Faking Life (27 page)

The envelope wasn't sealed; rather the front flap was tucked in, making it easier to open. Or to make sure whatever lay inside wasn't torn. Nico slid the letter out. Computer printed. Hand-signed at the bottom. It was even dated at the top.

It could have been a cover letter.

Or a query.

He could see himself receiving this at the office, asking Esther to send it back with a polite rejection.
Sorry, not for me. Just didn't have that special something
. His eyes skimmed the type.

They were at Valerie's mother's house on the Upper East Side, the brownstone by the River. Great view. Right by Carl Schurz Park, where Pietro could shoot baskets and run along the promenade. They were staying there until the paperwork could be drawn up. Wasn't safe for them to live there anymore. Wasn't a suitable parent. The best for everyone.

Hot tears welled in Nico's eyes, his hands clenched until they turned pale. Then he noticed a message at the bottom of the page.

The handwriting was tiny, as though the writer was embarrassed Nico might see it. He read the note, then eased himself up and went into the kitchen.

He could smell it through the refrigerator.

She hadn't made it in years, forcing Nico to eat substandard facsimiles at restaurants around the city, ordering in cheap imitations. He'd missed it during the first months of their in-home separation. But since then he'd gotten used to it.

Nico slowly opened the door and removed the cold tray from the fridge. Fresh mozzarella and homemade Bolognese sauce. He removed the tin foil and inhaled the aroma of his wife's baked ziti.

Valerie's last act as Nico's wife, other than taking his only child away from him, was to prepare his favorite dinner as a parting gift.

Nico put the pan gently into the oven, set the timer for forty minutes, poured a glass of bourbon, and wept.

“F
uck fuck fuck
!”

John could barely clasp the seat buckle together. He'd forgotten about it until Elmo the Muppet squawked his warning over the cab's speakers. He couldn't close his right hand; his knuckles had ballooned to the size of walnuts.
Goddamn fucking Sal
, he thought. Of all the nights he'd wanted to punch the guy in the face…actually tonight was probably the best night. Any other night and he might have lost his job. Now he could consider it part of his severance package. If only Esther hadn't seen it. It had taken so long to finally find someone he could enjoy himself with, only to see it dashed by too much alcohol. If only that asshole in the Yankees hat hadn't egged Sal on, maybe he could have walked away.

John finally got the buckle to work, the pain in his hand foggy through the alcohol. He pounded the duct-taped leather seat and put his head in his hands.

The cab sped across town. John stared out the window, the street lamps straining his eyes, daring him to squeeze them shut. A slight patter of rain began to fall. He forced his eyes open, made them take in the city in its ghostly illumination. There were so many people outside; in groups, wandering alone, searching for the next stop on their nighttime adventure. Long lines winding outside of bars, people gabbing on cell phones. Cigarettes lit in the dusk, eager women following men in expensive overcoats into the backseats of taxis. It wasn't the minutiae of New York that John found fascinating, it was the abundance of
life
itself, the swarms patrolling the streets, the neverending cascade of humanity, all piling together with destinations and motivations as diverse as their backgrounds. For every couple leaving together there were ten who'd go home alone, hoping the next time it might be different. So many stories.

He thought about Esther as he overtipped the driver, the rain pouring steadily, the cold penetrating John's light sweater. He cupped his hands together, breathed hot air and rubbed them together. He waited for the walk sign to flash, made sure no cars were coming, then crossed the street and headed home. His body shivered and the ache in his arm felt like a dull hammer on soaked wood. He fumbled for his keys, stumbled up the stairs, and fell into bed. His eyes shut the second they hit the mattress and he began to dream.

His sleep lasted all of twelve minutes before the light in his room flickered on. John squealed and blinked. As his vision cleared, he saw Paul standing by the door, a smirk on his face.

“The fuck're you doing?” John asked, the words coming out of his mouth through a film of saliva. He saw nothing but a kaleidoscope of harsh yellows. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Jesus look at that,” Paul said, pointing towards John's hand. “ It looks like you stole Mickey Mouse's glove and attached it to your wrist. You really should get it looked at.”

“Don't have time…” John said, his eyes closing. “Lemme alone. Need sleep.”

