Man Gone Down (23 page)

There's a break in the line of walkers, and I go.
“Who's gonna stroke your coal-black hair and sandy-colored skin?”
I used to sing this song in downtown bars and coffee houses. People were always polite, but no one ever really seemed to like it.
“Who's gonna kiss your red ruby lips when I'm out in the wind?”
Perhaps my performance was poor—I don't think so. Just the same, no one seemed to be able to hear the plea:
“When I'm out in the wind, babe
. . .” Perhaps they couldn't make the jump, couldn't recognize the girl or empathize with his longing for her. Maybe the face in the song didn't match the faces they knew, or his fate seemed too strange next to their own. Claire hadn't liked it but was polite. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to be that girl—heartbreaker of a lawless man. Claire is good: good wife, good mother, good daughter. She weeps instead of rages. She smiles and makes others feel good—the good teeth, good skin, the good word: They are nearly cold—perfect—but softened by the small hint of sorrow.

I've caught her before—mourning—holding a folding picture frame with two photos of her father: one as a little English boy sitting on his mother's lap, feeding doves on a great lawn; in the other he's a man, dancing—thin, long limbs stretched, spinning round a cane—the big finish of a show. It seems impossible that his heart was ready to explode. “He would've liked you. You really would've gotten along.” Perhaps—me and the noble, weak-hearted, dancing man whose build was not like mine but whose suits fit me so well—the
tall Anglican snob. He was the freak of his family—part buttoned-down conservative, part romantic fop. He was handsome, a great storyteller, so I've been told, and Claire said that he was really very much in love—even in the end. He died in Claire's arms—“Tell your mother I love her. And I love you.” That I know is true. You can tell when someone's been loved; they don't question its presence, nor do they despair when it seems to be gone. The photographs of father and daughter dancing together are sincere, there's nothing coy about the way they look at each other. Now those pictures are packed up in Marco's cellar, away from her, not good for a haunt, especially one who knows how alone she was when he died—how alone she is still. She's too good—never rages at Edith's loss of memory, nor at Edith's ghostless world. But I can see her sorrow when her lip quivers. It's like he's there, in her face, restless, trying either to emerge or to recede, making her visage move. Then some deep sighs, perhaps some tears, but that is all.

“Who's gonna kiss your Memphis mouth, when I'm out in the wind?”
I shoot my cuffs in my late father-in-law's suit. The light turns green, and then up ahead, the rest begin to change. I weave through traffic. There's a storm cloud over Midtown slowly moving to meet me.
“When I'm out in the wind, babe
. . .” I cut across two lanes and turn east. The street is empty, so I push on the throttle. The big engine growls a response. I time the light, cross Madison doing sixty-five and then Park—trying to hit each light. I pick a hole between the pedestrians crossing First and head north again. I check the rearview for cruisers. In Boston I would already have been popped—curbside, with the two cops approaching me warily from either side of the car. If they did come, I don't think I'd wait around for them. They don't want you to explain why your name isn't on the title. I could get to the Bruckner fast—make for the Connecticut border on 1-95. I'd be too fast for them there. I check the rearview again. No cops, but the rain is coming. I can tell the green light at Ninety-sixth is going stale. It turns yellow, and I slow down. The Impressions sing out,
“Keep on pushin'. . .”
I shift into neutral and roll, idling to the intersection.
The car shudders with its own power. It's too fast for this city. It wants to go. I stop and wonder if Enzo ever thought his horse machine could outrun fate.

At eight, I turn onto Fifty-seventh. Marco's in front of the restaurant—Sky—gesturing for me to simultaneously pull over and roll the window down. I do.

“Valet it.”

Before I can get out, a kid in a crimson blazer and black bow tie opens the door for me.

“Hello, sir. Valet?”

“Sure.”

I pull myself out of the cockpit. The black street glows with moisture, and the tires of the cars going by hiss and drip as they roll. There's a faint hint of sunlight left and for a moment the city seems clean, almost welcoming. I look west down the street and then up in the sky. A mottled pigeon flies by, then passing in the opposite direction but at the same angle of ascent, an airplane. A taxi honks. The valet hands me a ticket. He's been waiting.

