Bright Lights, Big City (9 page)

As long as you are relatively secluded you figure you’ll try some. You use your office key for a spoon. The first taste is like Drano. The second time you’re ready for it, and it’s not so bad. Still, it feels like your nose is emitting sparks. Whatever the stuff is, you hope it’s not lethal. You hope there’s something South American in the mix. After bumping yourself up again you fold the packet. You
think
you can feel a lift coming on. You want to go somewhere, do something, talk to someone, but it’s only eleven-thirty in the morning and everyone else in the world has a job.

Much later, near midnight, you return to the office. Tad Allagash is with you. You are both in high spirits. You have decided that you are better off without that piss-ant job, that it is a good thing you got out when you did. A longer tenure in the Department of Factual Verification would have eventually resulted in an incurable case of anal retentiveness. You’re well shut of the place. This conclusion does not absolve Clara Tillinghast of her many crimes against humanity, and particularly against you. Tad casts it as a matter of honor. In his part of the country these matters are settled with horsewhips and ivory-headed canes. He says the caning and horsewhipping of libelous editors has a long, dignfied history. The present case, however, calls for something more subtle. The better part of the night has been devoted to devising and executing the proper response. Part of the plan involved getting in touch with Richard Fox, the hatchet man, and telling him some of the nasty secrets to which you have become privy after two years at the magazine. You were inclined to let it slide, but Tad appealed to your fighting spirit. He placed the call and got Fox’s answering service. He left a message, calling himself Deep Shoat, an inside source, and promised major revelations. He left Clara’s number. You proceeded to phase two.

The nightwatchman nods at your employee ID card and tells you to sign the book. You sign in as Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton. Tad explains that your errand is urgent; First Amendment issues are at stake. The watchman is used to writers coming and going at strange hours, and doesn’t have the energy to worry about two more drunks. He points to the freight elevator and then goes back to his wrestling magazine. He doesn’t even ask about the suitcase.

When the elevator begins to ascend, shrill, birdlike noises issue from the bag. The sound of the animal’s distress gives you pause. This is probably a bad idea. You’re not particularly worried about Clara, but you feel sorry for Fred the Ferret in his role of unwitting accomplice.

“
Pas de
sweat,” Tad says. “This is almost too easy. Maybe we should have tried for the wolf cub.” Initially Tad wanted to get hold of a bat, but when you mentioned the ferret his eyebrows climbed his forehead in delight.

The door opens on the twenty-ninth floor. You both stand inside the elevator, listening. It’s quiet. Tad looks at you inquisitively. You nod and step out into the reception area. Tad follows. The whoosh of the elevator doors sounds like a passing freight train. There is a hollow echo of cables and gears, and then it’s quiet again. Tad leans over and whispers in your ear, “Take no prisoners.”

You lead the way down the hall, carrying the suitcase. Up to the corner all the offices are dark, but you remain anxious. The Druid is known for his insane hours and you briefly picture yourself turning the corner and facing him. You would die of mortification. Still, the challenge of the caper has got your adrenaline going. No thrills without chills. The forty-five-degree mirror at the corner shows no lights on farther up.

Clara’s door is locked, but that’s no problem. You have a key to the Department office, and a key to her office is hidden behind—what else?—volume K of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. It’s the work of a moment.

You let yourselves into Clara’s office and close the door. “They entered the lair of the dragon,” Tad whispers. You turn on the light. “You call this an office?” he says. “It looks like an uppity maid’s room.”

Now that you’re here, you’re not quite sure what to do. The ferret is scratching wildly inside the suitcase.

“Where’s the leash,” you ask.

“I don’t have it.”

“I gave it to you.”

“We don’t need the leash. It’ll be a better surprise to have the sucker pop out from a desk drawer.”

Tad lays the suitcase on the floor and flips the latches, then stands back. “Let him out,” he says. You lift the top. Things happen quickly after that. The animal sinks its teeth into your hand. You jerk your arm away. There’s a foot of ferret still attached. The pain is terrific. You shake your arm savagely, flinging the thing toward Tad. Fred tears a swath out of Tad’s pants leg before landing on the floor, careening around the room, upsetting boxes and finally holing up in the bookshelf behind a row of bound volumes of
Scientific American
.

