Paradime (10 page)

I shift in the chair again. ‘But—’

She waits to hear whatever it is I’m going to say. The only problem is I’m waiting too.

After a while, I just shake my head.

Kate turns around, picks the knife up, and starts chopping again.

I’m due back at work the next morning, but I can’t bring myself to go in. I don’t even call in sick. I just don’t show up. And when my phone starts vibrating, I ignore it. Also, with no help from me, Kate eventually works out that I don’t appear to be going anywhere, so she gathers up her stuff – laptop, notes, phone – and heads out herself.

I stand in the emptiness of the apartment, but only for about ten minutes. As fast as I can, I put on the suit. I go down to the street and hail the first cab I see.

Fifty-seventh and Sixth.

The city passes in a quickening blur, its sounds merging into white noise.

I pay the driver, get out of the cab, and there, right in front of me, pulling into sudden and sharp focus, is the Tyler Building, this vast, refractive slab of crystal and gold. I step onto the plaza and walk across it. I hold my head up and make eye contact with anyone who cares to look my way.

And, as I’m approaching the entrance to the building, I hear a voice behind me.

‘Teddy?’

I don’t react.

‘
Teddy?
’

I can’t quite believe I’m hearing this.

I slow down and come to a complete stop. Then I turn around, ready for whatever weirdness is about to unfold.

Before me are two guys, one burly, one slim, both about forty. They’re both in suits which aren’t unlike mine but not quite as nice either. The burly guy has red hair and a pasty complexion.

‘Hey Teddy,’ he says, ‘that was
so
great yesterday. I just wanted to say.’

I swallow and nod at the same time.

‘I mean, man, you really crushed it with those guys.’ He laughs. ‘And I think you may have crushed their spirits too.’

‘Well, that’s possible,’ I say, acutely conscious of my voice now, but more worried about how I sound than what I might say. ‘It was never my intention, though.’

‘Oh, for sure. Of course. And listen,
I
can’t hear that stuff too many times, either, you know.’

The slim guy nods along, as if he’s agreeing, but then says, ‘Hear what?’

‘I
told
you,’ the burly guy says, trying to stifle his irritation. ‘That pitch meeting yesterday.’

‘Oh yeah, you said . . . don’t . . . what was it again, don’t . . .’

The burly guy looks at me now – half embarrassed by his friend, I think, and half fishing for permission to continue.

I shrug my assent, though it’s barely perceptible. We’re moving now, in any case, towards the revolving doors. One by one, we spin through them and into the lobby.

‘. . . it’s the baseline for any start-up,’ the burly guy is explaining. ‘Don’t go
looking
for a problem to tackle, because that way you’re already compromising the solution . . .’

‘Oh, that’s awesome,’ the slim guy says. He looks at me. ‘That’s awesome, Mr Trager.’

Just then, an older man passes us on his way out. He’s clearly in a hurry, but, as he goes by, he pats me lightly on the arm. ‘
Teddy
,’ he says, delivering the word softly, half in a whisper. Almost like an invocation.

I watch him slip out through the doors.

When I look back at the two guys, I become aware, for the first time, of where we are – inside a vast multi-storey atrium, a marble and brushed-steel echo chamber teeming with corporate execs. ‘You know what fellas,’ I say, suddenly feeling queasy, ‘you head on up . . . I’ve . . . I’ve just remembered something.’

I mumble this last part as I turn around. I go back through the revolving doors and straight out onto the plaza. Before I get to the sidewalk, I glance over my shoulder at the building. It’s not that I’m escaping or running away or anything.

I love this. I fucking
love
it.

The whole thing.

But I’m not an idiot. I know that if I want to pull this off properly, I need to be prepared.

I need to have some coherent shit to say.

I need to do more homework.

I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. After a second or two, sounds crowd in, morning traffic, a thumping bass beat, voices from the apartment next door, voices from the street below. I roll sideways off the bed and get up.

I look around. Where’s Kate?

I find her in the living room. She’s about to go out and is all dressed up. I stand there in my boxers and T-shirt, looking at her. She always dresses well, but in a casual way. This is a notch or two above that, not quite on a par with my insane upgrade, but still, I’m taken aback.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’

I see a flicker of irritation in her expression. She was obviously hoping to get out the door before I woke up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I have that thing,’ she says.