“Hey, man, happy birthday.” We shake. I step onto the curb. “So, have you joined us all on the downward slope?”

“One more year.”

“Well, enjoy it.” He starts inside, then turns. “Did your wife ever get ahold of you?”

“No.”

“She called around eight this morning.” He produces his phone. “You want to try her?”

“No, thanks. Later.”

He opens the door for me and I go in. I'm surprised at how simple the room is. The ceiling is at least twenty feet high, but the space is broken up so as not to dwarf a person with its scale. There are four different levels: The main level contains the bar, poured concrete
dyed dark gray. To the right, six steps up, is a raised area that extends to the back, where there are more stairs that lead to another level, about ten feet above the main floor, that spans the width of the room. Under it is more seating. Above the bar in what are like opera boxes are more tables and switchback stairs, which lead up to them. The railing is all brushed stainless steel with cable running through it. The room would look like a cross between a spy weapons lab and a high-tech boutique if not for the sidewalls, which are deep slate blue Venetian plaster.

“Good evening,” says the host, looking only at Marco.

“Four for Andolini.” Marco leans back into me. “I had to ask a couple of associates along. Sorry. Do you mind?”

“No. No, not at all.”

“Right this way.” He extends his arm toward a young woman in a tiny black dress who leads us up over the bar to one of the opera boxes, in which is a large, bright red banquette. In it are two women. One is blonde with shoulder-length hair—a layered hairdo—feathered, I suppose, very sophisticated. The other woman is light brown. Her hair is long, black, and in one braid, which disappears behind her back. I stand behind Marco as he tries to introduce us, as though he can hide me. Maggie and Diana—with a long first
a.

We all sit silently. They seem to be waiting for a cue from Marco to begin speaking. I have nothing to say. I try not to drift, but I keep going from the blonde's hair to the dark girl's forehead and their juxtaposition to the wall—both hair and skin contrast. I've never seen such a good plaster job. Someone troweled a 20×100-foot wall so well that I can't find a blemish on it.

They start talking, about office things, I suppose. And I suppose that some would consider what Marco has done for me kind—the car, the dinner, the cigars—and I shouldn't be offended that he's doing business. I certainly can have a lovely meal in silence. It must be like this for him all the time, blending the private and public, business and pleasure. They, in fact, may not even be as separate as I imagine. They
may never have been, but as I hear their conversation wind down, hear their focus begin to shift, I can't help but think that Marco is trying to teach me a lesson. It's bad enough for him to try and rub my face in his shit. He doesn't need to rub it in my own.

“How was your run last night?”

“You run?” asks the blonde.

I nod. Silence again. The ladies start to fidget. Marco has tried and doesn't seem to want to try again. It seems strange that this is all they can muster, but when they talk in conference rooms, they probably have something to talk about. This silence must be difficult for them. My stomach shoots out another gas blade. I turn directly to the blonde.

“Do you run?”

Everyone's relieved, but only for a moment. I keep looking her in the eye, paying attention to her—engaged. She starts to answer and then looks away. I should cut her some slack, but then I ask myself why. Her martini is almost finished and I can't imagine her carrying this moment, which is at worst awkward, too far into the future with her. Marco is grinning stupidly. The dark one squeezes her glass stem. I look away and rephrase my question.

“Do you like to run?”

She's suspicious. She looks into her glass, then starts to answer slowly.

“Yes. Well, no.” She seems comfortable again. At least I tell myself that.

“Yes and no?” asks Marco. They laugh as though the last three minutes haven't happened. The waiter comes. He's tall, dressed in an immaculate black and white uniform—immaculate face and hands.

“Hello, may I get you drinks?” He looks at the women's glasses, “More martinis?” They shake their heads. Marco waves them off.

