sarah's Ford, parked in the shadow of a sickly tree on the edge of a fire hydrant zone in front of Danny Boy's. His once favorite Irish Pub. He thought about going inside and drinking himself blind. Where else could he go? His daughter was locked in her room at home, still furious that he had laid a hand on her. His wife hadn't confessed her adultery but made him realize that he had driven her to it. And after she'd stormed out of the house, he didn't want to stay and face her again when she returned. Then there was the body in the trunk to deal with. He had bought bags of ice and emptied them into the trunk, but the sour smell and bottle green blow-flies were already swarming over it. In this heat, it wouldn't be long before maggots hatched. He nearly vomited when he thought of the prospect. He finished off the bottl
e of scotch and started driving again toward Manhattan.
He bought a second bottle of scotch at a liquor store and slogged through traffic, driving aimlessly. He wondered where he could go? Back to the house? His brother's apartment in Brooklyn? A friend's? What friend? The Temple? They wouldn't recognize him.
He laughed. Nobody would have him. Not a chance. He needed a place to hide for a few hours, just to be alone. He thought of where, and the depressing realization made him open up the new bottle of Dewars with one hand while he steered with the other. He had fought with everyone important to him in one day, and he needed the liquor to salve his wounds.
I was a good husband, he told himself. A good father. I did everything for them. Gabe wiped his mouth. The hell with all of them. It's not my fault. I'm not the one to blame. He tried to convince himself with the help of the scotch.
He drank almost half the bottle and ended up at the expensive parking garage in the same office tower as Sullivan & Adler. He waved the unfamiliar pimple-faced valet away with a twenty dollar tip, choosing the self-park section instead. He didn't want anyone else touching the keys to the Ford anymore, not with the stench growing worse in the trunk. Water was dripping steadily under the back bumper, which meant the ice was melting fast. The body wasn't doing well in the ninety degree weather and the oven that was the trunk.
He found a row of empty parking spaces six floors up, parked in a desolate corner, and turned the AC up as high as it would go.
"Keep the stink to yourself back there. You, too."
Gabe swatted at a tiny fly that had gotten inside the car, hoping to lay its eggs in the body. He smashed the insect against the windshield and sighed. He clicked the automatic door lock, pointed every vent at his slippery face. The cold air felt good, and the quiet emptiness of the concrete structure made him feel safe, as if he were in a cave. The city traffic seemed miles away, like the background noise of a TV set left on in his mind. He fell asleep and was dreaming peacefully until the nightmare happened again. The same party with Rachel on the dance floor and the body bleeding all over him. Pieces of the dance floor collapsing and Gabe falling through it and screaming and trying to catch himself. The crowd laughing at him.
PLUMMET: A Novel Page 17