I stare at her, not so much confused by what she’s referring to, or by her reluctance to engage with me, as entranced by the unfamiliar hint of colour around her eyes.

‘What thing?’

‘I told you, that interview. It’s today.’

‘
Oh
.’ I nod. ‘Of course. The website thing, yeah. Sorry.’

She hesitates, with her hand on the door, as though she’s waiting to be released.

Does she hate me now? I wouldn’t blame her.

I move forward a little. She tenses.

‘Good luck with it,’ I say.

‘Yeah.’

I give her a peck on the cheek. ‘You know,
they’ll
be lucky to get
you
.’

She half smiles. I think that’s what it is. Though it could be something else, a look of pity, of incomprehension, of disgust even. I’m not sure.

And then she’s gone.

I go into the kitchen and put on some coffee.

It’s been five days since that little encounter at the Tyler Building. And two since I quit my job at Barcadero. Not showing up was bad enough, but not calling in? Not getting back to them? Holy shit, for a kitchen guy, even a lowly one, that was unconscionable. They would have fired me anyway, so I just figured I’d save them the trouble.

I don’t know what Kate thinks about this – though I suppose I might have a better chance of finding out if I actually told her. I’m just sort of assuming that she’s figured it out because, well, I’m
here
most of the time now. For her part, she’s taken to leaving the apartment every day, and I’m never sure where she goes, so I suppose – in some twisted, fucked-up, non-sustainable way – we’re even.

What I’ve been doing with my time is a lot of online research – background reading, interviews, profiles, financial reports. I’ve been immersed in it, day and night, but the frustrating thing is that whatever I’ve learned is all on the surface. I’ve absorbed terms and vocabulary, names, dates, references, memes, factoids, but do I really understand any of it, do I have the ability to pull it all together, to gestalt it up into a convincing Teddy Trager? I doubt it. I might have thirty seconds of material, a minute maybe. After that, I suspect I’d run dry. But I guess there’s only one way to find out.

I shower and shave, then suit up. Twenty minutes later I’m on the subway, and then, like a scene change in a dream, I’m back. As usual, what I do is walk, block after block, Sixth Avenue, Fifth, Madison, the high forties, the low fifties. I almost fall into a mindful state, what you might even call a trance, and if every now and again I end up near the Tyler Building, so be it. I’m open to anything, to any encounter . . .

At one point, my phone goes off. It’s just before midday. I stop at a corner and look around. I’m on 53rd and Sixth.

I reach into my pocket.

‘Yeah?’

‘Danny, I
got
it.’

I have to think for a second. She got it. Got what? Oh, the interview, the
job
. That’s actually great. I need to say it. ‘Kate, wow . . . I’m—’

But I stop there, my heart starting to race, because I’m also looking straight ahead along the sidewalk.

‘
Teddy?
’

And holy shit if that isn’t Doug Shaw coming towards me.

‘Danny!’ This is in my ear. ‘Are you there?’

‘Yeah,’ I whisper, ‘I’m here.’

I respond to Shaw with a nod.

Getting closer, he says, ‘Come on, Teddy, we need to talk.’

‘Did you hear me, Danny? I said I
got
it. They were really nice, and it’s actually going to pay a bit better than I thought, but I’ll probably have to—’

‘Wait . . .’
Shit
. ‘I’ve got to go, Kate. Sorry.’

I slide the phone away from my ear, ending the call and flicking it to silent.

‘Teddy,’ Shaw says, right in front of me now, practically in my face. ‘Teddy, Teddy, Teddy.’

‘Yeah?’ I say, nervously, close enough to peer into his eyeballs.

‘It’s a bit early, but what do you say we get some lunch?’

Next thing I know he’s got an arm out, and seconds later a yellow cab is pulling up at the kerb. As we’re getting in, Shaw says, ‘I’ve been craving some of that blood-sausage thing Jacques does.’

My heart stops racing at this, nearly stops altogether.

Before he even utters a word to the driver, I know what’s coming.

‘Forty-fourth Street.’

