Turtleface and Beyond (19 page)

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” he said. “I've never done this before. Do you think she'll actually show up?”

“She said she would, right?”

“Right, she said that.”

“And you told her you were an executive.”

“Well, you told her that.”

“How much is she charging you?”

“Five hundred dollars. Is that too much?”

“No, that sounds about right.”

“Do you want me to get one for you too?” asked Jim. “I should have thought of that. I could call and see if she has a friend…”

“No. No, that's okay, really.”

Nearly an hour passed. Daylight began creeping up around the tall buildings, and outside the delivery trucks started their daily rumble down the avenue. Jim was distressed.

“Where is she? Maybe I should go to sleep. Jesus, I'm tired. I waited all night for this and she didn't even come.”

He seemed genuinely hurt by this apparent snub. He put his head in his hands and I thought he was going to cry.

“She's probably just running late,” I said.

“Of course,” said Jim. “But still. Jesus, I'm tired. George, are you sure you don't know where we might locate some cocaine? That would help, right?”

Like I said, I'd kept Wiktor's information on hand for just this sort of situation. I too was exhausted, and operating in a bit of a haze. I picked up the phone, dialed the number, and was surprised to find Wiktor wide awake and alert.

“It's Georgie,” I said, “your neighbor. You said to call if I wanted to go skiing…”

“Yes, yes!” said Wiktor. “Where are you?”

I told him we were at the Carlyle Hotel in Manhattan and he agreed to come right over.

“I will drive my truck,” he told me.

When I hung up Jim was looking at me, vexed. “Now, look here,” he said, “what the hell time is this to organize a ski trip?”

I explained to him the hidden meaning and we both had a little chuckle over that. Jim's spirits seemed lifted and he poured himself another glass of scotch. Then the phone rang and it was the doorman saying a “Miss Mendez” was on her way up.

“Oh my God,” said Jim. His face turned pale and he began to rub at his cheek.

“Don't do that,” I told him.

“I'm not ready,” said Jim.

“You've been waiting since four in the morning,” I said.

“Oh my God,” said Jim again.

There was a knock on the door and Boots, who had been sleeping, jumped up and let out a series of thunderous barks.

“Quiet, Boots!” said Jim.

Boots would not be quiet and a sharp voice from outside the door said, “Put the fucking dog away or I'm calling the police.”

Jim held on to Boots while I opened the door. In walked a pear-shaped Hispanic woman who looked nothing like the woman in the advertisement.

“Hello,” said Jim meekly, still holding on to Boots.

“There's two of you?” she said. “I'm not working with two people.”

“I'm leaving,” I said, “with the dog.”

“Good,” she said. And then she took off her coat.

“Wait,” said Jim. “You're not Lena.”

“Yes, I am,” she said.

“But the picture…”

“That's me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. What kind of question is that? Am I going to have to get Tyrone up here to sort this out?”

“Tyrone?”

“You want to have a good time or not?”

Lena was practically yelling now and Jim said, “Please, Lena. Would you care for some scotch?”

“Sure. Thank you,” she replied.

I picked up Boots's leash and as soon as the big dog saw that, she bounded toward me and jumped up and down with excitement.

“I'll see you later,” I said.

And with that I left Jim sitting ashen-faced on the couch, staring helplessly at Lena as she guzzled down the scotch he had just handed her.

*   *   *

It was light outside now, though just barely. Boots was overjoyed to be free from the confines of that fancy hotel room and she pulled me along the sidewalk at a rapid pace. The sight of her giant galloping figure frightened an old lady and caused a group of school-bound children to scatter to the other side of the street. At a Fifth Avenue street corner Boots squatted down and released the most enormous heap of poop I'd ever seen. I would have needed a snow shovel and a garbage bag to scoop it up. I didn't have anything like that with me though, so I sheepishly left it there for the morning commuters to marvel at, and together Boots and I ran across the street to Central Park.

