Maybe I’d go find myself a prostitute and bring her back to the suite? Then again, The Plaza wasn’t the type of place to which you invited streetwalkers.
An escort? One of those classy ones that cost a grand an hour?
I raised my hand, to catch Bangladesh’s attention and signal the bill. Then I changed my mind. As much as I wanted to get my rocks off—who knew the last time I’d had sex?—I figured maybe I wanted company even more. Real company. Beautiful Beth company. We had clicked. I had enjoyed her conversation, her stories, her humor.
And if we ended up in bed? Well, that would be a very pleasant bonus.
I’d give her another twenty minutes.
I picked up the Chivas, swished the amber liquid around in the tumbler. God, I wanted it. In fact, I do believe I actually craved it. But I was walking a very thin line. I’d held my composure together pretty well thus far. Yet the last couple drinks had hit me hard. Beth would take one look at me, see a bumbling drunk who couldn’t slur together two words, and turn right back around.
I set the Scotch aside and went to the bar, happy to find myself surefooted. If I was indeed an alcoholic, at least I was an accomplished one.
I tipped the guy in military fatigues a brief nod. He tipped one back. I might be a sleaze. I might be a drunk. I might be a murderer for all I knew—but I respected the kids who put their lives on the line for this country, and that was something I knew as innately as I’d known anything all day.
Bangladesh flashed me a smile as big as the guilt-fuelled gratuity I’d given him. “Help you, sir?”
“Bathroom?”
“Right that way.” He pointed.
The bathroom turned out to be a mishmash of marble and sophistication, a place where Marie Antoinette wouldn’t have minded taking a royal dump. I leaned close to the mirror and studied my reflection. My eyes were lidded, but the whites weren’t bloodshot.
I ran cold water and splashed my face repeatedly. The frigid water helped wake me up. I checked my reflection again, which was now dripping wet, and saw the same droopy face.
One again I considered returning to the suite, calling an escort. I could tell Beth I’d waited for her for over an hour—which would be true—and when she failed to appear, I left to take an important business call. Tomorrow when I got myself together, I could return to the cigar bar, apologize, and ask for a second chance.
Hell, maybe I would wake up in the morning with my memory fully intact. Wouldn’t that be something!
Or maybe you’ll wake up like you did this morning with your memory wiped clean all over again?
Not wanting to contemplate that, I turned off the tap and heard a swine-like snort originate from one of the stalls. I patted my face dry with paper towel for a good twenty seconds until the stall door opened and a yuppie in a fitted navy suit, open collar, silver cufflinks, and coifed hair emerged, running a finger beneath his nose. He went to the door.
“Got any more?” I asked him.
He glanced over his shoulder, barely slowing. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, brother.”
“A gram.”
“Sorry—”
“Two hundred bucks.”
He stopped, hand on the door handle. “For a gram?” He shrugged, sniffed. “Show me the money.”
I presented him two Franklins. He glanced left and right, like a SWAT team might bust out of the ventilation system, then pressed a baggie into my palm.
He left the restroom.
I went to the same stall he’d used, closed the door, and examined the baggie. Half a gram at most. He’d vacuumed up the other half a minute ago. But I didn’t care. Half a gram would do fine.
I tapped three lines onto the top of the ceramic toilet tank, rolled a hundred, and snorted the lines consecutively. I flushed the empty baggie down the toilet and inhaled deeply. The high hit me right away, and just like that the drunk was gone. I exited the stall and studied myself in the mirror to make sure there wasn’t any residual powder on my nose.
All good.
I left the restroom and retook my seat in the velvet chair and sipped the Scotch. I checked the Rolex, discovered the time to be a bit past eleven, and cursed myself for not asking Beth for her number. At least that way I could have called her to find out whether she was coming or not.
Nevertheless, I didn’t dwell on this. My thoughts were wickedly alert and euphoric, and for the first time all day I actually wanted to think about that Doctor Who machine and the fat bastard who’d died on the floor in the next room. They were no longer mysteries to be feared, but mysteries to be solved.
So what was that half-baked theory I’d come up with in the park the day before? Not the secret spy shit… Right-o, someone hitting the delete key of my mind. That was at least plausible. But why were they in my mind in the first place? Was I a guinea pig like I’d speculated? I didn’t think so. It simply didn’t ring true, because why, with all my wealth, would I participate in something so sketchy? And sketchy it was, given that apartment was of the variety where you sold your organs and woke up in a bathtub full of ice.
The police, Harry. The goddamn police.
Right. I’d messed up somehow.
I was on the run.
But why the apartment?
Why the chair and the machine?
The fat guy, I thought. He was the key—or had been the key.
Bangladesh appeared at the table. My drink, I realized, was nearly empty. The guy had eyes like a hawk.
“Another, sir?”
“Please,” I said.
When he left, I checked my wristwatch again. 11:08. Beautiful Beth’s time was up. Nevertheless, given I had another drink coming, and was still wired from the blow, I wasn’t going anywhere.
So what had I been thinking about? Right. Moby Dick. So had that been his apartment? Unlikely. There were only two rooms. The one I had been in, and the one his body had been in. No bed anywhere, no shoes by the front door, no photos, no personal artifacts of any sort.
