Alligators in the Trees (29 page)

“Ben Lemeux, the infamous Tobias Jordan,” Brody said, making the introduction. The fellow virtuosos exchanged heartfelt compliments.

“At long last,” Joe Denny said, rising to embrace Tobias. There was no one on the business end of the music industry who Tobias respected more than Joe Denny. He was nothing short of a visionary.

The rush of pure emotion at being assembled with these men for the purposes of creating music was only slightly diminished by the static passing between Brody and him. Brody had every right to be miffed, and it was only natural for Tobias to feel betrayed. But if they could get past these petty grievances, there should be nothing to hold them from their main objective.

“Why don’t you show us what you’ve come up with,” Brody suggested, keeping the reunion between Tobias and the others brief. Tobias had not anticipated being put on the spot in front of such a savvy audience. Truth be told, he hadn’t really worked out the finer points of his plan to get back into the collaborative mode. In any event, he was not prepared to perform anything.

“Later. Let me hear what you all have been working on,” he said, sliding into a seat next to Joe, displaying his eagerness to observe. It was Brody’s turn to stall.

“I think it’s time to break,” he said. “Who wants to run out for some coffee?” As if on cue, Roberta entered the room with a tray laden with enough caffeine to keep the six of them wide-awake for days.

“The woman’s a mind reader,” Joe exclaimed, rising to help Roberta with her load. “Well, this saves us from having to break the mood. Thank you, dear lady.” Roberta accepted the praise graciously, smiling shyly at everyone but Tobias. Brody seized the chance to lob the ball back into his partner’s court.

“Yeah, now we can hear what Tobias has been busting his chops over the last few days,” he said. Tobias said nothing while the others waited expectantly. “C’mon, Tobias—you’ve never been bashful before. Let’s hear what you’ve been up to,” Brody challenged again.

Tobias glanced from the earnest faces of his former team to the less than supportive visages of Brody and his girlfriend. There was no graceful way to duck the situation at this point, no legitimate way to play down his claims to Brody of having worked his ass off on some great new material.

The tension in the small studio had grown almost palpable when Tobias finally stood and made his way to Brody’s fancy state-of-the-art synthesizer. Several possible solutions passed through his mind on the short walk to the instrument, but there was really only one plausible course of action he could take.

Even though he didn’t have the music with him, he had played the new tune so many times the previous night, he already knew every note by heart. He took his time adjusting the settings, adding percussion and bass to his piano lead.

“Feel free to jump in anytime,” he said half-jokingly over his shoulder, as he tapped out the first bar. He played the first refrain through once, then replayed it as he sang the lyrics.

“Just when you think you’re immune…”

“What do you think?” Brody asked their manager after the fourth run-through of Tobias’s new song.

“Pure gold,” Joe Denny replied reverently. “It’s got a fresh feel to it, but at the same time, it’s got that unmistakable
Absent Among Us
sound.”

“The violin makes it,” Tobias said, impressed by the polish the song had acquired in the studio. The others agreed. Everyone was giddy from the sheer power of their collaboration, and a renewed sense of brotherhood had taken hold. Even Roberta was now gazing upon Tobias with her former awe.

He was a hero to everyone in the room, except himself. He was a cad, a fraud, but he was also a damn good musician. He should feel proud of the fact he had single-handedly put their comeback on the right track. But never in all his brilliant career had he stooped to plagiarizing someone else’s work. He had never needed to, and really, he shouldn’t have done it now, but…

“Good stuff,” Brody said casually.

“You think so?” Tobias asked. Brody laughed reluctantly.

“It’s fucking awesome, man,” he admitted. “I guess we tend to forget what you’re capable of when you get your head in the right place,” he added by way of an apology. “I think it’s time to quit while we’re ahead,” he announced to the assembly at large. “I think my man Tobias deserves some time off for good behavior,” he said with a playful slap to Tobias’s back.

“When and where should we hook up again?” Lenny asked as he stowed his instrument in its case.

