Hotel Living (24 page)

“. . . because at the end of the day it's all about expectations management. Right, Stathis?” Kevin says.

“I'm sorry about your friend Constantine,” I respond instead.

“What?” Kevin spits. “Well, yes. That was a shame.” He is annoyed. He goes for his red.

“He spoke highly of you,” I go on.

“I don't want to discuss it,” Kevin says firmly.

“Fine. Let's talk about expectations management,” I say. “Is that your brother? His take on management consulting's stupid jargon?”

“No more martinis for you,” Alkis says, and moves my drink away.

I take out my smokes and light one.

“What the
hell
are you doing?” Alkis is mortified.

I point at the woman at the central banquette, smoking. But Alkis is furious: “That's the
owner's
table, Stathis! And we want to be able to make a reservation again. Go outside!”

I put it out. As I stand up, I notice myself trembling.

“Jesus!” Alkis shakes his head. “How do your clients put up with you?”

I'm fucking sick of everything about him. “Save it for Lehman,” I say. “But maybe you won't have time to play smoking–witch hunt anymore.”

I'm halfway through the main room when I hear a laugh I recognize. My jaw is shaking so much that I don't want to turn. But after Andrea shouts my name twice, I have no choice but to deal with her. Sitting pretty beside her fat man-friend–CEO, Andrea keeps waving me over. She stands up—she's wearing clothes she could have worn to work, though her jewelry is smaller—and introduces us. She does the grateful-Partner thing: I am “simply indispensable,” a “committed consultant.” And “Oh,” they are waiting for “Carolina and Reinaldo,” but I “
must
” have a glass with them.

John appears out of nowhere with a folding chair.

I give him an
are-you-stalking-me
look and sit down, but my legs won't stay still and I rattle the table; the wineglasses look like they're in an earthquake. I wonder how bad my jaw's shaking.

The CEO is in a black turtleneck that promotes his nipples. He looks younger than his age, the way very fat people often have no age. I notice his watchband, which is so tight on him, so ready to snap; if I stabbed his palm with a fork right now no blood would come out. I'm this close to laughing in the faces of the whale and the prostitute opposite me, but a string of questions crosses my mind:
Is he going for BioProt next quarter? Will he dump Andrea after the deal? Will they throw a BMW onto my bonus at the end of the year?

Andrea wants to know if I'm enjoying my “much-deserved beach time after Los Angeles.” She smiles as she stabs my knee with her nails so I'll stop rocking the table.

“Ouch!” I yell. “Er, well, it's good to be back in New York.”

“Command would never have added so much value without Stathis,” she tells the fatty. “Champagne!” She motions to John.

“It was a team effort,” I say, and I begin to slowly rock their table again.

“Stathis has integrity,” Andrea says.

“That is the most expensive virtue,” the CEO adds.

“He is a purist,” Andrea flirts, handing me a glass of champagne. “He believes that companies should focus on their core competencies,” she says.

Blow is the only thing that keeps me from throwing up the very little tuna I touched.

“What about corporate evolution?” the CEO asks me.

“If it makes people happy, then I'm all for it,” I respond.

I try to take a sip, but the champagne glass is a coupe—unreal in 2007—and I spill half of it on their buttermilk biscuits. People from the next table look at us.

“I'm sorry,” I say, embarrassed.

John leans toward me attentively, but Andrea waves him away. “Stathis is a keeper,” she says, dabbing at my mess with her napkin.

The CEO pushes the wet biscuits to the side. “Effective change can be uncomfortable, sometimes even disruptive.” He checks for my reaction.

“Effective change, organic change, from within, has momentum,” I say.

“What about just dipping in? People see opportunities, fall in love with ideas, and go for it,” the CEO says, and touches Andrea's hand.

I look at his nipples again and try to fathom the companies, the weddings, the divorces, the children, the court fights that this orca must have been through, and I wonder why he is still throwing himself at the game. Why would he still cross lines and take all-or-nothing risks? Do people grow up, or do they just get fat while chasing their first high?—Which reminds me, I need to wrap this up and run home for a decent line.

“I thought that Andrea was a pure innovation gal, but I guess her interests have shifted. Oh well . . .” I say, and stand up.

“
Sit down!
” the fatty orders.

I do.

He lets go of Andrea's hand and points at me. “You are a consultant. All you do is look at drugs. But Andrea sees things holistically. She understands the patient experience. She knows that compliance is as important as efficacy. Women forget their cholesterol pill, but they never forget their moisturizer. Smart drugs will combine the two so they can control diseases better.”

“Got any coke with vitamin C?” I wink in John's direction.