Your hand is on fire. It is connected by red-hot wires to your brain, which is throbbing inside your skull. You shake your arm, spattering little red droplets on the walls. Tad’s face is white. He leans down and gingerly examines the tear in his pants just below the crotch.

“Good Christ! One more inch …”

He is interupted by a thump on the door.

“Oh, Jesus!”

There is another thump and then a hoarse voice: “Open up! I know you’re in there.”

You recognize the voice—it could be worse—and put a finger to your lips. Taking a pencil and pad from Clara’s desk, you clumsily write, with your uninjured left hand,
Is the door locked?

Tad gives you a search-me look.

There is a steady wheezing outside the door and another knock. The doorknob turns one way and then the other. Allagash is poking your arm and mouthing frantic interrogatives. The latch clicks and the door swings open. Alex Hardy stands in the doorway. He nods his head gravely as if you were the very two people he expected to find in Clara’s office at midnight. You are trying to devise a quick story that will wash. Tad is brandishing a yardstick that he found behind the door.

“You gave us a scare, Alex. I couldn’t imagine who would be wandering around here at this time of night. I was just looking for my wallet. I was in here this morning …”

“Pygmies,” Alex says.

Tad looks at you inquisitively. You shrug.

“I am surrounded by pygmies.”

You now see that Alex is stupendously drunk. You wonder if he recognizes you.

“I knew the giants,” he says. “I worked with the giants. The guys whose words went out into the world and kicked ass. Okay, girls too. Women, whatever. I’m talking about ambition. I’m talking about talent. Not like these precious turds around here. These goddamned pygmies.” Alex thumps his fist on the wall. The ferret leaps out from hiding and bolts for the door. It snakes its way between Alex’s legs. Alex tries to get out of the way. The ferret’s claws scrabble on the linoleum. Alex struggles for equilibrium, grabbing first at the door frame, then, as he starts to fall, at the coatrack, and finally at a bookshelf which goes down with him. The top hooks of the falling coatrack narrowly miss Tad’s face. Alex is sprawled on the floor in a heap of books. You’re not sure how hard he hit.

“Let’s get out before he comes to,” Tad says.

“I can’t leave him like this.” You crouch down and check him out. He’s breathing; already the office smells like liquor.

“Come on. Do you want to
explain
what we’re doing here? Let’s go.”

You clear some of the books from Alex’s chest and stretch his legs out. Down the hall a phone starts ringing.

“He’s fine, for Christ’s sake. We’re dead meat if we get caught in here.”

“Get the suitcase,” you say. You take the cushion from Clara’s chair and put it under Alex’s head. His feet are sticking out the door so you can’t close it. The elevator takes days to arrive and makes a racket like an All Points Bulletin.

In the lobby, the watchman is still absorbed in his magazine. You keep your hand in your jacket pocket while he unlocks the door to the street. Outside, you both break into a sprint.

Neither of you speaks a word until you’re in the cab. At Tad’s place you wash and examine the wound while he changes his pants. At first you’re concerned. You’re trying to remember the last time you had a tetanus shot when suddenly you think of rabies. The signature of the teeth is clearly visible between your thumb and index finger. The punctures are deep but not wide. Tad assures you that stitches aren’t necessary. He says that if the animal was rabid, it would not have been so friendly before you put it in the suitcase. He pours a glass of vodka over the wound. You’re eager to be reassured. You don’t want to go to the hospital. You hate hospitals and doctors. The smell of denatured alcohol nauseates you. Then you think of Alex. Maybe he suffered a concussion. Only the
Post
could make this funny:
FAULKNER FRIEND FALLS AFOUL OF FURRY FIEND
.

“He’s just sleeping off his drunk,” Tad says.

“Let’s hope.”

“Love to be there in the morning when the gang starts coming in for work.”

Tad gets some cotton pads and adhesive tape from the medicine cabinet and then cuts some lines on the table while you fuss with the first aid.

With the application of anesthetics, the pain and guilt recede and the episode becomes a source of hilarity. “Giants,” Tad says. “Fucking giants. I’m thinking, Who is this dwarf calling me a goddamned pygmy. Then—boom. Fred the Ferret to the rescue.
De casibus virorum illustrium
, as we used to say in Latin class.”

