Alligators in the Trees (20 page)

Grudgingly, she paid the roomette price—all the money Tobias had given her so far, and then some—non-refundable. This was it. No turning back now.

When she emerged from the bustling train station, it was almost noon—still too early to head back to Hester Street. She was feeling so fine at that moment, she dreaded returning to her neighborhood, so much so, she contemplated skipping her rendezvous with Tobias Jordan and hanging around Midtown until time to board her train. But she was counting on having the extra money now, and besides, there were a few odds and ends she wanted to take from the apartment, though certainly not much.

It was lunchtime, and the muffin hadn’t gone very far, so Priscilla had a farewell hotdog with everything on it. She ate as she strolled aimlessly, content to be out in the day. She began to suspect she would miss life in the big city. Who could say? Three days of peace and quiet might send her scurrying for the next train back.

But then again, this was springtime, and every place was in its glory. Come December, while her former fellow New Yorkers would be swathing themselves from head to frozen toes like live mummies, she would be lying on the beach eating fresh-picked oranges, not a care in the world.

She smiled at her pleasant reverie, glancing absently up at the John Jacob Astor Branch of the New York Library as she walked by. It was then that she was struck by an intriguing prospect.
Why not?
she thought. This way she could kill time while satisfying her curiosity. She climbed the wide steps and went inside.

She planted herself at the first available monitor, logged onto the library’s newspaper database, and spent the next hour and a half doing a little research on her most ardent admirer.

What she gained as she scanned through one article after another was a wealth of information on Philip M. Glessner’s professional odyssey. She had located a blurb dating back to April of 1987—well before her move to New York—touting him as a young visionary, someone to watch in the future.

That writer had been quite astute, for Philip’s name cropped up over a hundred times in the
New York Times
alone. One would think he’d been the only architect in the city the last two decades. She didn’t bother to read every piece his name appeared in; that would’ve taken all day. Instead, she looked for mention of The Phoenix Tower, a subject that had generated enormous press.

It interested her to learn not all that had been written about the famed building prior to the collapse had been positive. Even though he had chosen one of the most dilapidated structures in one of the most derelict sections of Manhattan, there were those who had begrudged him for altering the so-called integrity of the area, objecting to the gentrification of the once seedy section.

“With all due respect, the integrity of both the building and the neighborhood has been in decline for decades,” Philip told the reporter. “Integrity in this case lies in the soundness of the structures, without which they cannot endure the passing of time. Not only will The Phoenix Tower have structural integrity, its advent and design will spark hope and renewal for the whole section of town. You can mark my word on it.”

Priscilla scrolled on and found the front-page account of The Phoenix Tower’s downfall. She was disappointed to discover there were no photos shown in these archived articles, only text. As she read on, she could only imagine how devastated Philip must have been. Though there wasn’t a single quote from him in which he denied his culpability, Priscilla got the distinct impression Philip had difficulty accepting the fact his building was fundamentally unsound.

She skimmed through the subsequent articles, which became boring in their repetitively negative tone, although the last one she found had a rather chilling finality to it. “PHOENIX TOWER SLATED FOR THE WRECKING BALL, MAY 29
TH
,” which was only nine days away.
Poor Phil
, she thought.

She checked the date the story appeared and reconstructed the timeline in her head. It had been the same day he had broached the subject of going out with him. She let out a soft grunt as she chewed her lower lip. He was a desperate man with nothing else to lose; his cartoon overture to her had been a last ditch effort to forge something good out of the mess his life had become. She was touched, despite herself.

She scrolled back up to a small bit entitled, “ARCHITECT FACES TROUBLE ON HOME FRONT AS WELL,” which heralded a brief account of his wife suing for divorce just days after The Phoenix collapse made him notorious.

“Boy, that’s rough,” Priscilla said, receiving looks of mild reproach from those seated close to her. She silently mouthed her apology, then scrolled upward to articles she had skipped. “PHOENIX TOWER COLLAPSE RAISES CONCERNS FOR OTHER GLESSNER PROJECTS,” “RESIDENTS SUE PHOENIX TOWER DEVELOPER,” “CITY INSPECTORS SAY THEY WERE DECEIVED BY GLESSNER & ASSOC.,” “CITY HALL POINTS FINGER AT ARCHITECT AS RESIDENTS THREATEN CLASS-ACTION SUIT,” etcetera, etcetera.