MINUTES LATER, I STUMBLE DOWN
the street to my apartment. I walk in and try to turn on the lights, but my lamps are fancy
Italian things Tatiana picked out, and I can't find the switches. I'm not sure why, but it's freezing in here. I'm ready for a couple of lines to warm me up, but I hear voices in the corridor. I think they are calling my name. Could it be Alkis? The CEO's bodyguards? Tom from next door? People might knock on my door at any second, so I need to do my stuff and escape to the Beatrice to pick someone up. I'm busy emptying my little plastic bag when my phone vibrates with an incoming text.

“I hear crazy things about Tatiana. Please tell her to call me!! Teresa.”

I grab a book by Däniken that was lying under the Iridium cell phone on the Museum of the Recent Past shelf that Tatiana curated, and cut two lines on its cover.

Finally, I feel that sweet bitterness going down my throat. I'm better already.

I pick up my cell and type back: “for the tenth time T, ionly speak with Tari when she calls. she nver picks up. will tel her.” I press Send and look around for my leather jacket, the one Tati picked out for me, but I can't find it. So I put on my work coat and leave for the Bea.

“Douche bag.” Alkis's text stops me on my stoop.

“Send me the check,” I text back, walking down Bank Street.

“No worries. I'll keep your jacket,” he responds.

“Looks like you might need it.”

“Fuck you very much.”

“No, fuck YOU.”

I make a left onto West Fourth and another left onto Twelfth, which is empty. There's no one at the door at the Beatrice, it's not even eleven, and I can't think of anyone to call, so I keep walking to Hudson, and from there to Jane. I decide to hit Hudson Bar and Books, where I can do some quiet drinking and smoking, but the place is full of cocky first-year associates and their girlfriends. I order a cigar and two tequila shots and sit in a corner, where I start playing with the popcorn the bartender placed in front of me. The TV screen above the restroom shows Teresa pulling out a gun in a James Bond flick. Bond throws her onto a bed and kisses her, and I get this feeling that I might be too old to piss off powerful people or turn friends, like Alkis, into enemies. I look at the mirror behind the bar and see myself looking frantic and bloated. My forehead is sweating. I search my cell phone for the last “fuck you” that I traded with Alkis, but my hands have the shakes. I need one more line to find the Undo button on my phone, but the damn thing vibrates again.

“Whatudoin?”

“Who is this?” I text.

“I have your jacket.”

This can't be . . . Fuck it
. “What's your address, Kevin?” I type, and the idea that I might get one last shot in my five-year war with Erik sobers me up.

Something funny happens on my way to the Upper East Side. I don't think of Erik, or of the hoops I might have to
jump through to sleep with Kevin. Instead I think of the tiny amount of blame I have for Constantine's death. It's like I am going to have to account for losing his postcards, for not sooner passing on to Erik the one I did rescue. I could have made a difference. Strangely enough, I can't even remember Constantine's face. I try to re-create his eyes and voice from when he talked with me, high, on the balcony of the cottage at the Chateau. Constantine is becoming a new memory. He looked up to Kevin: “He's smooth with girls, sports, everything,” Constantine said. “Erik is Kevin's obsession. Kevin got the looks, Erik got the brains. They want to fuck each other.” Constantine, a junkie, laughed.

KEVIN'S PENTHOUSE DOOR IS OPEN.
He stands at the far end of his living room, looking out the window wall. I shut the door and he turns.

“Are you here to talk about Erik or Constantine?” he asks. “Or antiangiogenic agents?” he chuckles.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Where are we going to do that?”

November 2007

G
REEKS SURE HAVE STAMINA,” KEVIN
says, and picks up the Amstel Light by his nightstand.

I reach for my jeans on the floor and grab my cigarettes.

“You can't smoke in here,” he says.

I get up and throw my pants on.

“Go by the window. Make sure you blow the smoke out.”

I light up and open the bedroom's balcony door. Two Labs orbit Buddha-shaped bushes on a lit-up roof across the street.

“When did you get those circles under your eyes?” I ask.

“What?” Kevin mumbles.

I turn, but I can barely see him in the dark. “When did you get those circles under your eyes?”

“None of your business,” Kevin says. “None of my business. I don't know. Why?”

“Just things in common,” I say. “One can be impressive on paper and a mess in real life.”

“Thanks for saving me the therapy bill,” Kevin says. He laces his fingers and turns his palms out, stretching his arms toward me. “Stick to your résumé, then. Stick to work.”

“Kinda too late for that.”

“Are you guys going through layoffs?” he asks sharply. He is more curious about or spooked by my job than he is by my come (his brother's ex's come) drying on his chin.

“Don't know,” I say. “And don't really care.”

He sits up. “How come? Do you have a better offer?”

“Nope. I'm just sick and tired of the bullshit I do for a living.”

“Marketing drugs works. Marketing works,” Kevin says, grabbing a Kleenex.