“Say what?”

“Something about the fall of famous men.”

Tad suggests taking the show on the road. He says it’s early yet. You say it’s not that early, and he points out that it’s not as if you had a job to wake up for in the morning. This is a convincing point. You agree to one drink at Heartbreak.

In the cab on the way downtown, Tad says, “Thanks for taking Vicky off my hands. Inge is eternally grateful.”

“My pleasure.”

“Really? Got lucky, did you?”

“None of your business.”

“Are you serious?” He leans over and looks into your face. “You are serious. Well, well. To each his own.”

The cabby swerves between lanes, muttering in a Middle Eastern language.

“Anyway, it’s nice to see you getting over this Amanda deal. I mean, she wasn’t hard to look at. God knows. But I don’t see why you felt like you had to marry her.”

“I’ve been wondering that myself.”

“Weren’t you suspicious when you saw the sign on her forehead?”

“Which sign was that?”

“The one that said,
Space to Let. Long and Short Term Leasing.
”

“We met in a bar. It was too dark to read.”

“Not so dark that she couldn’t see you were her ticket out of Trailer Park Land. Bright lights, big city. If you really wanted to do the happy couple thing you shouldn’t have let her model. A week on Seventh Avenue would warp a nun. Where skin-deep is the mode, your traditional domestic values are not going to take root and flourish. Amanda was trying to get as far from red dirt and four-wheel drive as she could. She figured out she could trade on her looks farther than she got with you.”

For Tad, Amanda’s departure was not only not surprising but inevitable. It confirmed his world view. Your heartbreak is just another version of the same old story.

Toward dawn you are riding around in a limo with a guy named Bernie and his two assistants. The assistants are named Maria and Crystal. Crystal is in the back seat with one arm around you and the other around Allagash. Bernie and Maria are facing you from the jump seats. Bernie runs his hand up and down Maria’s leg. You’re not sure if Tad knew these people before tonight or if they are new friends. Tad seems to think he knows of a party somewhere. Maria says she wants to go to New Chursey. Bernie puts a hand on your knee.

“This is my office,” he says. “So what do you think?”

You’re not sure you want to know what line of work Bernie is in.

“You got an office like this?”

You shake your head.

“Of course you don’t. You got Ivy League written all over you. But I could buy you and your old man and his country club. I use guys like you in your button-down shirts to fetch my coffee.”

You nod. You wonder if he’s hiring this week and how much it pays.

“You’re wondering where the rest of my operation is, right?”

“Not really,” you say.

Tad is disappearing inside Crystal’s dress.

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” Bernie says. “You know what? I’m going to tell you. It’s down on the Lower East Side, Avenue D and the Twilight Zone. Not too far from where my old
Bubbie
and
Zadie
ruined their health in a sweatshop so their kids could move out to Scarsdale and Metuchen. It’s spies and junkies now. I’ll show you. I’ll even tell you how we move the product. You want to know?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Smart. You’re a smart boy. I don’t blame you for not wanting to know. You know what happens to people who know too much?”

“What’s that?”

“They become dog chow. Fucking Purina Dog Chow.”

Tad looks up. “We handle that account at the agency.”

You ask yourself: How did I get here? The hand that Fred bit throbs painfully. You wonder if it’s rabies. You wonder if Alex is all right.

“Used to be,” Bernie says, “this was your basic greaseball sector of the economy. You’re dealing with your South American spies and your New Jersey dago element. It was an up-and-down scene—all these Latin types with long knives and short tempers—but there was a lot of room for the entrepreneurial spirit. Now we’re seeing a different kind of money moving into the neighborhood. I’m talking to three-piece bankers with P.O. boxes in Switzerland. That’s one of the things that’s happening to this business. But these guys I can deal with. All they want is a good return on their money. Simple. What I’m scared of is my brother Jews—the Hasidim. They’re moving in in a big way, crowding out the independent. It’s more lucrative than diamonds—hey, they’re not stupid. They know an opportunity when they see one. They’re all set up for something like this. Liquid capital, world-wide organization, secrecy and trust. How can they lose? I’m telling you, most of the blow in the country already has a Yiddish accent.”