There was even more coverage about Philip and his building after the damage was discovered than before, which was saying something. She searched through the pieces published prior to and during construction, the in-depth, multi-page article in the Lifestyles section released upon the building’s completion, and all the perky blurbs that appeared nearly weekly. It was evident Philip Glessner had been one of the city’s favorite sons before his luck had turned cold.

Priscilla sat back and folded her arms across her chest while she digested all she had read. It was curious to her how quickly all of Philip’s champions had become his detractors once the story broke. She didn’t know the first thing about architecture or construction, but she figured building inspectors did something for their pay. If there had been a flaw in the caissons, wouldn’t it have been their job to discover it
before
the building went up?

She scanned back through the more recent pieces trying to find an answer. It seemed to her the city officials had mounted an aggressive offensive right from the get-go. The day after the news broke, the mayor was calling for a thorough investigation, promising that the guilty party or parties would be made to pay. That was rather strong language so early in the game, especially since Philip had enjoyed a favorable relationship with the current mayor, as well as many of his predecessors.

She began to search backwards, seeking out stories mentioning Marianne. Most of them pertained to society gatherings and charitable events. The text was generally limited, probably only the minimum needed to support the missing photos.

Priscilla had had enough of the hard library chair and eyestrain for one day. She closed the research and headed back out into the glorious sunshine, a commodity she had better get used to if she were going to move to the Sunshine State.

At 2:57, Priscilla turned the corner at Delancey and Church, limping along on over-taxed feet. She had let the beauty of the day seduce her into walking back to her assignation with the elusive rock star. She had convinced herself she could diminish some of the sordidness of her apartment if she could absorb enough pristine daylight.

All she had really succeeded in doing was wearing blisters on her feet and making herself thoroughly exhausted. The only thing that spurred her on was the thought of climbing aboard the train and crashing in her expensive ‘roomette.’ Collecting the money wouldn’t be bad, either, if Tobias actually showed up.

She was fumbling listlessly through her bag for her keys when she became aware of a vehicle creeping stealthily by her side. She glanced over, slowing to a halt as the limo glided to a stop beside her. The dark glass of the rear window slid down, revealing the now familiar baseball cap and sunglasses.

“That’s what I call perfect timing,” Tobias said jauntily. Priscilla stood staring, unable to speak. It really was going to happen after all. For the first time since he appeared in her hallway, the reality of what had taken place finally hit her.

“You all right?” Tobias asked, concerned by her peculiar expression. Priscilla nodded vaguely. “Why don’t you get in for a minute?” He signaled to the driver to cut the engine and opened the door to let her in, scooting over to make room for her. Hesitantly, as if too dazed to fully comprehend what was happening, Priscilla ducked into the back of the limousine.

“Are you feeling all right?” Tobias asked again, alarmed by her heavy breathing.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just walked back from Penn Station. I’m a little winded, is all.”

“That’s a long walk. Couldn’t you find a cab?”

Priscilla took a deep breath to calm herself. The walk had been nothing compared to the shock of being in the back of a limousine, all alone with a man she had idolized for years, though she had never admitted it to herself in so many words.

It had been one thing to serve him fried eggs and hash browns while on duty; it was quite another to be up close and personal with him in such an intimate setting. Forget the fact that he now had access to every word she had ever committed to paper. She felt her face grow hot as the thought of him riffling through her boxes and bags flashed across her mind’s eye. She squeezed her eyes shut to dispel the vision.

“It felt nice to be out,” she answered belatedly.

“Ah…” Tobias said, recognizing the mark of a fellow wanderer. “Well, here’s the balance of what I owe you,” he said, removing a plain white envelope from his jacket pocket. “I just need you to sign this document, which states you’re selling me the rights to all the works now in my possession.”

He handed the three-page agreement to her, folding it back to the space highlighted in yellow. He felt his pocket for something to write with, realizing he must left his Waterman behind.

“Damn, forgot a pen. Do you have one on you?” Priscilla rummaged through her bag, grateful for the diversion.

“Here’s one,” she said, holding it up for him to see.

“Good. All right,” he said, prompting her to use it. Bewildered once again, Priscilla glanced down at the document, her eyes bouncing aimlessly across the legalese.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing sinister in it. It basically states that I’ve paid you a total of fifteen thousand dollars for the rights to the lyrics you’ve given me. It’s really only designed to protect me if later you decide to sue me for copyright infringement or something like that.” Priscilla looked blankly down at the signature line.