So it wasn’t his residence. It was his shop or laboratory or whatever you wanted to call the place where he…
Where he what?
Performed underground medical procedures?
I swallowed, feeling momentarily ill.
Was that true? And did that mean I had a brain tumor? Dementia? Some other malign disease that doctors—legit doctors—told me was inoperable?
But why would his death, whatever caused it, leave me in identity limbo? And why did I have a fear of the police? Surely not because I’d volunteered for some experimental operation? Moreover, where were the scalpels he would need to cut me open? The IV drip? All the other medical equipment…?
Fuck it, I thought decisively, draining my drink. Enough of this. Enough speculating. I needed to return to that ratty apartment, I needed to find out more about that machine and the dead guy. Not now. Not pissed out of my gourd. I’d do it first thing tomorrow morning—Vincent Vega on the can be damned.
***
Beth arrived at exactly 11:26 p.m. From my table overlooking the glitzy lobby I watched her sweep across the marble floor and glide up the palatial staircase to the Rose Club like Cinderella on the eve of the king’s ball. This wasn’t hyperbole. She really did look like a princess right then. She’d changed into a shapely off-the-shoulder red dress that accentuated her thin waist, decent bust, and delicate arms. She’d also pulled her blonde hair into a bun which sat atop her head like a bird’s nest, lifting her sharp cheekbones and swan-like neck.
All for me?
I stood when she spotted me. I offered her a smile and a wave. When she reached the table I pecked her cheek. “You look absolutely stunning,” I told her. It might have been the coke, or it might have been the adrenaline pumping through me at the sight of her, but right then I didn’t feel the effects of the ten or whatever drinks I’d guzzled. Warm and fuzzy inside, sure, but definitely clear-headed. “And you smell just as lovely,” I added.
Beth smiled, though it was the
smile of someone not yet comfortable in another’s company. An elevator smile, I guess you could call it. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls you pick up at cigar bars,” she said.
“Issey Miyake?” I said, surprising myself with the knowledge of the fragrance she wore.
“My, my, Harry,” she said. “You continue to impress.”
I pulled out her chair and said, “Please, sit.”
She sat and glanced about the sultry atmosphere.
“I’m not a fan of the neon,” I told her.
“You should come on a Wednesday night for the jazz.”
“You’ve been here before?” I said, surprised.
“A few times.”
Bangladesh came by and, after consulting with Beth, I ordered oysters, a cheese platter, and a bottle of one hundred fifty dollar champagne.
If Beth was impressed, she didn’t let on.
“You said you’ve been here?” I said.
She had crossed her legs and was sitting rather stiffly. “That surprises you?”
“No—”
“Please, Harry. I’m a waitress. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t patronize me.” She smiled and touched a finger to her forehead, almost the way people do when they’ve realized they’ve made a mistake.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Really. It’s just…I can’t believe I’m here with you. No offense. It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. I—I just don’t do things like this.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Accept invitations for drinks with strange men.”
“I may be a little eccentric, but strange is a bit harsh.”
“Maybe that’s it. Your sense of humor—it’s…corny.”
“Corny?” I said, raising an amused eyebrow.
“So corny it’s disarming. Please, take what I’m saying as a compliment.”
“I’ve never been more flattered.” I leaned forward on my seat. “Listen, Beth, I’m very happy you decided to join me.”
“I think I am too.”
“Just loosen up. We’ll have some fun.”
“This is the thing, Harry—and I know I must sound like such a nag—but I don’t know anything about you. You don’t know anything about me. I’ll loosen up, don’t worry. It might just take some time.” She glanced at the bar, as if wondering where the waiter was with the champagne.
Bangladesh arrived a moment later carrying the bottle of bubbly wrapped in a linen cloth. He showed us the label, then removed the cork expertly so it didn’t pop but rather sighed. He poured me a taster. I nodded. He filled Beth’s flute, then mine, then left the bottle in an ice bucket.
I raised my glass. “To strangers.”
Beth clinked. “To strangers.”
We sipped.
“Look,” I said, “I get it. You have this thing for not dating strange men—”
“I don’t have a ‘thing.’ I simply stopped going out with men I don’t know.”
“So let’s break the ice then,” I said. “Get to know each other.”
“Truth or dare?” she said sarcastically.
“Three questions,” I said. “Anything you want to ask, ask away, and I will tell.”
“You sound like a genie in a bottle.” She crossed her legs again, this time placing the left thigh over the right. The dress was long enough I only caught a glimpse of her bare ankle, but I nevertheless felt myself get aroused. “What do you do, Harry? You never answered me at the bar.”
“Used to do,” I said, winging it. “I was a financial advisor. Started a brokerage firm in Dallas, then built a rental real estate portfolio. Sold it off last year and retired.” I offered a disarming grin. “I know, not the most interesting of professions. But I never had the 20/20 eyesight to become an astronaut.”
“Do you miss it, not working?”
“Sure.”
Bangladesh arrived with the oysters and the cheese platter. We nibbled and I refilled our champagne flutes. We spoke a bit about travel, hobbies, all that usual get-to-know-you jive. I did a fair job improvising. Mostly, however, I did the listening. I thought I could listen to Beth all night and not get bored.
