PLUMMET: A Novel

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  "The video, asshole," Gabe said, sitting on the edge of a long sofa. "The fucking sex video."

  Carlos rubbed his eyes, nonchalantly turned off a flat screen TV across from the sofa. "I don't know what you're talking about. You're drunk-"

  "Okay." Gabe nodded, scotch swishing around his gut. "Then you won't mind if I send copies to everyone."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about. What copies? Are you not well?"

  "Save it. I'm not here to play-act." Gabe pointed at him. "I don't need a dose of your schtick, your New Age charitable bullshit and spiritual concern."

  "You're not well. I'm going to call someone."

  "Don't fuck with me, Carlos. I'll do it. I'll send it to the newspapers, the TV stations, every fucking cop and prosecutor I can find. I don't care anymore." Gabe looked at his hands, realizing his fists were clenched in front of him. He glanced back up at Carlos, who looked wide awake now. "I swear to God, I'll tell them everything unless you're straight with me."

  Carlos walked over to a small bar cart at the other end of the sofa, began pouring himself a drink. Gabe watched the thick glass slightly tremble in his hand.

  "To your health." Carlos set down a bottle of brandy, rattling the cart. "Now what the hell do you want from me?"

  "Your brother puts you in nice digs, huh? How much did this sofa cost you, or should I say cost Nick? Twenty grand? He takes care of you real nice and pat, doesn't he, Carlos?"

  "My brother is a good man."

  "Of course he is. You couldn't afford this place with your non-profit charity, could you? Or is One Love For All really footing the bills for this place? No, I don't think so. Either way, Nick gave you that charity to play with, too. How else did he have his hooks in you, Carlos?"

  "I have no idea what you're getting at. You're drunk, and I'm losing my patience."

  "What else does he take care of for you? Buy you drugs, feed your addiction, pay some debts you owe? Is it gambling, is that your vice of choice, Carlos? I heard it was."

  Carlos's mouth parted. He downed his brandy in one gulp.

  "So that's it. That's how he's got his hooks in you." Gabe stood, moved toward the desk full of computers and digital equipment. He reached for the video camera. "Is this what you do for him in return?"

  "I think it's time for you to leave."

  Gabe looked up from the camera, saw a muscular bald man appear from a hallway. The first thing he noticed was that the man was wearing only tight nylon shorts decorated with the Brazilian flag. He was olive-skinned, built like a rugby player. Gabe stared at the man and began to realize who he was.

  Carlos said to the man, "It's okay, Guillerme. Everything's fine. I know him."

  "You sure?" the muscular man whispered. Gabe recognized him as a bodyguard from Nick's yacht.

  "Oh, I get it," Gabe said. "You and this gorilla scouted pussy for your big brother."

  Carlos looked at Guillerme, held his hand up like heeling a dog.

  Gabe smiled. "Did you or this one slip the girls a Mickey? Huh? You sick cocksuckers. Using your shelter as a fuck pad and," he tapped the video camera, "making memories of it."

  Carlos's face was tightening, lips being sucked into his teeth.

  "Did you and the gorilla jump in, too. Huh, Carlos? Did you and Nick take turns raping those girls?"

  Carlos slammed his brandy glass onto the bar cart. "I never touched any women."

  Gabe saw the way that Guillerme and Carlos looked at each other, appalled. "Oh, now I really get it. Guillerme is yours, too." Then the answer hit Gabe like an electric jolt. "Guillerme Texeira. G.T. As in G.T. Data Services." Their faces turned ashen. "You two are making movies of Nick's fuck conquests, and your boyfriend's getting paid a lot of money to keep his mouth shut about it, I bet, huh?"

  Guillerme balled his fists, lumbered a step closer.

  Gabe took a step away from the desk, squared his body toward the big man. He was about fifteen feet away. "Why'd you bring the lawsuit, Carlos? Why me? Was it Nick's idea? Was your name in the papers a pimple on his business? Or was he that much of a megalomaniac that he thought he'd deceive everyone?"

  "Those women lied. We did it for the principle… to clear our name. You were the best lawyer-"

  "Bullshit, Carlos. I was the big corrupt bully. Someone who'd look the other way and steamroll your case over anyone. I had a price, those class action cases that Nick knew I wanted." Gabe felt nauseous. "What was wrong with him? He could have had any woman he wanted." He listened to the words coming out of his own mouth, realized that Rachel was one of them, the night before.