The short cab ride to Barcadero passes in a flash. I’m sitting beside my supposed business partner, impersonating
his
business partner, and all I can think about is what awaits me at my former place of employment. Shaw does all of the talking, but I don’t actually listen. All I catch is the word ‘sign’. He says it more than once, his voice low and gravelly. He’s also wearing a distinctive cologne. That’s what I get. That’s the sum total of what I’m able to process.

And I don’t open my mouth once.

Shaw pays. Then we’re on the sidewalk outside Barcadero. We head for the entrance, and, depending on who’s doing front-of-house today, this might all come crashing down within the next thirty seconds. We go inside, and, while the place isn’t busy, it isn’t empty either. Croatian, sapphire-eyed Karina, one of the daytime hostesses, glides over to us, smiling.

‘Mr Shaw, Mr Trager, how nice to see you today.’

I look at her directly. There’s nothing. But then, why would there be? Have we ever even spoken? Why would Karina pay any attention to some surly jerk like me who works in the kitchen? No, I think, the real trouble here will be with the server, or maybe the wine guy. I know most of them, and they know me.

Without checking her list, Karina just leads us into the main room and – I hadn’t even thought of this – over to the corner table. Before I know it, I’m sitting there, settling in, afraid to look up, afraid to look at anything – at the pick-up window, at the menu, and, most of all, at Doug Shaw, who has just put his reading glasses on and is doing something with his phone, sending a text or checking his email.

I close my eyes for a second. What the fuck am I doing here? I need to be outside, on the street, walking, moving.

‘Gentlemen, how are we today?’

Oh God. This is Brian, an intense, wiry guy from Boston. I’ve had several conversations with him, even had a drink with him once. He’s a physics major and intimidatingly smart. I may as well just give up right now.

‘This is a quickie,’ Shaw is saying, as he removes his glasses. ‘I want that blood-sausage thing. I want the kale with apple and pecorino salad. And water’s fine.’

I look up. Brian is staring at me. But, again, there’s nothing. He’s just waiting for me to tell him what I want to eat. I don’t understand what this is. Some kind of psychological syndrome? Perception based on predetermined expectations? A form of confirmation bias? Danny Lynch doesn’t wear a suit, he doesn’t come to Barcadero with Doug Shaw, therefore people here aren’t even going to
see
him?

‘Sir?’

Or is it that I look
that
different?

‘Teddy, we haven’t got all day.’

Shit.

I glance down at the menu. I could make it easy and say I’ll have what Shaw is having, but that might be weird. Besides, I
know
this menu.

And so does Teddy Trager.

‘Let me have the . . . hamachi and artichoke. Water as well. Thanks.’

Then he’s gone. And I realise something.
Now
is the hard part. So what if people here recognised me. That would have been awkward, humiliating even, and, let’s face it, exposure would have been the end of the road.
This
thing, on the other hand – whatever it turns out to be – is still in play. I look Shaw directly in the eye now, maybe for the first time since he walked up to me on the street all of, what was it, fifteen, twenty minutes ago? He holds my gaze, and with an intensity that I find really unsettling.

But I decide to dive in. ‘You said we needed to talk, Doug. So let’s talk.’

Then it occurs to me that maybe he already said whatever he wanted to say in the cab, when I wasn’t listening, when I was so overwrought with nerves that I couldn’t even
hear
him. I also wonder why he had to approach me on the street like that, when it’s my understanding, from stuff I’ve read online, that he and I – he and
Teddy
– both have offices on the seventieth floor of the Tyler Building.

‘I don’t know if I
can
talk to you, Teddy, not any more. That’s the problem. You’re going off on these batshit crazy tangents all the time now, and . . . frankly, you have me worried.’

Shaw is unprepossessing in appearance, but up close like this there’s something compelling about him, a nervous energy, a sort of magnetism.

‘I don’t know what to tell you, Doug.’

‘Look,’ Shaw says, ‘you know I get it, right? The great Teddy Trager? He doesn’t just think outside the box, he eats, sleeps, and shits out there too. He’s a visionary, has all these grandiose ideas, and, fine, some of them fly, some of them don’t, whatever, so believe me, I
do
get it, you need space, and time, a bit of latitude . . . but Jesus Christ, you’re losing sight of what got us to where we are, Teddy. I mean, what’s happening with this PromTech deal? We’re just going to let
that
one slide too?’