“I can't stand this up-or-out race anymore. I think I'm on my last legs at Command.”

Kevin wipes my stuff off his torso and chin. “It looks like things are about to cool off a bit,” he says. “This race that you're talking about won't be the end of us after all.”

“It ended Constantine,” I say, and try to read Kevin's reaction in the dark.

“It did not. Constantine was just stupid.”

I take a long drag. “You are high on markets, he was high on breaking news. At the end of the day we are all high on something.”

“The difference between me and Constantine was balance,” Kevin says. “He didn't know where to stop. He was a danger junkie, among other things.”

“That's what men do.” I blow out my smoke.

“It was a dumb death. And keep your smoke out!” Kevin says. “When you do drugs or you're a war correspondent, you're hot stuff. But when you overdose, or you die trying to get footage, then you're an idiot.”

“He knew the risks,” I say.

“He thought he knew what his dealers gave him. He thought the Taliban would not fire at him because he was holding a camera. He had reached the point of no return. You met him; you know what I'm talking about. And I
said
, keep your smoke out.”

I don't. I can't be the first smoker he has cheated on Helen with.

“Constantine looked up to you. He told me that you could always focus and do the right thing,” I say.

“He was high even when we were kids in Hyannis. Of course I was the one who could focus.”

I was intimidated by Constantine—by the idea of him—until I met him. Then I liked him. Now I wanted to defend him to this rich, closeted son of a bitch. “Extremes have appeal—they take balls. Your brother thought so,” I say.

“My brother always fell for crap like that. He always put himself in the backseat. Behind Constantine, or Warren, or . . . or behind mean fuckers like you,” Kevin says, and I see him smiling in the dark.

“But the backseat is not good enough for Hyannis now, is it?”

“If you say so.” Kevin takes a good sip from his beer. “So, who's bigger?” He chuckles.

Bitch . . .
“What are you talking about?” I play dumb.

“You're the only one who's slept with both of us.”

“I haven't slept with Constantine,” I say to gain time.

Kevin laughs. “Of course you haven't. I'm talking about Erik. So, who is bigger?”

I don't believe this. “You've never seen your brother hard?”

“We are not perverts, Greek boy.”

It's my turn to laugh. “Right! What was I thinking?” I put out my cigarette on his door frame and flick it onto his balcony. “Hey, what're you doing for Thanksgiving?” I ask, but Kevin doesn't reply, and it's too bloody dark to see his face. “Are you
deaf
?” I shout.

“I might go to Boston,” he finally says. “Or stay here. Erik and Warren are cooking.”

“Do you need a date?” I ask with a shrug, and lean against the glass door. I'm beginning to enjoy this.

He lets out a nervous laugh. “No, thanks.”

“'Cause it would be weird for Helen?” I smile. “Or Erik?” There. “We don't want people to get the right idea, do we?”

“Are you done?”

“What if I run into Helen in the lobby?” I ask.

“She's out of town.”

“So I should get back to bed then,” I say, and just the thought of it makes me ill.

“You can't spend the night here. I don't want any doormen talking.”

“Don't flatter yourself. I fucked you because you look like your brother,” I say. “What's your excuse? You fucked me because I fucked your brother?”

IT'S QUIET AT COMMAND. MOST
people are either at clients' or gone for the day. I swap between Reuters and Bloomberg on my screen, wondering if Alkis will call after the e-mail I just sent him.

He does.

“Is this a joke?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. We have not spoken since the Waverly Inn. No e-mails, no texts. Nothing.

“How are you—” I pause—“mate?”

“Fine,” Alkis says.

“I'm sorry about the Waverly Inn,” I say, but Alkis doesn't respond. He might be distracted; I hear phones ringing in the background, someone yelling “
Fuck
them, we'll go with Deutsche on this one.”

“I said I'm sorry,” I repeat.

“Fuck the Waverly Inn,” Alkis says quickly. “We're not in high school. Not today, anyway. Tell me you did not send that e-mail to Washington . . .”

“Did not.”

“Good!” He exhales. “'Cause no one in his right mind would ever send such a thing. That is a termination e-mail. I mean, what
is
this? Are you blowing the whistle?”

“Call it whatever you want. Andrea changed BioProt's numbers, not me. She buried the analysis so her fat fuck could grab the company on the low. That is fraud.”

“I
know
what she did. You told me at the Chateau. I read your e-mail. Trust me, you made it
very
clear.”

“I don't want my name on her shit.”

“Her shit
has
your name on it. You were the one who delivered her shit last September. What I don't get is why you suddenly want to be all by-the-book. Why are you outing Andrea now?”

“Because I wasn't given a choice? Because I'm done with her. With the whole thing.”

“That whole thing made you who you are.”