“But you’ve only given me seven hundred dollars,” she pointed out, causing Tobias to laugh.

“Here’s the check for fourteen thousand three hundred,” he said, handing it to her.

“A check?” she said, her voice just barely audible.

“Yeah, a check. Don’t worry, I’m good for it,” he said with a tang of sarcasm. “Did you expect me to show up with an attaché case full of money?” he asked with derisive cackle. Priscilla stared at him open-mouthed. How could she answer that when she had never really considered any of this would actually happen?

“No,” she said, feeling humiliated.

“Here—c’mon, take it. It yours,” Tobias said, still thrusting the check toward her. Priscilla took it, reading the amount with disbelief. She folded the check and held it tightly, closing her eyes. She had done it: she had sold her past and bought her future in one casual, unforeseen act.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment’s reflection.

“Sure, you’re welcome. And thank you for selling them to me.” Priscilla laughed, though it sounded more like a faint wail.

“What?” Tobias asked.

Priscilla shook her head. “Nothing.” She turned and looked out the window. “Well, I guess I need to get to the bank,” she said, reaching for the door handle. Having to go to a bank was one of the details she had overlooked when she had planned out her escape to Florida.

“If you take the check to my bank, there won’t be any hold placed on it,” Tobias suggested. Nodding at this reasoning, Priscilla unfolded the check to find out where he banked. Of course, it would be back uptown.

“Why don’t you let me take you there? It doesn’t look like you’ve got any more walking in you.”

She found it hard to argue with that observation. “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” she said. Tobias merely smirked before picking up the phone to converse with his driver. The car glided away from the curb as smoothly as if it were a shark in deep water.

Priscilla leaned back against the plush seat, feeling as though she might melt into the upholstery. She felt she owed Tobias some sort of conversation, but when she turned her head toward him, she lost her nerve, even though his expression seemed to welcome dialog.

She smiled timidly and faced forward, closing her eyes again, this time for a silent celebration. This was by far the most thrilling day of her life. It was also the most terrifying. Her eyes popped back open with a start.

“You all right?” Tobias asked, as she jerked forward suddenly.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“No problem. Just sit back and relax. The ride’s going to take a few minutes. Traffic’s already getting backed up.”

Priscilla gratefully complied. Within two minutes, she had fallen into a heavy sleep. When Tobias jiggled her arm softly, she had no idea where she was. “Oh!” she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright, the back of her hand going reflexively to the corner of her mouth to wipe the bead of drool that had formed there.

“We’re here,” Tobias said, evidently finding her fatigue comical. Priscilla blinked several times to shake off sleep’s paralyzing serum. She felt the door for the handle, but the chauffer opened it before she could.

“Why don’t I go in with you? I’ll speak to the manager and get all the formalities out of the way, how’s that?” Tobias asked. Priscilla was hardly in any state to handle formalities of any kind. She accepted his offer gratefully.

They had to wait in the main lobby for a couple of minutes while the branch manager could be found. During that awkward period, Tobias shuffled his feet and fidgeted like a kid, constantly looking over his shoulder, as if the Paparazzi would be on him any second.

In the meantime, Priscilla’s brain began to fire on all its synapses. When the manager did appear, Tobias was quick to explain the situation and get out of there.

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said in a low whisper, slinking off like a hunted man. The bank manager, a man named Haskell Worthington III, showed Priscilla to his office, where they could discuss in private her reason for being there.

“So, Miss…Vanderpool, how would you like to handle the disbursement of these funds?” he inquired in his habitually solicitous tone.

“Could I get it converted to traveler’s checks?” she asked. Mr. Worthington beamed as if she’d come up with a most brilliant solution.

“Absolutely! Of course.” He leaned into the speakerphone and summoned one of his minions. “Natalie, bring one hundred dollar denomination traveler’s checks for $14,300 to my office, would you please? I assume you want hundreds, for that large an amount?” he asked Priscilla, who nodded her agreement. “Yes, that’s correct. And please do hurry. We don’t want to keep one of the bank’s most important clients waiting.”

Despite Mr. Worthington’s effort to expedite the process, the procedure took far longer than Priscilla had bargained on. She felt acutely every second that crawled by while she scribbled her signature on a seemingly endless stream of traveler’s checks, as if picking up on Tobias’s impatience telepathically.