Once there I removed Boots's leash and she dashed about the open fields with glee. It was nice to see her so happy and joyful, even if she was a goofy, slow-witted dog. The other dog owners in the park admired her size and zeal, though I believe they felt sorry for me as well. A dog of that size must be a lot of work, they remarked.

“She's not my dog,” I told them. “She belongs to a friend.”

When I said that I wondered if I really could count Jim Tewilliger as my friend. We'd spent enough time together to qualify as something like that, and he had certainly confided in me. He'd even asked a few questions about my life during our conversations. But I imagined that Jim saw me as more of an acquaintance, someone who gave him access to a world different from his own. Perhaps he sought me out and confided in me precisely because I was
not
his friend, because I was so far outside his social realm that it didn't matter what I knew or thought about him.

I pictured him now, naked and groping at the flabby body of a stranger in that hotel room. I hoped that it was going okay, that something about his five-hundred-dollar hour with Lena was providing him what he needed.

I should have been keeping a better eye on Boots though, because at some point she ran off into the nearby woods and disappeared. I called out for her and followed directions from a group of startled bird-watchers who saw her galloping down a nearby hill. When I found her she was splashing about the shoreline of a scum-covered pond, surrounded by a flock of angry ducks, and covered with mud. I did my best to clean her off, but the staff back in the lobby of the Carlyle Hotel weren't too glad to see us upon our return.

“A Mr. Wiktor is upstairs,” said the doorman, giving me a curious look.

I had forgotten about Wiktor. Boots and I had been gone for quite a while. We hurried upstairs, tracking mud liberally along the carpet in the hall. Back in the room I found Wiktor and Lena pacing about angrily. The drawers of the bureau had been pulled out and Jim's clothing was scattered on the floor.

“Where's Jim?” I asked them.

“Your friend left,” said Wiktor, throwing his hands in the air. “He snort, snort…” Wiktor made loud sniffing noises through his nose, indicating the use of cocaine. “And then he say he needs to go to bank machine. For money. He's gone now for half an hour.”

Lena said, “I didn't get paid yet. He left and didn't even pay me!”

“I'm sure he'll be back,” I said.

“Do you have money?” said Wiktor.

I pulled out my wallet. It had $40 in it. Wiktor and Lena agreed to split that if Jim didn't return. It was nice, at least, to see them cooperate like that. In addition, they'd found several dollars in a pair of Jim's pants which was also to be divided evenly.

We waited for close to an hour and Jim never showed up. A hotel maid stuck her head in the room and stared in disbelief at the three of us watching television in that disheveled room. Boots barked at her and she disappeared.

“We will leave now,” said Wiktor.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'll find Jim and get the money to both of you.”

Lena shook her head and we gathered up our belongings. Wiktor ripped up a pair of Jim's pants and poured the rest of the expensive scotch on the television set. It fizzled and then something inside popped with a plume of smoke. I filled two bowls with food and water for Boots and she whined as we shut the door behind us.

*   *   *

I found Jim back at work that evening. He'd left several messages for me at the library desk and as soon as I could I went down to his office to see what was going on.

When I showed up Roberta said to me, “Are you the one he's waiting for? He hasn't let me in his office all week. Is he all right?”

“I don't think so,” I said.

I walked in the office and it smelled like a locker room. The shades were pulled down and Jim was napping on the couch.

“George!” said Jim, jumping up to greet me. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Boots ran off in the park,” I said. “By the time I found her and got back, you were gone.”

“I had to get out of there,” he said. “I had no other recourse. Lena and I had no chemistry. None whatsoever. She tried to give me a back rub, but I was too tense. Then your Polish friend showed up and things got very uncomfortable.”

“They said you left without paying.”

“I fully intend to compensate them both. They'll be fully compensated, I assure you.”

“You'd better. Wiktor lives on my block…”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” said Jim. “I need to ask you a favor.” He paused and looked at me with a now-familiar look of desperation.