“Say here, tomorrow?” Brody suggested with his eye on his partner. Tobias, still high from his success and still conflicted by his guilt, nodded agreeably.

“You got it.” Even he believed his intentions were good.

Priscilla awoke to the loud clang of the telephone. She had become so accustomed to living without one, the sound of it quite startled her. She had been jolted out of a dead sleep; her pillow was damp with drool and she was still clutching her pen in her right hand. She couldn’t guess what had become of the notepad. With effort, she pried her stiff fingers open and released her cheap ballpoint, limping out of bed to catch the phone on the forth ring.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Philip intoned happily.

“Oh, Phil. Good morning.” Priscilla forced a second eye open and blinked both of them hard. It seemed impossibly sunny in her room, far too bright for that time of day. “What time is it?” she asked, not being able to focus properly on her watch.

“Nine-fifteen,” Philip replied. “I thought maybe you were sore at me for last night and skipped town without saying goodbye,” he said, only half in jest.

“Sore about what?” she asked before the previous night’s finale replayed itself across her mind’s eye. “Oh, that. No, I’m not sore, I guess. But it’s early—I might get sore about it later.” Philip laughed, a light, cheery response she had not expected.

“I take it I woke you up,” he said. Priscilla yawned unrestrainedly into the phone, making a reply unnecessary. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Ready for what?” she asked. Sleep wasn’t quite finished with her yet.

“Well, since you haven’t noticed yet, it’s an absolutely gorgeous day outside, the most perfect spring morning the island of Manhattan has ever seen. I thought it might be fun to pack a picnic lunch and rent a couple bikes and get lost in the park for a few hours.” Priscilla squinted in the direction of her window, but all she saw through the hazy sunlight was the building across the street.

“Bikes?” she asked belatedly.

“Yeah, doesn’t that sound like fun?” Philip asked. “You do know how to ride a bike, I presume.”

“Of course,” Priscilla replied, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember the last time she had done it.

“So, does that sound like a plan?”

“Sure. That’s fine,” she said, glancing around the room rather anxiously. Apparently, a bomb had gone off while she was asleep, making her room eligible for disaster relief. Who would have thought so few possessions could create such a mess?

“What time were you thinking?” she asked as she surveyed her own lamentable condition. She licked her finger and rubbed at the white residue of slobber that ran from the corner of her mouth to her right ear.

“I was thinking I could pick you up in half an hour, or you can meet me in the park, if you’d prefer.”
Half an hour?
Priscilla thought in a panic.

“Uh…I’m going to need a little more time than that.”

“Okay, why don’t you meet me at the bike rental at 10:30? That’ll give you an hour. I’ll go ahead and get the lunch together and rent the bikes, and the timing should work out perfectly.” He gave Priscilla directions to the rental shop. “Any special requests for lunch?” he asked before he hung up.

“Anything but tongue.” It took her a moment to figure out why Philip laughed when she said that. A crimson flush spread across her face.

“No problem. See you soon,” Philip replied good-naturedly.

Priscilla replaced the receiver and stared at herself in the mirror that hung above the desk. “Bicycle riding in the park?” she said out loud. She thought about it and had to laugh: an unemployed waitress and an unemployed architect goofing off in the park like a couple of kids all day, as if they had no cares in the world.

Oh, what the hell,
she thought
. It’s one of my last days in New York. Might as well enjoy the city.

After she had showered and washed her hair, she made herself a cup of coffee in the rinky-dink device the hotel supplied. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad. Better than Frank’s, but then again, so was dishwater. She spread yesterday’s
New York Times
across the bed and speed-read the entire thing in about ten minutes, as she sipped her coffee.

When finished with both, she towel-dried her hair before blasting it with the blow dryer. She performed this chore while she read over her most recent contribution to her notebook. She smiled as she read lyrics inspired by the absurdity of Phil’s crush on her, and the obvious reasons they were romantically ill-suited.