  Carlos buttoned up his pajama shirt, stepped out of his loose slippers. "Why did you say something about a video before? About copies? What were you talking about?"

  "He's like that Max Factor heir," Gabe said, "a sex predator. Wealthy, decent-looking, but he just couldn't help himself. He wanted to watch himself take advantage of helpless girls, treat them like his little animals, right? Like goddamn trophies." He pointed at the video camera. "I saw one of your movies, Carlos. I have it, too. Even saw you step in front of the camera. Must've been an editing fuck-up."

  "There's no such thing. I think you have a drinking problem." Carlos sighed, hung his head between the striped shoulders of his pajamas. "You're drunk and disturbed, my friend."

  Carlos held out his hand, moved toward Gabe.

  "No, I'm not drunk enough." Gabe moved sideways toward the door. "I just wanted to know why, I wanted to see it in your face, and now I get it. I don't blame you. You and your boyfriend have a very nice life. Mazel tov."

  "You're not making any sense." Carlos smiled as he moved closer.

  Gabe said, "One of them must've woken up, huh? Drugged up, but maybe saw you in the room. Yeah, you got blamed, too bad."

  The Guillerme character was moving to the door now, too.

  Gabe wanted to vomit. He stumbled backward toward the door.

  "You said you have it." Carlos followed him. "Where is it?"

  "I don't have it."

  Gabe reached the door knob, yanked, but a chain lock held the door. Guillerme grabbed him, and Gabe felt the man's enormous hands on his neck. Choking and spitting, Gabe tore at the man's face. He pulled at the boyfriend's ear until he heard the cartilage rip and the boyfriend screaming bloody murder. They knocked something over, fell to the floor in a heap. Gabe began vomiting clear liquid.

  "I won't let you do this to him." Guillerme grunted, loosening his grip in the vomit.

  Gabe rolled over debris, crunching broken glass on the floor.

  Carlos joined in, grabbed Gabe's hair, nearly pulling it from his scalp.

  Gabe freed an arm, reached into his waistband. His fingers found the .38 and jammed it against Guillerme's dripping face.

  Carlos Mavros quickly let go of Gabe's head. And Guillerme got off of him, holding his semi-detached ear to his bloody head.

  Gabe stood, gasping for air, spitting out strings of stomach acid. He was pointing the gun at them as he unchained the door.

  "Pray for your brother, Carlos. Pray for his goddamn soul."

  29 Wednesday

  * * *

  Micah's office phone was ringing off the hook because the Gen Lit partners were rushing to close the month. S & A wanted to bill the clients as soon as possible. Otherwise, the billable hours carried over to the next month.

  "And then what does the client see?" Stu Greenbaum was saying on the phone. "He sees a two-month bill, twice as large, astronomical, outrageous. Then the client's general counsel calls me to complain about the bill, and any good partner like myself gives the customary five-percent discount for a longstanding corporate client. And there's nothing more I despise, Grayson, than giving discounts. So input your goddamn time right now."

  "Okay," Micah mumbled, "I'm working on it now."

  Stu hung up.

  "Asshole." Micah glanced back and forth between his computer monitor and his reflection in the window. It was dusk already, and he still hadn't finished
typing the descriptions of his work. The most recent entry was on the screen.

  Research on Westlaw re breach of fiduciary duty and director and officer obligations to shareholders under NY statutory and case law. 4.5 hours.

  He hit a keystroke to add another task description in the billing program. His handwritten work diary and a huge cup of coffee were propped next to the monitor. He took a sip of cold Starbucks, rubbed his eyes. His phone rang again, and he saw the extension. Who else? Hannah Smythe calling again. His hands stayed glued to the keyboard. He sighed with the last description of the month. Reviewing documents for securities fraud class action; drafting privilege log; discussing same with H. Smythe. 7.1 hours.

  He hit return and waited for the month's tally. 202 hours.

  "That's it?" Deflated, he looked around, expecting another associate to peek in his door. He picked up his red time diary while the phone rang again. He didn't have to check to know Hannah's routine. She'd wait five minutes before the next call. After that, she'd start paging him over the intercom.

