The Up and Comer (23 page)

"You stupid motherfucker!" he yelled, pointing what turned out to be a very large kitchen knife at me. He was backing me into his bedroom.

I looked down at the blood dripping off my fingertips. I gathered this was what they meant by being caught red-handed.

"Wait a minute, Tyler," I pleaded. "This isn't what you think."

"Oh yeah, what is it then?"

Before I could give him an excuse, though, he saw it. The noose. The sheet hanging in the corner of his bedroom. Damn, I should have taken it down first.

Tyler looked dumbstruck. He could hardly fathom it. "Isn't that something," he said. "I suppose that was for me, huh?"

"No," I said. "I mean,
yes,
it was for you, but I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't do it."

"You're damn right you couldn't do it. Sorry to get in the way of your little execution here," he said, no longer yelling. His voice had turned calm and deep. The knife remained pointed at me in his outstretched hand.

"You have to believe me, Tyler. I know what it looks like, but I wasn't going to do it. You can have the money; it's yours. This was incredibly stupid of me."

He laughed out loud. "That's the fucking understatement of the year."

I started to look around the room for something to grab. The odds of talking Tyler out of coming at me with that knife again were decreasing by the second.

"You know what this is going to be, don't you?" he said.

"What?"

"Self-defense, that's what. You were going to kill me and I stopped you. It's that easy."

"Tyler, please..."

"You know what the amazing thing is? I actually thought you might consider trying something like this." He glanced at the noose. "Well, not quite this. I have to admit that was pretty ingenious — making it look like a suicide." He raised his forearms into the air, exposing the scars on his wrist. "Who wouldn't believe it?" he said with a crooked grin.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand!" I spurted out.

"Come again?" said his look.

"I'll double the hundred and twenty-five thousand. I'll give you two hundred and fifty thousand!"

Tyler pursed his lips. "Tempting, Philly, very tempting," he said. "But you know what idea I like better? The one where after I kill you, I end up fucking your wife. I'm pretty sure Tracy was starting to have a thing for me anyway. She might be a little frigid at first, it being my knife and all that did you in. Except I know she'll come around; she'll more than understand the self-defense part. Then, who knows, with a little work, maybe I can start up with Jessica on the side. Wouldn't that be a hoot? I guess I always was a little jealous of you."

Knife raised, he lunged.

My instincts took over. Before the blade could come down on me fatally, I grabbed under Tyler's wrist, stopping the motion of his arm. I glanced at the serrated edge of the knife, already stained with my blood, as it hovered over me — my body shaking, trembling from the strain. It was his strength against mine. I may have outweighed him, but he was consumed by rage and that was enough to begin pushing me back. I felt Tyler's bed behind me, and my knees began to cave with no more room to retreat. The knife was getting closer.

I fell back on the bed, desperately holding on to Tyler's arm while at the same time trying to evade the knife. He rode his momentum downward, pushing the struggle in his favor. He was right on top of me, the blade inches away from my chest.

"What a way to go, huh, Philly?" Tyler said between gasps of breath. He flashed a checkmate smile. He knew I couldn't hold him off much longer and he was right. Ever so slowly, the space between the tip of the blade and me began to disappear.

I felt it and I screamed out in pain. The knife cutting into my flesh. A quarter of an inch. A half an inch. The bull's-eye of blood growing on my shirt.

Any farther and I was dead.

What a way to go, huh, Philly?

No, I told myself. No way. Not here, not now, and certainly not at the hands of Tyler Mills. One final push, I needed. It was my last chance. Closing my eyes and gnashing my teeth, I summoned up every last bit of fight.

And then some.

Maybe he let up for a split second thinking he was about to prevail. Or maybe I was so afraid of dying that it only seemed that way. Out went the tip of the knife from my chest. Back went Tyler's arm. His expression said it all. This wasn't quite settled yet.

I rocked to my side and it caught him off guard. He momentarily lost his balance. It was all I needed to bring my legs back and plant the heels of my wingtips against his stomach. With one hip-sled thrust I sent him flying away from me.
Smack!
went Tyler's body against the wall. The knife dropped to the ground. For a second we both stood staring at it. He was closer to it, though not by much. If I dove and got it, we had a different ball game. If I dove and missed, it was game over for me.

I stayed put. I was up from the bed and ready for his next charge. Tyler scooped up the knife and came at me, arm raised and head down. He barreled toward me. With an eye on the knife, I waited until the last possible split second and sidestepped him. A matador to his bull.

He couldn't stop his momentum. Over the bed Tyler tumbled headfirst, right into the other wall with a tremendous thud. I got up and turned around, ready for him to charge at me again.

"C'mon, you son of a bitch!" I yelled.

But Tyler lay there motionless. His slack body was hunched up against the old-fashioned radiator. The noose hung above him. At first I thought maybe it was a trick. I inched closer to him. It was no trick — Tyler was unconscious. I spotted the knife on the ground a foot from his hand and I kicked it away. Standing over him, I grasped what must have happened. That wasn't a thud I had heard after he tumbled, rather it was a hollow and resounding
clank,
and the huge swelling above his eyes confirmed it. Tyler's head had gone right into the pipes of the radiator. He was really out. I bent down and grabbed his wrist, placing my thumb over his scars. Within seconds I realized it.

Tyler wasn't unconscious.

Tyler was dead.

The feeling was panic, exhaustion, and relief all rolled into one. I could barely catch my breath as I stepped back and tried to digest what had happened. The implications and the consequences.

What do I do?

Think, Philip!

I go to the cops, that's what.

Are you crazy, Philip?

Talk about a self-incriminating story. They'd never believe it, at least not the part that I'd need them to believe. Hell, I could hardly believe it.

