Ghosts of Manhattan (21 page)

“I've got to make money with a bunch of little girls around me like this Cook. No balls and weak stomachs.”

Freddie holds his ground. He sits up a little straighter. I can tell it's his last shred of courage before he runs home hyperventilating and locks himself in a room with pizza, soda, and computer games. “This is my official report and I'm submitting it for internal publication today.”

“Get out.”

“Then there's still the issue of the three-strike loans.”

“Shut your mouth right now, Cook, and get the hell out.”

Freddie is up and gone like a swimmer off his block at the sound of a gun. I wait a full three count before getting up, just to make clear that I don't work for Freddie and any anger or command to get out isn't meant directly for me.

When I reach the exit, I look back over my shoulder as I close the door behind me, and I see Dale staring down at his pen lying halfway across the table from him. He looks scared.

Freddie is standing on the far end of the waiting room, wanting to leave altogether but waiting for me. He looks like he isn't yet sure whether or not he should cry.

“Let's go,” I say. We walk down the hall in silence until we get into the elevator on the way out of the building. I wonder if there's another Freddie at another firm blowing whistles about the high leverage of bad assets. Nobody wants to talk about this.

“Oh my God, Nick. He's pissed.”

“Yes.”

“What am I going to do? I think I need to find a new job.”

“You did your job, Freddie. And you stood up to him. You should be proud of that.” I feel I should be fully honest with him.
“It wouldn't be a bad idea to polish up your resume.” I think I may do the same.

“You think they'd fire me for telling the truth?”

“Like you said, he's pissed off.”

“I was trapped, Nick,” he says, looking dejected. “What else could I report? Damned if I do, damned if I don't.”

“That's not true, Freddie. You did the right thing. That took a lot of courage.” I mean that. It's always easier to see it clearly when it's someone else.

“I need to go outside and take a walk.”

“Okay. I'm heading back to my desk.”

The elevator stops on seven and I step out and turn back around to Freddie. I hold the elevator door open.

“Freddie, you did fine. Screw him.” He nods and I pull my hand away and let the doors close over him like water over something sinking beneath the surface.

I get a coffee, wishing it could be gin and tonic, and start to my desk. Ron is walking around the area looking excited and sees me coming.

“Jack's coming by.”

“Wilson?”

“Yeah, he should be here in a few minutes.”

“Why's he coming here?”

“I think there's a Knicks game or a Duke game and he's taking some people.”

“And why's he coming here?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. I guess he gets to see more people this way. You know Jack. He's a politician on the campaign trail.”

“Yeah. Try not to kiss him.”

I get in my chair and check to see where the market has moved on the bonds I'm following.

“Hey, Nick. Can I ask you something?” William walks up to me with a tone of voice that tells me this is something he should have apologized for long ago. This is going to be bad.

“What's up?”

“You remember the night at the Soho Grand?”

“I do.” His timidity is putting me on edge. It would be much better if he'd blurt it out.

“Something happened that night that I've been dealing with. My version is what happened, not her version. But I think I need your help with it.”

“Come to the point, William. Jesus Christ.”

“I've been accused of assault. By a stripper. Who was there that night.”

“Rape?”

“Technically, yeah. She agrees we started consensually, but she says I got rough and she wanted to stop and I wouldn't.”

“And what do you say?”

“It was consensual the whole way. We got into some bondage, it was a little rough but totally consensual.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.” William doesn't sound indignant. He sounds nervous. I don't bother to ask how much coke he did that night.

“Is this the girl who was passed out in the bedroom?”

“No, she's not one of the girls who spent the night. She left early on during the party, just after we were together.”

“Why do you need my help?”

“She wants to file charges. Criminal charges.” He's starting to gather some indignation. “I've had to get a lawyer and I've managed to keep it from my parents and my fiancée so far. It hasn't gone anywhere yet and my lawyer is talking to the cops and the
DA's office. He's trying to see if the whole thing can be dropped or at least handled without charges.”

“You mean pay her money to make her go away.”