  He flipped back several pages in his time diary, started with the first Monday in the past month. He tapped the diary with his pen. The pen took on a life of its own, moving back and forth, scratching out figures and numbers, writing in new numbers. He typed more key strokes on his computer and began editing for another hour in the billing program.

  When he was done, he hurled the coffee cup at the trash can in the corner, missed. Brown droplets trickled into the carpet. He rested his chin on his forearms, squinted at the number. His new total billables for the month. 233 hours.

  Micah's finger hovered above the keyboard's "Enter" key.

  "What's up, bitch?" Raphael burst into the office, gawking at the screen. "A little billable hours action, huh?"

  "Yup." Micah shut his diary.

  "So…" Raphael sat in the guest chair. He smelled like alcohol, and cocktail sauce stained his shirt from his summer associate lunch. "What'd you bill last month?"

  "Not as much as you." Micah turned back to his computer, pressed "Enter" to submit the 233 billable hours. He quickly closed out of the billing program.

  "Nobody bills as much as me, dude." Raphael winked at him. "Hey, you wanna go to that art show in Williamsburg and hit on Gabe's wife?" Raphael looked at his watch. "It already started, but there may be some wine and artistic bitches still there?"

  "I thought you said you wouldn't be caught dead there?"

  "Thought we'd crash it just to fuck around."

  "Maybe. I'm kinda bummed out right now though."

  "Hey," Raphael thought about it, "there's a summer associate party in TriBeCa. It's at a kick-ass lounge, that is, if you like free drinks and hump hot chicks."

  Micah smiled. "Probably shouldn't."

  "Come on, dude." Raphael's fingers scavenged the piles of paper on Micah's desk. He picked up the Firm's anniversary party invitation. "You have a date for the party?"

  "What?" Micah played dumb.

  "For the anniversary party on Friday, numb nuts. You're bringing someone?"

  "No."

  "Whoa, what's up?" Raphael's face turned hangdog.

  "Just depressed." Micah shrugged at him. "Ever since my ex broke up and said I 'changed,' I haven't gotten out that much."

  "She said you 'changed'? Jesus, that's such a fucking lame Cosmo chick line. Have you even gotten laid since you broke up?"

  "You're a jackass, Raph."

  "Well, have you? That was a long time ago, dude. That kind of intense sperm pressure could kill you."

  Micah smiled. "I saw an older woman once or twice."

  "Nice. Like how old. Cougar old? Do I know her?"

  "No."

  "How'd you meet…" Raphael's mouth froze mid-sentence. He turned his head toward the paging speakers in the hall.

  Micah watched Raphael listening to the intercom like a deer spooked in the woods.

  The paging operator's voice was saying, "Raphael Bianco, 7-1-0. Bianco, 7-1-0."

  "Holy shit, I thought I heard my name. That's Chewbacca's extension." Raphael shuffled to the door, turned. "Listen, I'm gonna take you out tonight and cheer you up. Get you laid. All right? I'll be right back after I call Max."

  Bianco exited as Give My Regards to Broadway chimed from Times Square outside. It was perfect timing. The curtain coming down on a depressing day. Micah shut the door to his office, logged onto Facebook, and went through old photographs of him and Ashley together. He was lost in memories when his phone rang. It was a number that he didn't recognize.

  He answered the phone, "This is Micah Grayson."

  A woman's voice said, "Hi, Micah, how are you?"

  "I'm fine. Who is this?" He could hear conversations in the background.

  "Rachel Weiss."

  Micah slowly said, "Why are you calling me?"

  "I'm at my show. I was hoping to see you tonight."

  "I can't." Sweat formed between his hand and the phone. "I really can't. I'm at work."

  She laughed. "Like a good disciple. Listen, I have to go. Can I see you later then?"

  He turned irritated and whispered, "I could lose my job, do you understand that? I'm sorry. Good-bye."

  He hung up, his hands quivering, and the phone immediately started ringing again.

  The sound was a grating cacophony, worse than the cab horns and the garbage trucks and the paging system in the Sullivan & Adler hallway. The high-pitched jingle warbled again and again on his desk. He turned the ringer down as far as it would go, but they'd rigged the associates' phones so the ringer could never be muted completely. A few minutes passed, and the ringing started again. He forced himself to look at the caller I.D. screen this time. It was like hearing footsteps and confirming the suspicion of being followed. But it was a different pursuer.

