Alligators in the Trees (13 page)

The more earnest his pleas, the more anxiety-ridden she became. There was a small part of her that was actually inclined to take his offer; a man like him might be good for her, in a weird sort of way. But the part of her more prone to skepticism and common-sense told her she would really only be accepting his invitation out of pity and a desire to avoid a confrontation with someone who seemed ill-disposed to cope with one.

Her lack of response had created a gaping silence between them. Both had let their gazes stray in opposite directions, leaving them with the appearance of two strangers occupying the same bench. The breach of conversation weighed most heavily on Priscilla, as her mind wrestled with her dilemma and finding a graceful way out of this situation, plus intermittent flash-bulletin reminders that she no longer had a job.

Philip, however, took the pause in stride, allowing her time to reach her own conclusions. The fact she was still sitting next to him was comfort enough. He watched as she fidgeted silently, until he decided it was best to give her an out.

“I’m not going to pressure you anymore about spending time with me. I’ve already caused you enough aggravation. I would love to have dinner with you, but only if it’s something you’d like to do. Here’s my number, in case you don’t have it anymore. You can take me up on dinner or a movie or anything else, whenever the time is right for you,” he said, handing her one of his business cards. She studied it for a moment, intrigued to find out something about him that should have been obvious.

“You’re an architect?” she said, thrown slightly off balance by this revelation.

“In the sense that you’re a waitress. In other words, I used to be, but I’ve sort of lost my job.” Priscilla consulted the card again.

“How do you lose your job if you’re the President and Executive Architect?” she asked.

“It’s a long story.” Philip replied. The credibility of his former position suddenly made Priscilla see him in a different light. “I’d be happy to share my sad tale with you over dinner tonight,” he said, making one last-ditch effort to persuade her. Again, his offer was met with no reply. He let his breath out slowly and turned around to face the street in front of them.

“I have too much to think about tonight,” Priscilla said. Her excuse was almost worse than her stony silence. “But tomorrow night would be okay.”

Philip was so resigned to the suspicion he was tilting at windmills, it took several beats to realize she had agreed to have dinner with him.

“Really? That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. His apparent joy worked like a contagion, infecting Priscilla with a spark of enthusiasm. After resisting his overtures so vigorously, it amazed her how good she felt by simply giving in to her weaker impulse.

“This is splendid. Where would you like to go? You tell me what kind of cuisine, and I’ll pick the place, how’s that?”

Priscilla was beginning to regret her decision, as reminders of their dissimilar backgrounds dampened her optimism. How could she go out to dinner with a man of his means and taste when her own scope was limited to diners and fast food joints?

“Never mind, I’ll make reservations somewhere nice,” he tried to assure her. “Where should I pick you up?” Another wave of fear washed over her. There was no way in hell she was going to let him see her disgrace of an apartment.

“I better meet you there,” she said.

“All right, then. I suppose we need to settle on a restaurant now. Do you like Italian food?’

“Sure, Italian’s good,” Priscilla said, somewhat heartened as visions of the small, family run places in Little Italy filled her head.

“Great. I’ll get us a table at Il Pastori for seven-thirty, if that works for you.” Priscilla nodded, clueless. Il Pastori could’ve been on the moon, for all she knew.

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, I better tell you where the restaurant is,” he said, laughing at his oversight. Priscilla answered with a nervous, hesitant laugh of her own. “Il Pastori is on Sixty-First, between First and Second. I think the address is 1109. You’ll see the long tan awning over the door. Any good cab driver will know where it is.”

Priscilla’s heart sank again as she discovered Il Pastori was nowhere near Little Italy. The neighborhood he was describing could only mean trendy, snooty and expensive. After her last experience in that part of town, she was hardly anxious to go rushing back.

“Well, ‘bye for now,” Philip said, as he stood to make his departure.

“Goodbye,” Priscilla said, smiling weakly. Philip started to walk off but faltered.

“Would you like me to walk you home, or catch a cab for you?”

Priscilla shook her head. “No, thanks. I have a few things to take care of first,” she lied.

“Okay. Goodbye,” he said with a loopy grin.