As Shaw speaks, I avoid his eyes, stealing glances instead at his shirt collar, at his watch, at his soft, manicured hands, at the texture of his suit, but at the same time my mind is racing, I’m
thinking
, and so rapidly that it can’t be conscious. What I must be doing, I guess, is trawling through some mental database of stuff I’ve read, searching for a match, a loose thread to pick up and spin an answer out of. Shaw is watching me closely now, and I have to say
something
. Because grunting or nodding along won’t cut it for much longer.

‘Come on, Doug,’ I say, tugging at my own jacket lapel, ‘I wear a suit to the office every day, what more do you want? I’m supposed to worry about volatility in the markets now as well? About earnings, and price ratios? You want me to get excited about some new start-up? Why? So we can take their game-changer of an idea and suck the life out of it, reduce it to an efficient revenue stream? Well, I can’t do it. My heart’s not in it any more.’

I’m aware that Trager and Shaw have their differences, and, while I’m vague on the details, this seems to be at the core of it. It’s an argument I’ve seen rehearsed again and again in interviews and magazine profiles.

‘Fuck your heart, Teddy, where’s your brain? Where are your
balls
? Our business runs on confidence. You don’t need me to tell you that. So for the two of us to be seen squabbling publicly about this – or, by the way, about
anything
– is . . . is . . . it’s like we’re dysfunctional, like the company is, I mean, Paradime. That’s how we’re being perceived. And it can’t go on or it’ll destroy us.’

I have a pretty good idea of what Trager’s counterargument might be, but the very fact that I do strikes me as odd. Because if
I
, as an ordinary member of the public, know what it is – if it has filtered
that
far out into the ether – how come Trager and Shaw are still having this conversation? Is it that the matter remains unresolved? That they’re going around in circles on it? That there really
is
an element of dysfunction here?

‘What will
destroy
us, Doug,’ I say, barely able to believe the exasperated tone I’m adopting, ‘is this insane notion of infinite economic growth. I mean, what’s our big game plan? Make more money? Seriously? Is that all we’re ever going to use our energy and creativity for? We talk about leadership and innovation and fostering fresh ideas, but the only thing that companies like Paradime
really
want to do is fatten these new ones up for IPOs so we can strip them to the bone afterwards.’

Shaw sits back and stares at me. ‘Wow.’

I wait a second. ‘What?’

He gives his head a quick shake. ‘Nothing, it’s just . . . the blood sausage. I can smell it from here.’

At which point Brian arrives from behind me with our orders. There’s a moment or two of business with plates and cutlery and napkins, during which I try to gauge Shaw’s reaction to what I just said, or even if it counted as a reaction at all. Needless to say, I’m not hungry, and the artfully arranged food in front of me looks deeply unappetising, almost like something from a Surrealist painting. It also occurs to me that I might have gotten a detail wrong – maybe you strip companies to the bone
before
an IPO?

‘So, Teddy,’ Shaw says, after his first couple of bites, ‘that was a nice little speech and all, but you didn’t answer my question.’

Which was?

Holding my fork over the plate, eyebrows furrowed, I try to remember, the delay now as much about avoiding the food as working out how to respond to Shaw.

‘PromTech?’ he says, nudging me along.

‘Yes.’ I put the fork down. ‘You want . . . you want me to
sign
.’

‘Of course. But what I really
want
is harmony. What I really
want
is for Paradime to show a united front. Is that so much to ask?’

I have no idea what to say, because, let’s face it . . . harmony, a united front, it sounds reasonable, but is that what Trager would think? I have to admit I’m lost here, and skating on very thin ice. I don’t know PromTech either, or what their deal is. Actually, I can’t even believe I’m having a conversation with Doug Shaw. The thing is, I find all of this thrilling, but part of the thrill is knowing I’m only ever a few seconds away from everything imploding. Because what if Teddy Trager were to call Shaw up right now on his cellphone, or to walk in the door of the restaurant? Or how about
this
? What are the odds – if I actually make it through lunch here – that when Shaw goes back to the office, the first person he meets, wearing a different suit and talking about
going for lunch
, is Teddy Trager? Pretty high, I’d imagine, so in a way does it really matter what I say? Where I take this?