“Sure,” Paul said.
“They give you any pain pills at the hospital?” Rich said as he mixed the drink at a fold-down bar next to the TV. “I wouldn’t want you dying over a drink with pills. Your heirs would sue me, and I’d lose all the money I’ll make suing this trucking company for you.”
“Just Tylenol,” Paul said.
“Then only one drink,” Rich said. “That stuff is incredibly bad for the liver when you mix it with alcohol.” He handed a cold glass to Paul. “Now, tell me about the truck? Was it a big company or some local jerk with no insurance?”
“Actually, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” Paul said. “I ran out in front of him, he had a green light, so it wasn’t his fault.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Rich said. ‘Just the threat of a suit and they’ll settle for low six figures to avoid the legal costs of winning. You want a couple hundred grand?”
Paul felt uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going. Oddly, yesterday he would have jumped at the opportunity. The money could finance his career. But now it seemed, somehow, less important. Even distasteful. Maybe it was just the shock of the accident, he thought. Maybe he’d feel differently tomorrow. “Let’s put that on the table for a later discussion. I came by because I’m looking for a job and thought maybe you’d know of any opportunities.”
“What happened to your job with the Trib?”
“Layoff. I upset the wrong people, so my name was on the list when it came time to cut the workforce and up the month’s profit.”
Rich nodded sagely. “There’s a lot of that going around. My dad says in his time, a company laid off people it meant they were going out of business. Bosses who did it were considered criminals. Now people are totally disposable.”
“And I got disposed of. Rich, I’m a very good writer, and I know how to dig for information. Do you think…”
Rich held up his hand. “Just a second, buddy.” He picked up a wireless phone and sat in a leather chair next to the sofa. “Sit down,” he said to Paul as he dialed the phone. Paul sat on the sofa.
“Bob!” he said into the phone in a hale and hearty voice. “It’s Rich! How ya doin’?
“Yeah, me too. Anyhow, Bob, you know that case you hired that screwup PI for? The guy couldn’t write up his notes worth a damn?
“Well, I got a guy here who can do the job and do it right. I think we can use him in a big way. You know how hard it is to find somebody who’s both a good investigator and a good writer, and the writing of the report is what makes or breaks the case in court, 'cepting, of course, your brilliant oratory. Well, this guy was a reporter for the Trib, journalism school graduate, the whole enchilada, and I know him personally; he’s a good friend. He’s hungry, you know what I mean? A man headed for the top. And I was telling him what a hell of a time we’re having finding good investigators. That all these PIs we’ve hired are good at keyhole peeping and Dumpster diving, but on a corporate case they’re lost; they don’t know how to walk the walk, how to handle an executive or a boardroom. And no matter what they do they can’t write up anything that would persuade a jury to give an old lady her cat back. You know what I mean?”
“Well, I think he’s thinking that he’d like a little more excitement and a lot more money than the Trib pays, you know what I mean? I think I could get him now. He’s like in one of those trying-to-figure-out-what-to-do places, you know what I mean? If we put him on salary, it’d cost us a quarter of what we’re paying to these PI firms, and we’ll get twice the quality and full-time work.”
Rich put his hand over the microphone and said to Paul, “How much were you making at the Trib?”
“Thirty-seven thousand a year.”
Rich winced. “That stinks!” He took his hand off the microphone. “Listen, Bob, I happen to know for a fact that if we offer him ninety a year plus benefits, I can have him in the office ready to hit the ground running tomorrow morning. I can pull ten percent of that out of my budget if you need, but you run the investigations show. This guy’s a friend, but more important, he’ll make us all stars, you know what I mean? I mean, he’s really good, a trained investigative reporter, and he has the instincts of a pit bull.”
Paul caught his mouth hanging open and closed it. He noticed Cheryl had a broad smile on her face. He picked up the drink and took a big sip, the ice cubes banging against his front teeth. The ache in his hip was subsiding.
“Yeah, ok, I’ll bring him in. If you don’t want him, we’ll just pay him five hundred for the day, call it a consulting fee, 'cuz he's gonna have to skip work tomorrow to come in for the interview, you know what I mean? I mean, tomorrow’s Friday, it’s a business day. If you like him, maybe there’s even stuff he can do over the weekend. Yeah, I agree. This is exactly what we needed.”
Rich hung up the phone, glanced at Cheryl with a look of triumph, and said to Paul, “That work for you?”
“Yeah!” Paul said. “Just like that?”
“Most likely,” Rich said. “We really are having a problem, and the really good guys get two hundred an hour. That’s four hundred grand a year, but of course most of it is going to the PI agency; they’re probably getting one fifty, maybe two hundred grand a year. You can make that easily by the end of this year if you’re as good as I said you are.”
“What’s the job?”
“Essentially, corporate espionage. You get inside companies and figure out where the dirt is hidden. It’s pretty much the same thing as you did to that company in London you told me about last week.”
“That was the story that got me canned.”
“I warned you. With newspapers these days, to get along, you gotta go along.”
“So I discovered.”
Rich stood up and Paul realized he was being dismissed. He stood up and started toward the door, as Rich intercepted him, a hand on his shoulder. “Meet me in the hall tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. I’ll take you up there with me.”