“Look where that got me,” I say. “Your words.”

“I'm talking about your savings account, for God's sake.”

“Didn't you blast me and everything about me in LA?”

“Stathis, if you want to leave Command—and you should—this is
not
the way to do it. You need to grow up and be smart about this.”

He's not listening to me. “Growing up
is
what I'm trying to do.”

“Do you have a job lined up?”

“No.”

“
What?
” Alkis blurts out to someone who is talking to him.
“I don't care what time it is over there, we are doing this
tonight
. Hold on a second, Stathis.”

The on-hold tune on Alkis's phone, “. . . skies are sunny, bees make honey . . .” makes me smile, thinking about what would have happened if I'd told Erik about Lehman's “I'd Love to Change the World” sound track during our patio days. “You have your memories,” Tatiana said to me the last time I saw her, in LA—as if I was supposed to be happy about them. I'm not, though; they haunt me. They make me ask
what if
about everything. What if Erik hadn't sucked the cut on his thumb when we fought? What if I'd never seen past Constantine's wrinkles? What if I hadn't sat down with him and listened to him telling me that both Erik and I would change? What if Alkis hadn't woken me up when Constantine died? What if I'd never woken up from LA myself? What if I hadn't fucked Erik's brother, in lust and disgust for Erik's world? What would have happened then? There are infinite possibilities; not all of them play out. But they start together. They've all been building on each other. Had I not gone to EBS, I would never have met Erik. Had I not met him, fucked him, and planned a week with him in Bequia, I would never have walked into the Command headquarters looking like I owned the place. Had Erik not told me that he cared for me—
cared
—I probably wouldn't have come up with my “Simplicity” shtick at work. Had he not fixed the patio, I might not have been promoted.

I am an addict now, but I can still change my life, just as Constantine said. I can hang up the phone and send the e-mail. Then I can walk down to Gawel's office and leave him a note about coffee, take responsibility, and have some closure before I leave for Paris to see my family. I can start my life all over again, I think as I look at the note on the three Olympic Air tickets on my desk: “Stathis, please check names and dates. I can FedEx the tickets to Greece tomorrow. You are booked at the Lancaster from 11/22 to 11/25.”

After seven years, I am going to see my family.

“Sorry,” Alkis says as he pops back on the phone. “We're trying to close a deal and things are turning into a colossal fuckfest. Where were we?”

“You were trying to scare me,” I say, checking my watch; it's midnight in London.

“If you send that e-mail, you'll be cleaning out your desk by noon tomorrow.”

“Perhaps. But she put pressure on me; I was following orders. She breached everything Command is supposed to—”

“Shut up!” Alkis cuts me off. “If you're trying to sue them, you picked the wrong month, mate. A year ago,
maybe
. Maybe you could have gotten a settlement that would've floated your ass for a bit. But not today; they have bigger worries.
You
should be worried. Clouds are everywhere. We're trying to wrap the simplest thing with Bear and we can't. Something spooky is going on. Could be nothing, could be everything.”

“I'm not suing anyone. I just don't want this shit in my life anymore.”

“Talk to your lawyer, 'cause you're playing against the house.”

“Living in New York is playing against the house. You said this city is all wrong for me.”

“Stathis . . .” He sighs. “I don't understand why every fucking lesson you learn, you need to learn in the hardest way possible.”

I have no answer there.

“Do me a favor and sleep on it,” Alkis says.

“I don't need to sleep on it. I need to
sleep
.”

There is another pause. “Fine. How're you doing with money? How broke is your ass?”

“I've been on expenses for a while, I can bridge things,” I say.

“Better make this the Golden Gate Bridge.
No one
will hire you if this blows up. People talk. On that note, scoop has it that you hit the ground running in New York, after LA, after I saw you. Paul told me you're all over town with—” he lets out a quick laugh—“Warren's brother-in-law. Sorry, Paul's text.”

“Paul said
Warren's brother-in-law
?” I ask. “Really? He didn't say
Erik's brother
? Or
Kevin
?”

“Seriously, is that what upset you the most out of all the things I said? Okay, I can't babysit your ass anymore. Do whatever you need to do, I got problems of my own. Just one last thing. You've never been unemployed, you've never been
without a business card. You send this e-mail and your life will change forever.”

I look at the three Fiji bottles on my desk as I ask Alkis: “What do you think I'm doing with Kevin?” Then I open the draft of my e-mail to Washington.

“Listen to you . . .” Alkis says. “Schoolgirl. I don't give a toss what you do with Kevin, it's none of my fucking business. But Kevin drinks expensive red. If fucking your ex-brother-in-law will keep you from unemployment, so be it.”

“Don't worry. They're not pulling me back in,” I say, and press Send.

Now what, Constantine?