  He yanked the receiver up to his ear. "What do you want, Hannah?"

  "Excuse me?" There was a pause, Hannah expecting an answer. He said nothing, trying to annoy her. "That's a funny hello, Micah. Are you busy?"

  "Is a frog's ass watertight?"

  "I need you to pitch in on one of Stu's cases. Stu and I need a team player because we have to review some files quickly. It won't be too bad, and the memo you need to draft for me can be short. The client just wants an inventory of Hot Docs after we review them because depositions are starting next week."

  "Yeah. We have to review them, huh? Well, we are too busy unfortunately."

  "You know, there are a lot of associates in this office who are billing more than you, so I think you need to modulate your tone and start pulling your weight around here."

  Micah stood up, held the receiver to his mouth, and shouted, "Go to hell!"

  He heard her shrieking as he banged the receiver against the desk a few times, then tossed the telephone, base, wiring, and all, into his trash can.

  "Dude, what the fuck?" Raphael inched into the office, hands out, like he was dealing with an escapee from an insane asylum. "Who was that?"

  Micah shook his head, laughing. He couldn't stop, and Raphael started laughing with him. They looked at each other and both said, "Hannah," at the same time.

  "Come on, dude, I better get you out of here before you burn this place down."

  "I hate this place." Micah loosened the knot in his tie, dragging silk out from his collar.

  "You're an animal, Mikey, trashing your office like King Kong. I bet she doesn't call back for at least an hour. You'll be climbing the Empire State building by then."

  Micah tossed the tie in the trash. "Let's go get skunked."

  $ $ $

  Raphael led Micah to a black door in TriBeCa that seemed like a portal to nowhere. An ordinary entrance with a secret inside like a Prohibition speak-easy. They passed through, into a narrow stairwell, and down into an underground bar designed to mimic a long subway car. A sea of modish sycophants and black-clad cynics were posing and talking over Brit rock music and twenty-dollar glasses of vodka. Raphael shouted something about buying "vitamins" from the barten
der. Micah meandered through the circus of flesh and noise.

  "I just want a drink, Raph."

  After the sixth shot, Raphael gave him a vitamin and a bottle of spring water. Micah swallowed the pill and sipped the cold water. He felt talkative and giddy, asking things he normaly wouldn't. Raphael was distracted, ogling women.

  Until Micah said, "Were you in love with Hannah?"

  Raphael turned to him, pupils like black saucers. "What?"

  "Elliott told me you were going to ask her to get engaged."

  "Get the fuck outta here, Mikey."

  "I'm serious. Is that why you hate her so much now?"

  "You're smarter than I thought." Raphael clinked his glass against Micah's.

  "Why didn't it work?"

  "Are you asking because you want to blame the Firm for you and your girl back home?"

  "Maybe."

  "It was destined for disaster. We were in the same class at the Firm. The system is set up for competition, so we would've had to eventually cut each other's throats. Know what I mean?"

  "Yeah." Micah held onto the counter, feeling dizzy. He thought about the phone call from Rachel. "Did you really sleep with Gabe Weiss's wife?"

  "What do you think?" Raphael held a cocky grin.

  Micah lost his balance and fell to the floor. After that, he could only remember small parts of the night like warped frames spinning in a zoetrope. Raphael helping him up. Summer associates waving starfish hands, the bartender's eye winking a green flashing light, Raphael's smile twisting into enormous white teeth, the yellow glow of traffic whipping by, his own hand reaching out of a speeding cab and throwing a bottle into the night, purple clouds of cigar smoke and smiling girls, his pale fingers holding Ashley's cracked picture frame in bed.

  30 Friday

  * * *

  Micah had spent two nights in a row, drinking with Raphael like there was no tomorrow. Trying to forget the things he had done, trying to drown his fear of being discovered. When he woke up on Friday morning, his mouth tasted like an ashtray even though he didn't remember smoking. He raked his teeth over a sandpaper tongue, took a quick shower. The smell of tobacco washed out of his hair in the steam and soap. He almost called in sick, feeling like he'd been making an ass of himself the entire week, but it was the day of the Firm's anniversary party. He put on a polo shirt and khakis for Casual Friday, left his apartment at 9:45 a.m. He could already feel sunlight on his back, and cold sweat and alcohol seeping through his pores.