“Will do,” Paul said.
“And are you sure you weren’t injured in that accident? You got a hospital report?”
“I was knocked out a few minutes, at the most,” Paul said. “Had some pretty wild dreams, and my hip is purple and yellow, but I’m ok.”
“Get somebody to take some Polaroids of the injured area,” Rich said. “You lose anything? Anybody go through your pockets while you were out? Something fall out and somebody walks away with it? That happens all the time to accident victims.”
“Just my notebook,” Paul said. “It’s not like I was a diamond courier or something.”
“Still, you were injured. Get the pictures. I guarantee you, just one letter over my letterhead and they’ll be begging you to take some money. Even if it’s forty, fifty grand, it’s better than nothing.”
“I’ll think about it,” Paul said.
“Hey, don’t go all self-righteous on me, bud. This is New York City. When a bus hits a car or a light pole, people run to get onto the bus, so they can fall to the floor holding their necks.”
“I know, Rich.”
“Get along, go along, make a pile of money.”
Paul pulled the door open and stepped into the hall. “Got it.”
“Good.” The door closed behind him. Paul looked at the door to his apartment for a moment, thought about TV or sleep or even a good book, but instead turned, walked to the elevator, and pushed the down button.
As he entered the restaurant, Mary walked briskly in front of him, carrying a pot of coffee from one table to another. She glanced at him, did a double take when she saw the scratches on the side of his face, and said, “Get in a fight?”
“With a truck, up on Madison Avenue,” he said to her receding back, his heart racing. She threw a smile over her shoulder, then continued on her way. The place was less than half full, the dinner rush not having yet started in full force.
His favorite table by the window was empty, so he sat down and put his coat over the chair next to him.
Out on the street, a steady stream of people moved purposefully in the cold, late afternoon air. He focused on them, trying to anchor himself in the reality of the moment so he could let go of his dream of Mary, of sleeping beside her, of the smell of her hair, the sound of her night-voice, the touch of her lips. She came to the table, a pad now in her hand, and said, “Late lunch or early dinner?”
“Both, I guess. How have you been?”
She brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead. “Okay. Studying like crazy.” She was wearing jeans and a brown tee-shirt with Geronimo on the front over the words “No Fear.”
“Abnormal psych?”
She tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows pulled together. “I told you already?”
“Just a guess,” he said.
“There’s something weird,” she said, then hesitated.
“Weird?”
“I’ll have to get my purse. It’s in the back.” She turned around and walked off toward the kitchen. Paul watched her with a glow in his chest and turbulence in his stomach. It had seemed so real. He wanted her, and he wanted the mission Joshua had given him. Moving from one big corporation to another, even for vastly more money, would never give him the sense of mission and purpose he’d known when he’d decided to take on Joshua’s work, to spread the word, to save the world. Yet now…
Mary came back from the kitchen, a small green spiral-bound notepad in her hand. It was similar to the one Paul used to take notes when he was working a story. She said something to Diana, the other waitress, and then pulled out the chair opposite his and sat down. Her face had a serious expression, as if she were worried or embarrassed.
“I don’t know how to say this, because it’s gonna sound crazy…” she said, putting the notepad on the table between them, her voice trailing off as Paul reached for it.
Paul recognized it as his from the little doodle on the comer of the cover, an aimless drawing he’d done a week earlier while waiting, on hold, in his office at the Trib. He heard Wisdom in Mary’s voice, and willed his hands to not tremble as he lifted the cover of the pad and saw written in his own handwriting on the first page, The teachings of the Wisdom School…
Mary said, “It’s got your name on the back cover.” She turned it over, and there was Paul Abler and his phone number at the Trib printed in his neat block lettering.
He dropped the cover as if it were hot and put his hands together on the table. “Did you read any of it?”
She looked down at her hands on the table and put her fingers together as if in prayer. “Yes. I know it was wrong of me, but I did.” She looked up at him. “It’s remarkable what you’ve written there. Reading it gave me an odd sense of déjà vu. Like it’s all about things that I once knew but then forgot…like I was born knowing it but as I grew up I had to push it aside.” She reached out and put a fingertip on the back of his hand, sending a thrill through him. “I didn’t realize you had an interest in these kinds of things.”
“I’ve taken on a job,” he said, not needing to explain it further. She pulled back her hand and he felt a sense of loss. He added, “You said something would sound crazy?”
“How I got it,” she said. “I found this in my apartment this morning. It was half under the sofa, half out.” I have no idea how it got there. Honest to God, I didn’t find it here and take it home or anything like that. I’m sure I didn’t. It was just there”
“With your cat Igor?”
Her eyes got wide, then narrow. “You been stalking me or something? Is this some kind of a joke?” She sat up straighter in the chair. “Did you break into my apartment and leave this?”
“No, not at all,” Paul stammered. “Probably I left it here, you picked it up and put it in your pocket without thinking about it, and it fell out there.” He glanced around, struggling to find the right words to say to reassure her; whenever he lied he always felt like everybody knew it instantly. Among the bustling people outside the window, he recognized the homeless man digging through the trash at the comer of Eighth Avenue. “Jim!” he said out loud.