At one point Beth asked, “So you’re not in New York for work?”
“Didn’t we agree on three questions?” I said. “I think this is something like your twentieth.”
“The ice is broken, Harry. I’m trying to see what’s lying beneath.”
“Fair enough.” I sat back, sipped the champagne, shrugged. “So what am I doing in New York?” Good question, Beth—and one I should have anticipated and planned for. “I’m doing what all retired men do,” I said, buying time.
“And what’s that?”
“Working—through my bucket list.”
“Last night you told me you’ve been to New York before for business.”
“For business,” I said, nodding. “But all I remember are the inside of conference rooms and hotels and airports. I wanted to do the touristy stuff.”
Beth sipped her champagne. She had applied red lipstick that added a fullness to her lips. She tucked an errand strand of blonde hair behind her left ear. She wore diamond or zirconia studs in each lobe. They matched the simple necklace looped around her slender neck. “Have you been to the Statue of Liberty yet?” she asked.
“Nope,” I said. “Would you care to join me?”
“You said you’re only in New York for a couple weeks.”
“That’s what I said. But that’s another great thing about being retired. You can sit on a tree stump in a forest for a month, if it suits your fancy.”
She glanced shyly at her champagne flute. “It might be nice if you stuck around for a while.”
“Goodness gracious, Beth! I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me yet.”
She looked at me now—really looked. Her eyes pierced mine. I almost had to look away. “You’re not married, are you, Harry?”
I laughed out loud, relieved. I hadn’t known what was coming, but this was manageable. “Wow,” I said.
“I’m sorry. But some men…”
I held up my left hand, wiggled my ring finger.
“It could be by your bathroom sink.”
“Would you like to come upstairs and check?”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Married?” I took her hand across the table. “Beth, I’m not married. I’m not that type of guy.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Are you offering?”
“Harry, you’re an attractive middle-aged man. Most attractive middle-aged men are either married or lecherous bachelors. I’m being cautious, that’s all. I told you—”
“I’m not married, Beth, and I don’t have a girlfriend.” I released her hand. I was starting to feel as though I was being interrogated and decided I needed to take control of the conversation. “Now it’s my turn, Beth,” I said. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“I used to be a singer,” she said simply.
“Like an opera singer?”
She laughed, a wonderfully sweet sound. “No, I was in a punk rock band. We were called the Pink Gypsies. I shaved half my head and dyed the rest purple. Don’t laugh. We were good. I’m not just saying that. We almost signed with a major record label. But they pulled out literally on the day we were to sign the contract so they could sign some other band.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Their first album flopped. The singer lived out of his van for a year before killing himself.”
“Jesus.”
“I didn’t know him.”
“You weren’t picked up by a different label?”
“We broke up—the band, I mean.”
“Why would you do that if you were talented enough to nearly sign with a major label?”
“This was like fifteen years ago, Harry. I was still a kid. We all were. We thought we had the world by the tail, you know. Then this happened—our manager calling us one mo
rning to tell us we were dumped. Johnny—he was the bassist—he was shooting heroin. Everyone else in the band was doing everything from acid to ecstasy on a daily basis. We all had Mick Jagger egos. We started hating each other. It got to a point we couldn’t even get together for rehearsals, let alone put out a new demo tape. In other words, we were a mess. The record deal—had we scored it…who knows? It might have given us the motivation to get our shit together. Pardon my French. On the other hand, getting so close, then getting a ‘thanks but no thanks’…it just sort of tore us apart. Johnny got an offer from another band and left us. Then the drummer died.”
“Died?”
“Well, he came back to life. Speedball overdose. His heart stopped before he got an adrenaline shot. He went to rehab and we didn’t keep in touch. Then it was just Jamie and me. Jamie was the lead guitarist. We were best friends. Went to this all-girl’s school together, founded the band. We decided to give LA a shot, just the two of us. We went there knowing nobody, maybe a hundred bucks between us. But this wasn’t the eighties. You couldn’t just chat up someone and get a gig at The Troubadour, or The Roxy. We put together a new band, played a few no-name clubs, but…it was just over. That’s how it is with bands. You either have that fire, or you don’t. There’s no in-between. Then Jamie was in a motorbike accident. Broke a bunch of bones. She was okay…eventually. Anyway, like I said, it was over. Us, the band. Jamie met a guy with a painting business. She stayed in LA. I returned to New York. I was thirty. I needed a job. I started working at the cigar bar.” She shrugged. “And I’ve been there ever since. Eight lovely years.” She glanced at her champagne flute with those sad, sexy eyes—and now I thought I understood where the pain came from.
It wasn’t the not-making-it bit. A lot of people didn’t achieve their dreams. It was the getting-so-close. That’s what would keep you up at nights. A single record executive’s decision, some dickhead who probably played the demo tapes to his kids for their opinions, and you’re either Madonna or a cigar-bar waitress.
I said, “I’d love to hear you sing.”
“My voice ain’t what it used to be, honey,” she said in a mock trashy accent.
Dark Hearts: Four Novellas of Dark Suspense Page 9