“A favor?”

“I've been … I've been asked to vacate my room at the Carlyle. Someone complained about Boots. They said the room is in bad shape too. I'm taking care of the damages, of course. But I need a place for Boots. She's not cut out for hotel living. That place of yours in Brooklyn, you mentioned it had a backyard?”

“It's small,” I said. “She wouldn't be happy there. Don't you have some friends back in Connecticut? Or a kennel? What about taking her home?”

“Not an option,” said Jim. “None of it. Look, I just need a temporary shelter until this blows over. I'm making some changes, George, and I'd prefer not to have to explain things to my colleagues right now.”

“What kind of changes?” I asked him.

“You know, loosening up. I need to break out of this grind. Look at this place!”

“It seems like a pretty good place to me,” I said.

“You don't understand,” said Jim. “You really don't. Look, will you please take Boots? Just until I get things back in order. I'll pay the expenses, of course.”

And so I agreed to take Boots, just for a few days. Jim showed up in a taxicab that night, with the dog and, to my surprise, two large suitcases of his own.

“I'd like to stay here as well, if that's okay,” he announced. “I'm not sure I can be away from Boots right now.”

I led them down to my little basement apartment and Jim looked around quizzically while Boots bumped into things and knocked books off the shelves with her wagging tail.

“So this is it?” said Jim.

“Right,” I said. “This is where I live.”

I showed him the backyard and Jim said, “Hmm…”

“You might be happier somewhere else,” I suggested.

“Oh no,” said Jim. “Of course not. Why wouldn't we be happy here?”

We ate a pizza for dinner and later on Wiktor came by to collect his money. Jim apologized and handed Wiktor $200.

“You're lucky I don't break your legs, asshole,” said Wiktor.

“I know, I know,” said Jim.

“You leave me with your hooker friend. What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you didn't have to tear up my clothing…”

“Yes, I did have to do that.”

“It was very rude.”

“Rude?” Wiktor stepped forward and slapped Jim on top of his head. It wasn't an especially hard slap. He just smacked him across the top so that his hair flipped forward and left him disoriented. Boots jumped up and barked and Jim said, “Hey!”

“Don't be stupid,” said Wiktor, pointing a finger at Jim. “Georgie, your friend is stupid. He is the one who is rude.”

“I know,” I said. “You're right.”

I held on to Boots as Wiktor turned and left.

On his way out Wiktor said, “That dog looks like a horse.”

*   *   *

We barely fit into my place, Jim, Boots, and me. Even sitting down we were all on top of one another.

“Do you think I'm rude, George?” asked Jim.

I thought about this for a moment and then said, “Yes, Jim, I'd say you sometimes are.”

Jim was glum after I said this. He fell asleep on the couch and was gone before I got up in the morning. His clothes and dog were still there, but he was gone.

That day in the cafeteria, Jim's secretary, Roberta, committed an unusual breach of lunchroom etiquette. She walked up to me at the corner table, where I was eating with the other library staff, and she said, “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

I said sure and got up and we went out to the hallway, inviting stares from the various factions at the firm.

“Jim has not shown up for work today,” she said. “His office is a disaster. It
smells
in there. Would you mind telling me what you know about this?”

“Jim's making some changes,” I said.

“I see,” said Roberta.

“I'm not sure if I should go into it,” I said.

“I've known Mr. Tewilliger for almost twenty years,” said Roberta. “He's a very steady worker. His wife called today. She hasn't seen him in a week. The other partners are beginning to wonder.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

“I'm not so sure you're a good influence on him, young man,” said Roberta. “This all began with you.”

“Me?”

“That's correct.”

“I have nothing to do with this,” I said. But even as I said it, I knew that in some way, in fact I did.

“If you happen to see Mr. Tewilliger,” said Roberta, “please tell him that folks here are concerned.”

“I'll tell him,” I said. “If I see him.”