The Futures(39)

I sat back down, disoriented. Cathy, the other bartender, came over a few minutes later. “Another?” she said, pointing at my empty pint glass. I shook my head. “I’ll have a Scotch. Straight up.” The other analysts were going out to a club in the Meatpacking District where Roger knew the promoter, and I went along. We got a table and ordered bottle service. A group of lithe, glittery women floated toward us. I poured myself a vodka on the rocks, one after another. This feeling could only be scoured out by something strong. Music—deep house with a thumping beat—vibrated through every pore. After a while I looked up and realized a petite Asian girl was sitting on my lap. She leaned in and said something inaudible. “What?” I shouted back, over the music. She leaned in again and this time licked the edge of my earlobe, and finally—finally—my mind went empty. We wound up pressed against a wall at the edge of the room. Her tongue in my mouth, her tiny body, my hands sliding up her sequined miniskirt, it was all I was aware of. I wanted this nameless girl more than anything I’d wanted before. I’d fuck her right there in public if I had to.

The next day, I got up from my desk several times to go retch in the bathroom. You asshole, I thought, staring at my sweaty and sallow reflection under the fluorescent lights. I’d managed to tear myself away from the girl and get a cab before any of my coworkers noticed. I passed out on the futon at home. At an early morning hour, I dragged myself to the sink for a glass of water and took a scalding shower. Eventually I crawled into bed next to Julia, my hair wet, feeling like a teenager sneaking in after curfew.

*

Two black town cars were waiting for us at McCarran. They whisked us straight to the expensive steak-and-red-wine restaurant in the hotel, our luggage sent up to our rooms without us. A private room in the back of the restaurant was walled in by ceiling-high racks of wine bottles. Chuck and Brad and Roger started getting drunk and rowdy. Steve was supervising in a bemused way, and I was just trying to roll with it. I drank my wine slowly, still feeling my bender from a few days earlier. Michael was distracted, answering e-mails, stepping out to take calls. When he left the room to take his third call of the night, Chuck rolled his eyes and said, “Why the hell is he even here?”

Roger shot me an accusatory look.

“I mean,” Chuck continued, looking at Steve for an answer, “doesn’t he have better things to be doing? Like running the company?”

Steve shrugged. “He’s the boss. He can do what he wants.”

“Probably just wants to get laid,” Brad said sullenly. Chuck hooted in laughter, and Roger joined in. Chuck was slightly older, had a fiancée, owned rather than rented, but in every other way, he and Roger were practically twins. They were, of course, hitting it off.

Michael walked back in, eyes still glued to his screen. In that moment, between songs on the restaurant speakers, the clicking of Michael’s BlackBerry keys was the only sound to be heard. Chuck, in a fit of flushed boldness, balled up his napkin and lobbed it across the table at Michael’s shoulder.

Michael looked up, as surprised as the rest of us.

“Hey, Michael,” Chuck said. “I know you’re the CEO, but you’re in Vegas, man. Drink up. We’re going out tonight.”

Michael stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Drink up.’”

Silence. Then Michael broke out in a smug grin. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Someone get me a real drink.”

Chuck hooted again, calling for the waitress to bring a bottle of their best Scotch, and I relaxed a little. Michael drank a double in one smooth swig, then another after that. A limo was idling outside, waiting to take us to a high-end nightclub where Chuck had reserved a table. In the limo, I sat next to Michael, who kept refilling my glass and clapping me on the knee when I downed my Scotch straight, in one macho gulp.

Liquid courage helped. I was careful to keep my tone light, not ruining the mood. “Michael,” I said. “I just wanted to ask, before everything starts tomorrow—what’s, uh, what’s the agenda for this weekend?”

“Oh, you know. Keynotes and panels, networking, the usual. Most of it will be interminably dull. These things always are.”

“Right. So I’ve heard.” I nodded. “But the focus is on global macro, isn’t it? I’m just wondering if there’s anything you wanted me to—or what the angle…or I guess takeaway, you could call it—”

Michael clapped me on the knee again, refilling my glass. “Evan, don’t worry. You’re asking why I invited you, aren’t you? Just watch and listen, and you’ll see. You could learn a lot these next few days.”

We pulled up at the entrance of another hotel-casino monolith. Chuck led the way down the long, plushly carpeted hallway toward the club. The Scotch in the limo had been too much for me. The night began to blur and spin when we entered the club. The whole room seemed to rattle from the collective frenzy: drinking, dancing, snorting, vibrating. Women in thongs and pasties shimmied on platforms around the dance floor. High up in his booth, the DJ lifted his arms, and the crowd responded with a deafening roar. Smoke and confetti poured from the ceiling. Our waitress was wearing a tight scoop-neck minidress that displayed her cleavage, which bounced vigorously whenever she mixed a drink in the cocktail shaker. I had shot after shot handed to me. I was drunker than I’d been in months, drunker even than a few nights ago in Meatpacking. I had long slipped past the point of enjoyment. What time was it? Would this night ever end? Nothing seemed to exist except for this club, the gyrations of the people around me. A slow-motion orgy: Michael getting closer and closer to a blond woman on the banquette, Chuck kissing a woman—then two at once—sitting on his lap. Steve had turned in earlier, his wedding ring glinting in the strobe lights. Brad had his hand at the small of our waitress’s back, his eyes traveling toward her chest. Roger was off somewhere else.