Mary looked out the window and said, “The homeless guy?”
“Yeah, I think I know him.”
“He’s a regular,” she said, her tone sad. “I almost got fired for letting him use the bathroom once.”
“I know,” Paul said. He stood up. “Come with me.”
She stood up, a confused and concerned expression on her face. “What is going on here?”
“We’ve got to talk to Jim.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Maybe.” He took her arm gently, holding her. “Everything is okay and I’m not a stalker or anything like that. But I think Jim may know how that notebook ended up in your apartment.”
She glanced over at Diana, who was moving at double-speed to take care of both of their tables. “I have to get back to work. Really I do. There’s only a half-hour left on my shift, and I can’t use it to goof off if I want to keep my job. You have your notebook, and when you figure out how it got in my apartment, please let me know.”
She pulled away from his grip and marched over to a table on the other side of the room, order pad at the ready.
Paul, at a loss for words, watched her go, then grabbed his notebook, spun around, and ran out the door, leaving his coat behind on the chair. Jim was digging through a near-full garbage can, a round mesh contraption chained to the streetlight post, dropping cans into a burlap sack.
“Jim?” Paul said.
The man stopped, straightened up, and turned to look at Paul. “Do I know you?” he said.
“Do you know Joshua?”
Jim smiled wide. “Of course.”
“And Matt, and Pete, and Salome, and Mark, and Juan?”
“You’re talking about my family,” Jim said. He tilted his head an inch to the right. “Who are you, nice clothes but looking like you just left a dogfight?”
“Joshua can heal people, right?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Paul, and I know Joshua from another time and place.”
“And that time and place is?”
Paul searched about his mind for a moment, then said, “’Wisdom has built Her house, and has hewn Her seven pillars.”’
Jim stepped back and looked Paul up and down. “He told us to expect you. But you’re not what I expected.”
“I’m not what I expected,” Paul said. “Can you take me to see Joshua? In the tunnels?”
Jim nodded slowly. “It’s a work that’s easy to get into, but nearly impossible to leave.”
“Why?”
“Would you leave The One?”
“Never,” Paul said with conviction.
“But you gotta know we ain’t some kind of cult. Joshua is just another person, just like you and me. He’s right up front about that. He says that if anybody tells you they got some secret teaching from some invisible or hidden being or some group of secret teachers, then you should run in the other direction cause that’s the game the phonies always run to get people to follow them, bow to them, be impressed by them. Jesus was totally transparent, his life was right out there for everybody to see. He answered everybody’s questions, had no secrets and no secret teachers. Same with Moses, Mohammed, Buddha, all of them. If you think this is one of them cults where only one guy knows who or where some secret teachers are, or what some secret truths are, then you’re in for a disappointment.”
“I understand,” Paul said. “The One isn’t Joshua. It’s everything, everybody. You, me, and,” he pointed to a businessman crossing with the light, “that guy there. Although he may not yet realize it.”
Jim nodded. “Yeah, you understand. You ready to go now?”
Paul looked down at his once-pressed jeans and white shirt, over at his apartment building two blocks up the street, back at the restaurant. The world is in flames and crisis, he thought, and a spiritual disconnection is at its core. There are people walking around right here and now with the answers.
; He took a deep breath, smelling auto exhaust, fresh-baked bread, and the cigarette smoke from a passer-by. The air chilled him without his coat. He only had about fifty dollars in his pocket. Yet he knew he had completed the first part of his training.
Was he ready to join Joshua in taking the Secret to the world? To give the energy of his life over to saving the world?
He imagined himself receiving the Pulitzer Prize and realized it was irrelevant to him now. Nothing less than the survival of life itself, of every human and every other living thing on Earth, was at stake.
“You okay?” Jim said.
“Yeah,” Paul said, “but I have somebody I’d like to bring with me.”
“The more the merrier.”
“Can you meet me back here in twenty-four hours? Same time, same place?”
Jim smiled. “I can do that.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” Jim said. He reached out and lightly squeezed Paul’s arm “I got a feeling that you’re a friend.”
“More than you know,” Paul said, putting his hand over Jim’s for a moment.
Back inside the restaurant, Paul looked at the menu, then slipped it between the sugar dispenser and the napkin holder to his left. Mary came to the table, her expression wary but friendly. “Well, did he know anything about the notebook?” she asked.
Paul blinked. He’d almost forgotten. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said, “but it’s a long story.”
“Paul, it was in my apartment. Don’t you think you should tell me, no matter how long a story it is?”
Paul smiled. “Absolutely. What are you doing after work?”
She gave him a look that he took as cautious curiosity.
Paul quickly added, “I was just thinking it might be nice to discuss it over dinner. Some place other than here.”
She smiled, a warm smile that reached across her entire face. “You getting food for me? That would be a change.” She reached behind her neck, found her ponytail, pulled it over her shoulder and smoothed the hair. “I was just gonna walk home and feed my cat.” She reached over and touched Paul’s arm, then quickly pulled back her hand. “If I don’t do that first, he’ll begin to shred the furniture.”
The Greatest Spiritual Secret of the Century Page 18