In the end, she had to admit it was a lot more pleasant having someone like Phil mooning over her than wrangling with the kind of man she usually attracted. At least with Phil she felt respected, treasured even—certainly a novelty in her life.

So he was being irrational, chasing some fantasy figment. There was really no harm in it, as long as she kept reminding him of the impermanence of their situation. Day after tomorrow she’d be southbound, no matter what, and he was just going to have to accept it.

It was while picking through her scant wardrobe that it hit her. There was an article she had skimmed through that she now recognized as being vitally important. She had been distracted by another article she’d read earlier, one about a woman who had brought suit against her elderly parents for depleting her future inheritance by living so long; she was looking for the court to give her control of their estate so she could benefit from their wealth “before they spent it all.”

In her preoccupation, Priscilla had momentarily overlooked the significance of the rather innocuous piece she had subsequently read. She dashed to the wastebasket, frantically flipping through the paper, looking for the article about the building on the Lower West Side.

“Here it is,” she said, folding the paper back and creasing a border around it, as she sat down to reread it:

BUILDING SHOWS SIGNS OF SINKING. Geologists and engineers are scheduled to inspect a building in the seven hundred block of Walker Street tomorrow, following disturbing reports by occupants and neighbors that the structure is apparently settling. “I was sweeping the sidewalk in front of my shop when I noticed that the threshold was lower than the concrete,” said Harvey Morris, co-owner of Serendipity Floral, a ground floor tenant. “We just moved in two months ago. When I realized what this meant, my heart sank. Our business was just taking off. Now I don’t know what’s going to happen.” Though the building is apparently sinking, the façade and interiors are not showing signs of deterioration at this point.

Priscilla’s pulse quickened as she absorbed the impact of this story. It seemed too coincidental that there was another building in the same general part of town as The Phoenix with the same perilous defect. It rapidly occurred to her there might be hope for Phil’s crippled building, or at least his reputation, if they found another cause of the structures’ instability besides negligence.

She found her purse under last night’s outfit and pawed through it furiously looking for Phil’s business card. Frustrated, she turned the contents out on the bed and sifted through them until she finally found it. Breathlessly, she dialed his cell phone number and waited impatiently as it rang and rang. When his voicemail answered, she hung up the phone and stared at it while she considered her options.

She could try his office, but she knew he had no plans of going there. Only one thing to do, and that was meet him as scheduled. She felt instinctively that Phil needed to be in on what was discovered at this other unstable building. Though she was anything but an optimist, she couldn’t help feeling hopeful something good was about to happen for him. She dressed in a hurry and took off for the park.

She found Philip astride a comically long bicycle built for two, beaming at her in a way that made her almost regret she would be spoiling his plans.

“Hi there!” he called out, as he maneuvered the gangly contraption in her direction. The sight of man and machine wobbling her way made her laugh, in spite of the sense of urgency that had motivated her to run several blocks.

“I hope you don’t mind a tandem bike. I thought it might be kind of fun.” He gave the horn a playful honk, grinning like little kid. “You look winded,” he surmised as he stopped the bike in front of her.

“I am,” she admitted, using his handlebars for support while she caught her breath. “I tried to call you on your cell phone,” she huffed, “but I got your voicemail.”

“Oh, sorry. I turned it off after I talked to you. I didn’t feel like any rude interruptions today.” He could tell by the look of concern on her face that something was amiss. “Is there something wrong?”

“Did you read the
Times
yesterday?”

“I scanned it. Why?”

“I take it you didn’t read this,” she said as she thrust the clipping at him. She watched his expression as he read and reread it. As he looked up at her, she saw a hundred thoughts run across his mind.

“I think you better get over there,” she said.

“Yes. Right away. And you’re coming with me.”

There were several clusters of men standing outside the building when Philip and Priscilla reached the site. All were wearing hardhats and grim expressions. Priscilla had learned from the barrage of questions she asked on the drive over that Philip knew the builder, but only by reputation. He had been in the business at least as long as Philip, and as far as he could remember, he had never been associated with scandal. His company was relatively small, run by he and two sons.