“What, with your busy schedule you can't see a doctor?” John nodded. “Oh wake up you big baby.”

“
What
?” John moaned, rolling onto his stomach.

“Well, for one thing you're a lucky fuck. I'm willing to bet you cracked Sal's jaw in half back there. Everyone was yelling at Artie to call the cops on your ass and that dude in the hat said his testicle ruptured. But Sal took it on the chin, so to speak. Said business had been settled, or some tough-guy shit. Couldn't really tell since his jaw was swollen shut. Anyway, as far as you two go, it's water under the bridge.”

“What about Esther?”

Paul smiled and took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “You're lucky there too. She wants you to call her. She said she's sick of you running away and since you're not likely to be back at Slappy's anytime soon, she had no other way to get in touch.” He put the scrap on the desk next to the computer. John raised his head, then let it thump back onto the pillow.

“Sorry,” John mumbled. “Knew I was gonna get out of control tonight.”

“Aah,” Paul waved it off. “Whatever. You lost your job and let out some steam on someone who had it coming. All in all, it was a good night. I'm going to share it with my eight-year olds on Monday, maybe cost AA a few bucks in the process.”

John turned over and pulled the covers up, his body shivering. Paul sighed. John felt his shoelaces being untied. “I'm not fucking going near your socks,” Paul said. When he was finished taking off John's shoes, Paul flicked the light off. “Just one more thing.”

“Wuzzat?”

“Don't fuck it up with this girl. I don't know what the deal is with you two, but she really likes you. So don't blow it. That's all the roommate advice for the night. And first thing tomorrow we're taking you to St. Vincent's, get that hand checked out.”

John was already asleep when Paul closed the door.

T
he steak melted in Nico's mouth as he slugged back a mouthful of wine. Four drinks into the night and he still couldn't get enough. No word from Valerie or Pietro. And that surprised him. No word from his son. The only bastion of hope was that he hadn't been able call, that Valerie was preventing it. Regardless, tonight could change everything. He'd be rescued from this hell. Marlene Van Tripp, the overripe lipstick and the supple curves beneath her pressed business suit, the faint outline of a bra beneath her blouse, well, she was looking to do business.

When Marlene Van Tripp invited him to dinner—not lunch—Nico had his best suit pressed, hair neatly combed and gelled and his aftershave light and dry. Through the appetizer and first bottle of wine they'd spoken nothing but pleasantries. How's work, how're the kids, etc… Thankfully, she didn't ask about his wife.

It was only a matter of time before she got down to business. He had to let her come to him, but everything in his body reached out for her. His fingers trembled beneath the table, his knees shaking. He wanted to leap over the dinnerware and squeeze it of her, to see why she'd asked him here. But he couldn't. He had to let it come. All his hopes, his dreams, his chance to make the wrong things right, they were right here in front of him. But like a delicious fruit, he needed to let the deal ripen.

Marlene hadn't said a word in five minutes, eying him while slowly chewing her flounder, her wine disappearing in small sips. The tension was becoming unbearable. Nico kept dabbing at his forehead, hoping she wouldn't notice the sweat. He'd turned down three quarters of a million dollars just the other night because he
knew
this moment would come.

Finally she looked at him, her curly blond hair frozen in place. He could smell her sweet perfume, intoxicating.
I need you, Nico,
it said.
Take me now.
For a woman in her late forties, Marlene didn't look a day over thirty-five. And he would take her, if she allowed it.

“Nico, I just want to reiterate how excited we are about the potential of John Gillis being on our list.” Nico nodded, the words like tasteless wafers.

“So you said.”
Now out with it.

“We've come up with an offer. Now, a lot of thought went into this and there was some hesitancy, but we had the right people pushing for it and I feel we've got a pretty attractive number prepared. Obviously if we're willing to commit to this, we're also committing on the marketing and publicity end. It'll be out next Christmas, our tentpole release. This is a figure we don't offer unless we're sure something has the potential to crack the market big time.”

Nico held his breath, his muscles going rigid, his body a block of stone.

“I'm listening.”

“One point five million,” she said. Nico chewed slowly, but his heart fluttered like a bird's wings.

