Thomas Prescott Superpack (40 page)

Erica stood up, gave my hand a final squeeze, and said, “See ya round, Mr. Prescott.”

“See ya round, Miss Frost.”

She walked from the room, giving me a quick glance and a smile, then slipped through the doorway.

I took a calming breath and laid my head back.
I could see Danny waving his stupid pad at me and I read what he’d written.

I smirked.

Yeah, kid. I did.

Chapter 24

I wiped the sleep from my eyes and licked my teeth with my tongue.
A yawn tickled the inside of my nose and began crawling down my throat. I tried to fight it off, but in the end my body relented to the yawn, invoking muscles I had no control over to flex. It felt like someone had a crowbar wedged between my third and fourth ribs and was trying to pry them apart, a pain just a notch below the one emanating from my left lung.

You know that guy from
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
who gets his heart ripped out then gets lowered into the lava pit? Well, he could
maybe
relate to what I was going through. I mention this because the only movies my father owned were the
Indiana Jones
collection, and I had watched each movie three times in the last five days. I’m still a tad puzzled by the end of
Raiders of the Lost Ark.
I mean, did Spielberg sleep with the special effects guy’s wife or something?

Seriously.
 

Anyhow, I lolled my head to the left and peered at the glass coffee table.
It was littered with peanut butter and jelly debris, a half-finished bag of Oreos, and a barrage of juice boxes. Talk about déjà vu. For a split second I was back in Maine, it was Thanksgiving morning, and I had just woken up from a horrible nightmare.

I pondered sitting up, but the thought was fleeting.

I’m not sure if it was the fact I hadn’t seen the sun for over three weeks, or if I was in withdrawal from the Vicodin.
Or if it was because I hadn’t been able to exercise in over a week, or because I hadn’t talked to Lacy in the past couple days. Or if it was Ellen Gray’s death. Or Adam Gray’s guilt. Or my incompetence. Or if I was falling in love
again
. Or if it were some residual feelings for Alex. Or a combination of all of these. But I was having a slight bout of depression. And by slight, I mean severe. And by depression, I mean wanting to jump off the Space Needle. But that would involve getting off the couch, so I was at a bit of a crossroads.

Maybe I needed one of those seasonal depression lamps.

I pushed myself off the couch, made my way to the VCR, popped out
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
, and slipped in
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
(On a side note, after much deliberation, I had decided that I needed to buy a whip. Just saying.) 

I was halfway through the movie—the part where Sean Connery scares all the birds with his umbrella and they fly into the plane’s propeller—when it happened.
I’d made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and decided to throw a couple Oreos in the mix. It wasn’t half bad. But I did get overly aggressive with the jelly, and a huge blob of it leaked out the top of my PBJ&O and landed between my legs on the sofa. 

Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom.

I cleaned it up using the powerful spray of a juice box, sort of a lazy man’s power wash—which worked surprisingly poorly—and I succeeded in turning a small purple stain into a large, wet, pink stain.

I finished the sandwich, licked my fingers, stood up, picked the cushion up, flipped it over, and put it back down. I turned to sit but caught myself. I just stood there staring at the cushion. It was a bit dusty, but for the most part in pristine condition.

I shook my head and smiled.

Going up the stairs was harder than I expected and by the time I reached Lacy’s room, my newly inflated lung was wheezing and I was seeing constellations.
Once Orion’s belt disappeared, I picked up Lacy’s pink phone and dialed information. I asked for the number for Adam Gray and Associates and decided to pay the extra seventy-five cents for them to dial the number for me. No one answered. I thought about trying “Adam Gray,” but there would be multiple listings in the Seattle area and surely the Adam Gray I was seeking had an unlisted number. I searched my brain for the number the nanny had rattled off on my visit. The first three numbers I tried were unsuccessful. I swapped a couple numbers around and hit pay dirt.

She picked up on the third ring.

I asked, “Is this Resmelda?”

“This is she.”

“This is Agent Todd Gregory.
I hope I didn’t get you in any trouble the other day.”

She made
a
hmmph
sound, then said, “First, your name is Thomas something or other. And two, you only got me fired, deported, and sued is all. And I’m never allowed to see the girls again.” She started sobbing.

I leaned my head back, took a deep breath, and said, “What happened?”