It didn’t take them long to determine which man was Jack Cafferty. The sleeves of his light pink shirt were rolled up against the heat of the day and the ordeal that had befallen him. His ruddy face bore the mark of years of trying to survive the aggravations of his trade. By stark contrast, the city engineers and inspectors were conspicuous in their bored looks of bureaucratic apathy.

Whatever had already transpired, that group seemed to have only a passing interest in what happened next. The clusters involved in earnest conversation were obviously on the builder’s team. Jack Cafferty was in the middle of one such group. Priscilla fell back and let Philip integrate into the crowd.

“Yes, but I feel certain, after what I’ve learned so far, that the admixture is responsible for what we saw down there. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts the lab reports will bear me out on that,” Jack Cafferty was saying as Philip approached their circle. Jack paused as he regarded the newcomer.

“Are you Mr. Cafferty?” Philip asked.

“I am. And you’re Philip Glessner,” he concluded. Philip shook his outstretched hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I was planning on contacting you after we did our preliminary investigations.”

“What have you found?” Philip asked, as the contractor pulled him aside for a more private interview.

“It’s the caissons, no doubt about it.” The muscles in Philip’s jaw contracted visibly as he received this news. He felt his revived hopes drain away. If it had been anything but the caissons…

“I see,” he said gravely.

“You know, I have to tell you,” Jack Cafferty said confidentially, “I learned one important lesson many years ago, when I was still wet behind the ears, and it’s one I’ve thanked my lucky stars for a hundred times over.”

Philip hung on Mr. Cafferty’s words, not out of intense interest, but because his mind had become a complete void. He was listening because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Work with the most conservative engineers,” Jack continued, “and go by their word without fail, regardless of the cost, no matter how much overkill it might seem.”

At first, this testament only made Philip feel worse. What a fool he had been to cut corners. He stared blankly at the man for several seconds before the implication hit home.

“Are you saying you didn’t back off the recommended circumference and depth?” Philip asked cautiously.

“Not an inch.”

“But…”

“Let me ask you something. Do you have fissures and cracks in your caissons?”

“No, not really” Philip replied. “They seem to be deteriorating from the crowns down—crumbling, actually.” Jack nodded knowingly.

“Do you happen to know if any admixtures were used in the concrete?”

“I have no idea,” Philip admitted.

“You might want to ask whoever did the work for you. Better yet, I would strongly recommend you get a sample of it and have it analyzed. I wouldn’t be surprised if your problem and mine aren’t one in the same.” Philip took a moment to digest this.

“What does this mean, exactly?” he asked.

“If an admixture was used, and I know on my project one was, then it is highly likely the deterioration is due to a defect caused by the breakdown of the chemical strengtheners used by three different manufacturers.”

“I’ve never heard anything about this,” Philip confessed.

“Well, the problem just recently came to light. The manufacturers pulled the products off the market six months ago, once this defect started surfacing. Since then, they’ve conclusively nailed the cause.”

“How did you find all this out?” Philip asked.

“The internet, God love it. As soon as I saw where the damage was, I went online and did some research. It was all there in black and white—the signs, the cause, what action the manufacturers were taking. It was extremely informative. I’ve already been in contact with the company that made the admixture used in our caissons. They’ve been very cooperative. They even sent out one of their chemists to assess the problem. He’s not saying anything until the results come back, but I think he believes the admixture’s at fault,” Jack said as he looked in the direction of two men with their heads together.

“So…if this admixture eventually causes the concrete to break down, then it’s inevitable that the caissons will completely crumble over time, right?”

“Yeah, I would imagine so,” Jack said sanguinely. Philip felt as though he would be sick.

“Oh, this is awful,” he sighed, pressing his pulsating brow with the heel of his hand. “So, your building will have to come down, too.”

“Like hell it will,” Jack said vehemently. Philip looked at him curiously.

“What choice do you have?”