“For John Gillis,” he said.

“For John Gillis.” Nico swallowed and waited. Her eyes sought him out. He tried to remain impassive, but the smile was just below the surface. In just a few moments, he knew everything would be reclaimed. Valerie. Pietro. With this deal he'd earn their forgiveness. His peers would love him again. But that smile would have to wait. His eyes stared Marlene down as he tucked his emotions back in. “Nico, there's nothing I'd like to do more than announce this deal tomorrow morning. So what do you say?” Nico paused and chewed his food.

“A million five for John Gillis's memoir?”

“And an option on his next, fiction or nonfiction.” Nico waited again, drawing out the seconds. Marlene sipped her wine, glancing at her plate full of cooked fish. Finally Nico leaned back.

“No deal,” he said. Marlene blinked.

“You have another offer on the table?” Nico shook his head, not saying no, but discouraging her line of thought. His legs trembled. He nonchalantly wiped his brow.

“Marlene, I won't preempt John Gillis's book for a penny less than two million. I simply can't do it.”

Marlene shifted in her seat. “I don't know if I'm comfortable going to two, Nic.” He smiled.

“Mar, if you don't, you
know
somebody else will.” She nodded, grudgingly, then lightened her tone of voice.

“Has Gillis done what we wanted? How's the drama in the story, the sex? Is there any of either?”

“Plenty of both. Wait'll you see it. It's a revelation.”

“Nico?”

“Yes Mare?” Nico sipped his wine.

“How does it end?” Nico stopped drinking. His eyes met hers, his heart drumming against his ribcage. Sweat beaded down his face and he made no effort to stop it.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I'm willing to go to two million, but only if we see how the story ends. I want to see Act Three, the conclusion. Where does Gillis end up? What happens to him? Two million is a lot of money and I want to be sure. I want to know we're buying exactly what you say we are. I love what I've seen Nic, but I'm not going to fuck around with two million dollars.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Next Friday,” Marlene said, wine swishing in her mouth. She sat up straight, her back arched, slick skin drooping dangerously low, enticing him. “You show me Act Three by next Friday. Show me what's happened to John Gillis, how his story ends. And if it excites me, you've got your two million.”

“I feel a but coming on…”

“But if I don't see it, then no dice. The entire offer is off the table.” Nico watched her chew, a confident grin on her face. He smiled and raised his glass.

“Next Friday,” he said. “Next Friday, Act Three is going to blow your mind. And next Friday, John Gillis will be yours.”

“To Act Three,” Marlene toasted. They clinked glasses and drank, Nico wide-eyed, the clock on his career—his
life—
with one week to live or die.

“To Act Three.”

“B
eer?” Paul offered John a bottle as he unscrewed the cap from his.

“No thanks, I'm saving one for later. Once I finish up in here I'll deserve a cold one,” John said. Paul shrugged and sat down. He turned on the television, flipped past MTV, VH1, and settled on SportsCenter. Stuart Scott was desperately trying coin a new catchphrase that John couldn't understand. He didn't think it was catching on. “You mind turning it down a bit?”

The remote had gone mysteriously missing that morning, so Paul groaned, stood up and manually lowered the volume. Paul had scoured the seat cushions, plumbing fingers into the dark recesses of the couch where none had dared venture. All he'd come up with was a buck thirty-seven in change, three Bic pens, a broken Furby doll and the remote to their old Panasonic. The fiberglass cast that ran from John's right elbow to his knuckles had prevented him from doing the digging.

John had woken up the next morning hoping he'd slept it off, like a sore neck or a sprained ankle. But when he nearly passed out squeezing Aunt Jemima onto his pancakes, he decided to play it safe. A doctor who didn't look a day over fifteen determined that John had broken his second and third metacarpals on Sal Marvio's face.

The only two thoughts running through his mind were how hard it would be to write, and whether Esther now thought of him as an immature asshole who routinely sucker-punched men thirty years older than him.

His book was progressing with painstaking care. Literally. He'd been relegated to two fingered typing and because of the length and bulk of the cast, he was forced to turn his right arm to an almost ninety degree angle, stamping the keys one at a time like an angry pianist.