Priscilla lifted her hand in a limp salute. Her spirits continued to droop as she watched him disappear from sight. From her point of view, Philip was just the latest person to bring complications into her life that she neither wanted nor needed.

The hotel manager unlocked the door to the Presidential Suite and handed the plastic key card to Tobias. After giving him a tour of all the rooms and lush appointments, the manager shook his hand and gave him a card with his direct number on it, in the event there were any special requests he could handle personally for the celebrated guest, who was understandably concerned with keeping a low profile. Tobias thanked the efficient man as he made his way to the door, stopping him just as he was passing through.

“There is one thing I’d like to make sure of before you leave,” Tobias said, walking to the grand piano. He lifted the lid and made a quick test of the keys. The hotel man’s experienced ear anticipated Tobias’s need. He used his cell phone to consult with one of his underlings.

“A piano tuner will be here shortly,” he said. “Very sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No problem.”

“Is there anything I can do for you in the interim?”

“Send up a club sandwich and a beer.”

“My pleasure, sir. Domestic or imported?”

“Whatever imported beer you have on tap is fine.”

While waiting for his requests to be filled, Tobias explored his new temporary digs, choosing one of the three bedrooms as his main camp. He unpacked his toiletries and hung up the few rumpled items of clothing he had grabbed in his haste.

As impersonal and elegantly bland as his new surroundings were, the suite was already beginning to feel like home. And why couldn’t it be? It had everything he needed, outside of a sound studio. But he could rent one of those by the hour, if he wasn’t inclined to see Brody. Yes, he thought, as he surveyed his surroundings, this arrangement was going to suit him quite nicely.

He had just sprawled across one of the sofas when the bell rang and a voice announced the room service arrival. He had not eaten half his sandwich when the bell rang again. He took his lunch into one of the other sitting rooms while the tuner set about his business.

Tobias wandered from room to room while the tuner discovered and tuned the slack strings. As the process was going to be a lengthy one, he stretched out on one of the beds and listened to the comforting sounds of a trained musician performing his task.

As he lay there, gazing idly out the window at the New York skyline, Tobias cast his mind over the last decade, reviewing with an unbiased eye the events that had led him to this point. It was curious though pleasing to him that he had come full circle, from living out of anonymous hotel rooms for years on end, to his redemption through marriage to Monica—as she was known before Tobias’s fame had given her airs—to this sudden escape from Monique and the life she had caged him in.

True, he had walked into that cage on his own accord, surrendering all responsibilities to his capable and willing wife. There was no denying she saved his skin. But now he realized he’d been in an emotional and artistic coma all these years, sacrificing his real needs for the promise of sanity and security, which he now saw as overrated.

In all fairness, he couldn’t fault Monique, for she was merely forging a life for them, addressing the requirements of modern living, allowing him to dally with models while dodging the downside of celebrity. No, he didn’t begrudge her, but he couldn’t honestly say he had any feelings for her now, either.

Nor did he believe she had any emotional dependence on him. They were simply keeping their feet on the treadmill, going through the motions of marriage, ostensibly keeping Tobias on the straight and narrow, while affording Monique all the comforts of the high life.

Even though Monique wasn’t bound to him by love, he doubted very much if she would welcome his departure. Being Mrs. Tobias Jordan had been her career and her calling card, one she would be loath to relinquish. But maybe it wouldn’t have to be that cut and dried; after all, his changing residences would make very little difference to their daily lives.

Besides, being married to Monique had always given him a guaranteed out when his girlfriends pushed too hard for deeper entanglements. As long as the cash pipeline continued to function without any hiccups, Monique would most likely adjust to his declaration of independence.

What other choices did she have? She wouldn’t divorce him; she was too clever to inadvertently capitulate to his desires. When the success of his comeback finally manifested itself in hard currency and renewed fame, she’d hang on for dear life. And he supposed that as long as it continued to work for him, he’d let her. But only on his terms.

Tobias breathed a sigh of satisfaction. He felt like a man set free after years of false imprisonment. Everything seemed more vibrant and full of life and hope than it ever had. From where he was sitting, his accomplishments were great. He had made a name for himself by doing what could not be suppressed. He had survived the circus that accompanies even the most lukewarm stardom. And he had recaptured his talent. Knowing now what he knew about himself, he believed he could maintain a more secure hold on his inspiration this time around.