I unbuttoned my shirt, gently lifted up my undershirt, and looked at my chest. I saw the raw slot of pierced flesh above my nipple with blood all around. The bleeding itself, though, had stopped.

The same couldn't be said for my hand. I grabbed one of Tyler's T-shirts off the floor and tied it around tight over the gash to cut off the pressure.

Again with the question, What do I do?

Truth be told, I knew all along. By entertaining other ideas, I was merely trying not to feel so depraved about it.

I'd do exactly as I had decided earlier:
it would be as if I had never been here.

I worked fast. Down came the noose, the sheet tossed back on the bed. I grabbed a sponge from the sink and went around wiping up all the drips of my blood. I cleaned the knife and placed it in one of the kitchen drawers. I put Tyler's keys down on a table. I even retraced all my steps to make sure I hadn't left a footprint in the dust.

But if it wasn't me who had been in the apartment, who had?

To look at Tyler lying there was to know this wasn't a household accident. He hadn't just tripped and hit his head while home by himself. Someone else had been in the apartment. Some type of altercation had occurred.

That's when I walked over to Tyler's door, took out a dime, and loosened the screws a little on his sliding chain lock. I put my gloves back on and lifted the chain into the lock — and with one quick pull on the door, the chain lock went flying. Forced entry it would be. They would say Tyler had been the victim of a robbery gone bad. Jesus, the apartment already looked like that anyway.

... To think I almost left without it.

Wanting to further build the robbery premise, I had decided to see if Tyler had a wallet on him that I could empty out. That's when I remembered the check. I rushed back into Tyler's bedroom and dug into his right front pocket. There it was, the bank check, all folded up. As for his wallet, I found that as well. I removed the sixty-two dollars in cash he had and spilled a couple of his credit cards around on the floor before tossing the empty wallet on the bed.

Said robbery to me.

I grabbed my backpack and took out my suit jacket, putting it on. It barely covered the bloodstain on my dress shirt. After taking one last look around the place, I was ready to get the hell out of there.

I peeked out into the hallway. All clear. It remained all clear for the rest of the trip downstairs. Reaching the ground floor, I remembered my mental note to wipe the front door clean. That done, I finally slipped back into the night. Never had the anonymity of the city been more welcome.

I looked down at my hand. The mock tourniquet wasn't really doing the job. It was a pretty deep cut that would've normally required a stitch or two. I needed to take care of it. But home, with Tracy there, was out of the question. So too was a hospital. Then I remembered —
 
the first aid kit that we kept at the office. That was where I would go. Perfect. Especially when I realized that there'd be a clean dress shirt waiting for me in my credenza. I always kept a spare around in case of a coffee stain or some other mishap. This was some other mishap, all right.

I walked briskly to the corner and flagged down a cab.

It was a short ride back to Campbell & Devine. Passing the night watchman in the lobby, I tucked my hand wrapped in Tyler's now blood-drenched T-shirt inside my jacket. Glancing up from his small TV set for a moment, $8.50-an-hour simply nodded at me.

The elevator seemed to take forever.

Thirty-one floors later, I stepped out into quiet and darkness.

The first aid kit was in the supply room. I dressed my hand in gauze and, after removing my shirt and undershirt, put a large bandage over my chest. My backpack had become the receptacle for everything, especially everything with blood on it. I'd later toss it in a Dumpster behind some restaurant on the way home. Good as gone.

As for Tyler's pictures, they got the paper pasta treatment in the copy room. Jessica and me and the Doral Court hotel. Shot by shot through the office shredder.

Then I saw the blinking light.

Heading into my office for that clean dress shirt, there was a phone message waiting for me. I logged on. "You have one new message," I was told. "Message one… new… from an external number… received today at seven-fifty-seven P.M."

I pressed 2 to play it, fully expecting to hear Tracy's voice.

Nope.

"Hello, Philip, it's me," I heard, along with music playing and people chattering in the background. I knew instantly who it was, although I couldn't really believe it. It was too weird. Tyler had called me from a pay phone inside Billy's Hideaway. I listened….

Don't know exactly when you'll get this message, but I wanted you to know that I really was kidding back there on the corner. I'm a sucker for Sinatra; what can I say? I guess I didn't want you to think that you were dealing with an obnoxious winner or anything. But I did win, didn't I? Whoops, there I go again. Adios, Philly!

I erased the message and sat there in my chair. Adios indeed, Tyler.

PART
  
III

TWENTY-THREE

Less than twenty-four hours later. Less than three blocks away from Tyler's apartment.

Tracy and I walked into FireBird on Forty-sixth Street in the Theater District and were led back to her parents, who'd already been seated. The table was located in what was called the China Room.

When I'd finally gotten home the night before, Tracy was thankfully asleep. She hardly stirred when I climbed into bed. As for bandage spin control with her, the one on my chest was a non-issue; I always wore a T-shirt to sleep and, given our respective schedules, was able to dress and undress on the sly. My hand, however, needed explaining. The next morning I told Tracy that I had carelessly tried to open a package at the office with a pair of scissors. She looked at me with general indifference and suggested that I be more careful next time.

I'll try, dear.

"Hello, Precious," said Lawrence Metcalf in his baritone voice, standing to kiss his daughter on the forehead. I forgot to mention how that was something he always did with her. The kiss was never on the cheek, always the forehead.

"Hello, Counselor," he next said, turning in my direction with a pat on the back. To be sure, that was definitely not something he always did with me. It was always Philip, never
Counselor,
and for that matter, it was always a polite handshake, never a pat on the back. I was heartened to see that the passage of time had not diminished my newly found status in his eyes.