“Basically. Yes.”

“William, I don't want any part of this. Why the hell are you talking to me?”

“I have a meeting with the assistant district attorney. He needs to decide whether or not to proceed with a case. It's me, my lawyer, and the ADA. He's also going to meet with the girl, but separately.”

“I'm sure he'd love to get a case off his desk. I still don't know why you're talking to me.”

He clears his throat. “The ADA would like to speak with you since you were at the party, at least the beginning of it. My lawyer also thinks it will help me to have a character reference.”

“If you want a character reference, try your fiancée.”

“Nick, I can't. She can't know about this.” He pauses. “Oh, were you kidding?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, I can't. She would kill me. That would end things between us. My lawyer thinks it would be good to have someone who's known me for years. Ideally my boss.”

I lean back in my chair and break eye contact for a long time. I'm not trying to send him a message. I really don't know yet how to handle this. “Jesus, William.”

“I'm sorry, Nick.”

We sit in silence together for a while. “Tell you what, William. I'll talk with your lawyer first. Privately. I'm not going to lie to the DA. I'm not going to tell him you're a goddamn saint. After I talk with your lawyer, if he still thinks it's a good idea for me to meet with the DA, I'll do it.”

“Okay. Thanks, Nick.” He seems just happy the conversation is over rather than truly appreciative.

A few minutes later there's commotion over by the elevators. I know Jack has arrived on the floor. I can't see it but I can hear distant rumbling and I know something's happened, like standing in the stadium parking lot at kickoff. The commotion is moving closer.

“Hey, Jacko!” I hear a few other morons making catcalls.

Jack comes through a ring of people, and when he sees me, he points at me. I'm on the phone and I give him the finger and he does a belly laugh. He walks over and takes the phone out of my hand. “I'll call you back in five minutes,” he shouts down the phone before slamming it into the cradle.

There's no point in complaining about this, even in a joking way. “What are you doing here?”

“We're on our way to a game. Thought I'd stop by. Press the flesh. How are you? What's going on? Everything good?”

“Great.” I stand up and give him a hearty handshake where we're wrapped more around the thumbs than the palms. “You look the same. Bloated and happy.”

“Hey. I'm sensitive about that. Don't make fun.” He laughs and gives me a half hug with his right shoulder lined up with my right shoulder. It's more of a bump than a hug.

His left hand comes around to pat my back but instead gets a fistful of my shirt and clenches it. His body tips forward and his right shoulder leans into mine and presses. “Hey, Jack. Jesus.” His face lowers so his cheek is resting on top of my shoulder. His full weight is on me so I have to drop step a foot back to hold him up. He's mumbling words I can't understand and it sounds like he's saying “apple.”

“Jack, what are you doing?” It's a stupid question. I know he's not choosing to do anything right now. Something's very wrong.

He lets out a muffled yell of pain and his knees buckle. His grip on my shirt pulls me down too, and I lower him on his back and I'm on top of him.

I look up and see a few dozen people standing around us, open-mouthed. “Call an ambulance!” I look back down and Jack is red-faced, eyes clenched closed and barely breathing. I'm not sure he's breathing at all and it actually crosses my mind how much I don't want to give him mouth-to-mouth. It might have to be me. We're practically spooning and nobody else is within ten feet.

Jesus Christ, I don't want to be here. “Does anyone know CPR?” I think it's twenty chest compressions, then a breath. Or fifteen compressions. Maybe I'm supposed to tilt his neck to clear the airway. “Any of you idiots know CPR!”

“Nick, I called an ambulance.” It's William.

“Good.” I look down at Jack. There's shallow breathing. His eyes are watery and open in little slits. “Hang in there, buddy.”

He starts to speak. I can't hear a voice. It's more like he's shaping his breath into words. He brings his right hand up to clench my shirt too and brings me closer. We're nose to nose with about four inches to spare. His breath seems to be coming a little easier. I can tell he's already had a few drinks.

“Nick. Tell my wife I love her very much. She knows.”