Congratulations, old man
, he thought.
This is your new lease on life.

From the other room, Tobias heard the tuner run through the scales one last time. He ended with a few flourishes, breaking into assorted classical works as he tested out his handiwork. Tobias heard him close the lid and pack up his tools of his trade. The faint footfalls and the hushed sound of the door closing told him he now had the place to himself.

Casually, like a man with an endless supply of time, Tobias meandered his way to the piano and ran through the keys himself. The instrument was in perfect tune; a little overused, but he didn’t mind the mellowed, worn sound. It would suit his purposes until he brought over his keyboards and synthesizer.

As soon as he was ready to make this place more permanent, he would outfit it with all the necessary equipment. The important thing now was to keep his creativity flowing. Having successfully ditched all threats to that objective, he felt fairly confident he would not disappoint himself.

Tobias worked all through the afternoon, stopping only to order coffee and a bottle of Irish whiskey. When he finally called it quits, the sky had long been dominated by the mega-wattage glow that makes up the city sky at night.

He continued to sit on the piano bench for several minutes, his body too spent and his mind too frazzled to even care about the hour. By the time he worked up enough strength and presence of mind to call in his dinner order, it was already quarter to nine.

While waiting for his steak to arrive, Tobias filled the Jacuzzi tub and submerged himself. He was as crinkled as a gherkin when he emerged, but the static drone in his brain had cleared and his flesh was showing signs of renewed life. As proof of the perfection of his newly adopted lifestyle, his dinner arrived the moment he was wrapped in the white terry bathrobe. He poured another whiskey and had the waiter set up the table by the floor-to-ceiling window.

He ate the steak, salad and
pommes frites
with mindless distraction, pausing occasionally from his ravenous chewing to look out into the night. He had one of the best views in the city in his twelve-room apartment, but this view was more thrilling; the street scene seemed more accessible than it did from his guarded asylum in his posh neighborhood.

He was suddenly possessed by a second wind, and all he could think about was getting out, mingling on the streets he called home. He donned his customary disguise—leather jacket, baseball cap and dark glasses—and slid undetected through the hotel lobby.

He was immediately rewarded by a plethora of sounds, both human and mechanical, plus the added sensory treat of conflicting aromas. It was the anonymous stimulation he had been craving; it fed the part of his mind that turned external, random fragments into the alphabet of his lyrics. He didn’t even need to pay attention—everything would be absorbed, set to memory and ready for recall. Just like the old days, he thought, smiling as he passed an irate hooker and two sneaky vice cops.

He floated down the streets and avenues, instinctively changing direction in order to stay where the pulse beat loudest. Those same instincts would have him follow a group into a bar or nightclub at whim, allowing him to soak up more of the subliminal signals and practiced pantomimes of modern men and women as they grasped at their fleeting fancies. He would stay until something or someone beckoned him to move on. He chased the night into day, just like old times.

After exhausting all the late night haunts and segueing into the mainstream with the early-risers, Tobias continued to beat the pavement. Now that all the nocturnal energy had given way to the mundane determination of the workaday crowd, he felt in dire need of artificial stimulation.

He came across a diner populated by blue-collar types, gratefully taking a seat at the counter, where he was mercifully fed copious quantities of caffeine. Once his fatigue lifted, he became aware of his acute hunger.

He ordered a meal that was in stark contrast to the vile food served at Frank’s Coffee Shop. But as he ate the last bite of rye toast, it occurred to him a vital ingredient was missing from this superior eatery: the waitress called Bobbi.

The longer he sat there on his stool, the more it hit home how tepid this scene was in comparison to Frank’s. True, the food there was only edible in the sense that it could be chewed and digested. But it would always be the place where his creativity had returned to him, just when he was beginning to fear he had lost touch with it forever. The place had an intrinsic quality that filled him with an overwhelming hankering.

He paid his check and exited the diner, out into the full-blown day. He got his bearings and headed in the direction of Wall Street, narrowing in on the non-descript coffee shop as if guided by radar. Without hesitating, and without any appetite whatsoever, Tobias pushed through the grimy glass door and made a beeline for his regular booth.