After she composed herself, she said, “Mr. Gray came home not long after you left. He burst through the door screaming. He fired the security guy, Ralph, on the spot. Poor Ralph. His wife is due twins in January. I told Mr. Gray we only talked for a couple minutes, then you left. But he wouldn’t believe me. He thinks you were inside the house. Something about drawers being opened.”

If I remembered correctly, I’d made a conscious effort to leave everything precisely as I’d found it.
I had a feeling maybe Shelly had done some drawer pulling after I’d left. Or maybe he’d noticed that his bank statements were suddenly MIA. Either way, it didn’t matter. Adam Gray had been suspicious enough that he’d gone to look at the security tapes at the security booth and knew it was me. Hopefully he didn’t have any tapes of me breaking and entering. But if he had, I suspect I would have been arrested. Or worse.

By the end of Resmelda’s narrative, I started to feel partly responsible for her getting fired.
And deported. And sued. But only partly.

I said, “I need to talk to Mr. Gray.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” The inflection in her voice denoted that I had, in fact, done enough.

I said, “I’ll get you your job back.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “How are you going to do that?”

“I can prove Mr. Gray is innocent.”

“How?”

“A couch cushion.”

“How is a couch cushion going to prove Mr. Gray is innocent?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me.”

She was silent.

“If you ever want to see your girls again, you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Okay.
But I don’t know his cell phone number. It was programmed into the phone they gave me and he took it back.”

Damn.

I could try him at his office on Monday, but I had a feeling if I walked through his office doors I might not walk out.
Resmelda interrupted my thoughts, “He’ll be at the Ritz Carlton tonight.”

“The Ritz Carlton.
Why?”

“The office Christmas party.
The Daisy Room. I think it starts at seven. I was supposed to attend.” She choked up, “I was going to take the girls.”

I tried to console her, telling her in eleven different ways that everything would turn out just fine.

She sniffed. “So you’ll get me my girls back?”

“Do peanuts grow on trees?”

“No.”

“I thought they did.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Never mind.
I’ll get you your girls back.”

I could feel her smile on the other end.
I looked at the clock above the stove; it was 6:47
P.M.
I hung up with Resmelda.

I had a party to crash.

Chapter 25

The Ritz Carlton is located in downtown Seattle. As far as hotels go, the Ritz is top of the line. It doesn’t get much swankier. The average room goes for three bills, suites for five, and presidential suites are in the low four figures. Ballrooms are rumored to be reserved years in advance. The main ballroom, a decade.

I pulled my car into the valet area and stepped out.
A kid dressed in a white shirt and black vest opened my door. He looked me up and down and tried to stifle a laugh.

I hadn’t had much to work with in the wardrobe department and I was clad in some of my dad’s snazzier dinner wear.
I was guessing the Adam Gray and Associates Christmas extravaganza would be black tie. I was dressed in one of my father’s old tuxedos, circa 1985, and I imagine I looked like I’d just walked off the set of the last episode of
Dynasty
.

I made my way through the revolving doors and into the mezzanine.
A large sign listed each of the four ballrooms. The Rose Room was the Starbucks Christmas party. The Tulip Room was the Oracle Christmas Party. The Daisy Room the Adam Gray and Associates Christmas Party.

The Daisy Room was located on the seventh floor. I stepped off the elevator and followed arrows until I heard the party.

A woman sat at an antique writing table at the entrance. She had a name tag. Tracy. Tracy asked my name and I gave her one. She asked how to spell it and I guessed. She wrinkled her nose and said, “I’m not seeing you here.”

 
I told her I was a special guest of Adam’s. She scribbled on a name tag and handed it to me. She smirked and said, “Here you go,
Percival
.” She added, “Table 62.”

“How many tables are there?”

“Sixty-two.”

Ah, the leper table.
Just my luck, I get stuck with the secretary with the lazy eye and the lawyer with halitosis. 

“Just out of curiosity, how many are you expecting tonight?”

She said including lawyers, paralegals, secretaries, plus guests, they were expecting close to three hundred.

As I entered the ballroom, I noticed half the people were sitting, the other half making small talk or congregating near the bar.
Two couples had already made their way to the dance floor and they slow danced to the smooth styling of Eddie Money.

As I guessed, most men were decked out in penguin suits and the women were clad in recently acquired dresses.
If Gray’s lawyers were anything like him, most of these wives hadn’t had a reason to dress up, well, probably since the last Christmas party.