“Yes,” he says, pointing to the glasses. “Yes.” He points at me but keeps looking at the waiter. “Sparkling water for the table.” It's not a question, but the inflection makes it seem as though he's asking one. “Talisker, neat.”

We all study our menus for a while. I hone in on the simplest things there: green salad. Steak. I leave the menu open to deter questions coming my way. They talk—an occasional “Everything looks so good,” or some approximation thereof. Finally, my ploy backfires.

“See anything?”

“Oh, yes.”

I close it and go back to the hair, the brow, the plaster, and then to Marco, who is trying to mouth something to me from behind his menu. The waiter returns with the drinks.

“So how was your run? You were out for a long time. How far did you go?”

“About eight.”

He takes a sip of his drink. The girls sip theirs. I wonder if that junkie got another beer. I try to imagine what it tastes like. It doesn't take much to do so—like the mineral water I'm drinking only with a dash of sugar, hay, and cosmic certainty. I don't remember, but I think people liked me better when I drank a bit. The waiter comes back and takes our order.

Marco leans back in the booth and exhales.

“Today was ridiculous, huh?”

The girls concur, but they keep their good posture. I look out over the dining room. It's full now, but the clamor is somehow softened—I don't know how with all the hard surfaces. Marco taps my elbow.

“Ten years ago our client paid this guy twenty million to develop product for them.”

“What product?”

“Software.”

“Who's your client?”

“Can't tell you.”

I look at him closely. I wonder who he thinks I might tell—how I could possibly compromise the deal.

“Anyway, he finishes. So now he's claiming that he owns the product and that they have to buy it from him, even though the original contract, which he signed, says that he doesn't.”

“So this is an intellectual property issue?”

“Exactly.” He leans forward and takes his glasses off, puts his elbows on the table. I realize that I hardly know Marco. Yes, I know his story, at least some of the highs and lows, the ones, at least, he's told me, but nothing more than his narrative and what I've assumed from it in combination with what I see. In my head I've seen him in his office in a tall building downtown. I've seen the suits he wears when we've walked together to drop our boys off at school and I've seen him disappear down the stairs of the 4-train. My mother wanted me to be a lawyer. She gave me a book on Charles Houston, and I remember being awed by him and wanting to be like him. I wonder where that feeling went—
why wasn't I like him?
As I got older, the idea of being a lawyer was displaced by the dizzying exactitude of actually becoming one. I suppose I began seeing lawyers, as well—the fathers of my schoolmates. They weren't grave men in hats and overcoats with leather bags walking up the steps of the Supreme Court armed with purpose.

“So what do you think?”

“What do I think of what?”

“Do you think our client owes him anything?”

“A deal's a deal, I guess.”

He nods. “So how was your run?”

“Not so great.”

Maggie joins in. “Sometimes I go out and I feel tired. I just slog through it.”

Marco smiles. They check him to see if what she said is acceptable. He's said that they're associates, and I don't know what that means. How had he presented the idea of spending an evening out with us to them? In a hallway, at lunch? “We can close the Johnson and Johnson merger, but it'll have to be in front of a stiff I'm letting crash at my house.”

Diana looks potentially angry. She's not frowning, but she seems to be waiting for me to say something she can disagree with. I'm not sure what she finds so troublesome about me. Perhaps I'm over-dressed.
Perhaps she's wary because I'm strange and a stranger. She doesn't know what I do, where I'm from, what I think of her. I'm a suspicious character, and I appreciate that—that she hasn't come to any preconceived notions about me. But I can't sit with her uncertainty. I want to tell her something, anything, to set her at ease.

“Yeah, my run was weird.” I hear myself say “weird,” and I'm sure it wasn't my voice that said it.

“What happened?”

“Well, I got caught in that cloudburst.”

“I didn't even know it rained last night.” She looks at Marco. Her last comment didn't seem to pass muster with the boss.

“I was chased.” I say it plainly so it takes a moment to register with everyone, including me. I've said it without realizing that I'll have to follow with something more.

“Oh, my god,” says Maggie. She checks Marco. I guess she gets the signal to continue. “By who, what?”