He had been absently searching for the face that had compelled him to seek out this seedy joint, when a waitress he had never seen before flipped over his coffee cup and started to pour. Instantly, alarms went off in his head. This couldn’t be good.

“Where’s Bobbi?” he asked.

“I’m Bobbi,” the girl answered uncomfortably. Tobias looked at her nametag, discovering the trick of Frank’s frugality.

“I mean the old Bobbi, the one who was here last week,” he said, swiveling around in his booth, craning his head, urgently hoping this waitress was merely a trainee.

“She’s not here anymore. She was fired, or she quit, depending on who you talk to. Anyway, she left in the middle of her shift, which did not make June happy. She’s still complaining about it. Did you want to order something?” The girl flinched visibly as Frank’s grating voice rocked the room.

“Bobbi—pick up!”

“I’ll take a hot tea,” Tobias said, hoping to buy time to think while she rustled up the necessary equipment.

“That’s all?” she asked nervously.

“And a Danish,” he added, as he sensed her concern. Knowing she could catch grief from her boss for allowing a single to occupy a booth for a measly coffee and pastry, the new Bobbi anxiously flipped her ticket book closed and scurried off to claim her order.

Tobias’s mind raced as he struggled with this unforeseen development. He could feel his heart pounding irrationally in his chest, clearly an indication he’d consumed too much caffeine. There was no other reasonable explanation for the panicked state he found himself in now. The important thing was to pull himself together
.

Really
, he thought, falling apart simply because he’d lost contact with a coffee shop waitress? He shook his head at the foolishness of it. But the longer he sat there observing the scene around him, the more uneasy he became. He had never considered himself a superstitious person, but he couldn’t fight the growing suspicion that his ability to tap into his fountain of musical talent had suddenly become more tenuous.

“Stupid. Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, but he wasn’t convinced. It was here he had broken the barrier that had kept him unproductive all those years. Yet as he sat there, he could actually feel his creative energy seep away. It wasn’t the place that restored his powers; it was the person, and he had to find her.

“Hey, excuse me,” Tobias said, leaning out of the booth to attract June’s attention.

“Your waitress will be right with you,” she said irritably.

“I need to ask you something,” he said, motioning her over with the wag of his head. Grudgingly, June heeded his call.

“Yeah, what do you need?” she said, her eyes averted to her order pad as she consulted her tickets.

“I need to get a hold of the Bobbi who was here last week.”

June looked at him, sizing him up for the first time. “If she wanted you to get in touch with her, you’d know how,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, but we only know each other from here, and from what the new girl told me, she hadn’t really planned her departure. She’d want to hear from me, I can assure you of that,” he said.

“I don’t know,” June said skeptically, “I don’t think Priscilla was one for dating the clientele.”

“It’s nothing like that—we’re just friends.”

“Just friends, who don’t know how to find each other,” June replied, tapping her pen against her pad in an agitated manner.

“You mean to say you don’t have friends and acquaintances you’d miss if you didn’t work here anymore?”

“From this dump? Are you kidding me?” Tobias reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Discreetly, he removed a hundred dollar bill and passed it to June.

“I’d really like to make contact with Bob—Priscilla again,” he said. June’s eyes bugged as she saw the denomination on the note he had handed her. She scrutinized him once more.

“I guess you do. You’re not some kind of nut job, are you?” she asked as a matter of due diligence. “I mean, she totally screwed up my day by walking out in the middle of the lunch rush, but I don’t want to read in the paper she’s been found dismembered, or anything sick like that.” The buzz in the coffee shop was once again punctuated by Frank’s bark.

“June! Pick up food!”

“Be there in two shakes, Frank,” she said with an obvious lack of concern. “I can’t say I blame her for bailing on this crummy joint, but I just wish she’d done it at the
end
of her shift,” she said as she turned back to Tobias. He noticed she was no longer fingering the bill he’d given her, which he took as an encouraging sign.

“I don’t know her phone number—in fact, I’m not even sure she
has
a phone. All I know is she lives on Hester Street, between Essex and Ludlow.”