Waiters zoomed in and out of the crowds with trays filled with champagne, wine, and
hors d’oeuvres. I surveyed the crowd for any sign of Gray. I didn’t see him, but I did spot his receptionist, Sunny. She was wearing a black dress, cut low, showing off her plastic Tetons. She was surrounded by no less than seven different guys.

Men are pigs.

Needless to say, I headed in that direction.

Just kidding.

I made my way over to the bar and the bartender rattled off a bunch of beers.
I told him to bring me whatever was the coldest. He brought me a Sam Adams. It tasted a lot like beer. Which I like in a beer.

The guy next to me struck up a conversation.
He asked what year my tuxedo was from. I told him I took his wife to the prom in this tuxedo. He found this hysterical and slapped me on the shoulder. His eyes were already starting to glaze over and he said, “I’ve always liked you, Percival.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he met me close to sixty—no, seventy—seconds earlier.
His name was Max. Max had a story for everything, and whether or not they were true, they kept my attention for three more beers. A public service here, if anyone ever starts off a story with the words, “So I’m at this donkey show…,” do yourself a favor and rip off your ears.

Around eight-thirty, I spotted Mr. Adam Gray.
He had just started making the rounds. He got about halfway through the tables when they started asking people to take their seats for dinner. Max attempted to drag me to his table, which was table 7, only three tables from Adam’s. I respectfully declined. I didn’t want to get thrown out before I got my hands on some chicken cordon bleu.

I retired to table 62.

There were three open seats and I took one with my back to the center of the room.
The secretary with the lazy eye was actually the secretary without a chin. There was no definitive spot where her neck ended and her face began. So you had Chinless, then you had Stutter, Third-Person Paul, Wig Lady, Manic Depressive Asian, Hook Arm, Adult Braces, and 80’s Tuxedo.

All and all, the who’s who of birth defects, personality disorders, and vagabonds off the street.

Go Table 62!

We made small talk and I lied quite a bit.

The chicken cordon bleu was excellent.
Hook Arm didn’t want hers and asked if I wanted it. I said yes and she proceeded to slide her chicken onto my plate using her hook. I did not eat it. Dessert was carrot cake and I had two slices.

Adam stood up and gave a toast about the past year, how proud he was of his team, that the year ahead looked even more promising, and for everyone to enjoy themselves.
He failed to mention that in the new year he would probably go on trial for his life.

Moot point, I guess.

After a champagne toast, the music started back up, plates were cleared, and people started to mingle. Women huddled around tables, men flocked to the bar, a dozen couples headed for the dance floor.

I bid farewell to my comrades at table 62, albeit with a strong sense that Chinless and Third Person Paul were going to make some poor decisions.
I overheard Paul say, “Paul doesn’t care about chins.” 

I made my way towards Adam’s table and sidled up to the group of six guys, including my friend
Max, that had congregated there. Adam was telling a golfing anecdote, and I worked my way into the inner circle. I was two people to Adam’s left.

Adam was saying,
“ . . . sand trap was thirty feet deep. Michelson bets me fifty large he’ll get up and down. I tell him he’s on. He reaches into his bag, and I shit you not, he takes out his seven wood. He takes a half swing, the ball runs up the thirty-foot lip, drips over, and ends up three inches from the cup. Best golf shot I’ve ever seen.”

I leaned in and said, “I once saw this kid hit a ball through a windmill.”

A couple guys gave a slight chuckle. Max found this hilarious. Adam looked at me directly and smiled. “Enjoying the party. Mr. Prescott?”

“I am.
Chicken was a bit dry, but I’m sure you didn’t cook it.”

“I’ll pass that on to Wolfgang.”

After an awkward second, he said, “I’m glad you stopped by so I can tell you in person that I drafted up a civil suit for trespassing. I plan to enter it into court tomorrow morning.”

I could have denied ever being there.
I could have concocted a story. I could have done a lot of things. I went with, “Calvin Klein huh?”

He cocked his head to one side.

“I was surprised. I would have taken you for a Fruit of the Loom guy.”

He took a deep breath.
Exhaled. “Please leave before I have you thrown out.”

No one moved or said anything for a good three seconds.
I took a long sip of beer. 

Adam waved over a couple of gentlemen, and they politely asked me to leave.
Then they asked me impolitely to leave, which involved my arms being wrenched behind my back.

The entire room went quiet.

The DJ had even killed the music.

As I was being dragged out I yelled, “I know you didn’t kill your wife.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

Adam locked eyes with me and I said with a smile, “And I can prove it.”