“What?” I have an image of standing over Jack in a casket holding hands with a woman I've never laid eyes on before, telling her how much Jack really loved her and how he spoke of her often.

“You're right. Screw that. She's a pain in my ass and she's my ex-wife anyway.”

“What!” He's clowning around with his last breath.

“Seriously, Nick.” He tightens his grip and brings me closer. We're down to three inches from touching noses. He's grimacing away the pain. “If I don't make it, talk to my kids. Tell them something nice about me. You can do that.”

I think I can. I may have to get creative. “Sure, Jack. You're going to be fine, though. Stop talking and try to breathe slowly.”

I'm pretty sure you give CPR only if the person isn't breathing, so I think I'm in the clear for the moment. “Where's the goddamn ambulance!”

“Two more minutes, Nick.” It's William again.

“Hold on, Jack,” someone shouts from rows away, and this starts a ripple of encouraging words from dazed-sounding voices.

“Does he need some water?” William is trying to help again. He feels like he's part of the rescue team.

“William, I don't know what the hell he needs. Just clear a path for a stretcher.”

William goes about this, parting the ring of people and walking the shortest route to the elevators just as one opens and three paramedics come running out.

“Follow me,” William yells, feeling very involved now. They all run up, and I roll away from Jack and watch seated on the floor while they check Jack's vitals and get ready to move him. They're fast and decisive and relaxed. They've obviously seen a lot worse than this.

In a moment, Jack is up on the stretcher, wheeled to the elevator, and gone. I'm still sitting on the floor by my desk. Everyone is still standing around in a looser formation of the ring they had been in while Jack was on the floor. They're shocked and everyone is talking in whispers.

Most of the people are like kids having watched their sports
hero fall with a career-ending injury. I feel more like the player one locker down who's been taking the same steroids for the last ten years.

I'm still sitting on the floor with my legs straight out. Ron walks over and offers a hand up. I take it without thinking or looking and he pulls me over and into my chair.

If I can't find the fearlessness to make a change, maybe I can find the fear of not making a change.

January 27, 2006

I'M RATTLED BY JACK'S HEART ATTACK AND HAVE
been leaving work early. Today I cut out for home instead of a bar and I notice Julia's bag for the gym isn't in the usual place by the door. I'm excited to be at home on a weekday afternoon, like a child skipping class and being in a place he shouldn't be but no one knows. I go to the kitchen to fix a drink.

When problems at home get truly bad, a perspective takes over to remind a person that these are the most important problems to solve. I can't get this off my mind, and if I can't get it off my mind anyway, I may as well be at home. I told William I had a client lunch and left. Just by being at home, I feel I'm working on making things better.

I go in the living room and sit with my drink resting on the edge of the chair armrest and my fingers only loosely around the glass. I look at the remote control for the TV on the coffee table in front of me and decide to leave it there. Now I just want to sit.

I swirl my glass, trying to get the ice cubes to move in an orbit.
I'm making an effort to think through issues but I can't find the starting point for any one of them.

I finish the drink and wipe the sweat from the bottom of the glass onto my suit pants. I drank fast enough that there wasn't much. Once I've had two or three, I can slow down my drinking, so I go back to the kitchen to fix another before changing out of my suit. I make it with more gin and less tonic this time, since the gin is already getting harder to taste.

I walk past Julia's office. Sketches of rooms in someone's suburban home are lying out with catalog photographs of furniture and bed linens. A crib and rocker for a baby room. I keep walking to our bedroom. My suit is starting to feel like it's made of shrinking burlap and my feet are hot in my shoes.

I hang the suit, lining up the pant creases, and fill the shoes with the shoe trees. As a kid I used to watch my father do this. I walk to the dresser to get a T-shirt, and on top of the dresser is a book with the kind of leather cover that can bend like a paperback. I recognize it as Julia's diary and see there is a pen in the pages poking out for my attention. I flip the diary open to where the pen is and look up and down the pages without reading the words. I understand the hand is Julia's. It feels like a stranger's. I realize I rarely see her handwriting at all.