Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(42)

I finish my drink and tap Jack on the shoulder for a quick thanks and make an excuse for the early night, and I’m out the door into the hallway. The heavy door closes behind me with a seal, and in an instant all the voices are gone like snapping off the radio. I wish things were good with Julia so I could have something I couldn’t wait to get home to, but leaving here is good enough for now.

The elevator takes me all the way down without a single stop and I step past the two bronze Great Danes that line the elevator alcove. I’m almost to the door outside when I hear a collection of laughter and too many stories told at once in loud voices coming in from the other side. They’re already here. Ron must have called Woody from a car close by.

They push through the door in a single mass, like an amoeba with forward body motion fueled by alcohol. Eight guys in designer jeans and untucked button-down shirts under navy trench coats. Like a uniform. I’m unavoidably in the path and I hear my name called in a chorus.

“William, congratulations on the big night out.”

“This is an unofficial one, but it has all the ingredients. Are you coming or going?”

“Going. I need to get home.” Less is more when trying to leave. Any information about why gives a foothold for counterargument.

“Nick, you can’t. We have Scores dancers coming over.”

“I heard. Where are they?”

“Coming at the end of their shift. We gave a down payment, and what stripper in her right mind would turn down a night at the Soho Grand penthouse with limitless blow?” In my mind this is said loud enough for the entire lobby to hear.

“I’ve never heard of such a stripper.” William laughs at this. I need to go. “Damn, I can’t believe I’m going to miss this one, guys.” I try hard to sound genuine. “Take pictures and don’t leave out any details on Monday.”

“Okay. You sure?” I’m his boss. There’s only so much complaining he can do.

“Yeah. Have fun. Stay out of trouble.”

I get outside and the bellman gets a cab for me. I notice there’s a voicemail on my cell phone and I check it.

Nick, it’s Rebecca James. I hope it’s okay that I’m calling you. I know you can’t talk about Freddie’s work, but I thought we might get together and talk about other things. Some nonconfidential things. Anyway, call me when you can.

I don’t know how she got my number. I guess reporters have their ways. It’s been more than a month since I saw her and I’m craving to call her back, but I know if I call her, I’ll have created something that will take on a life of its own. I decide that if I call her, I need to wait until I’m in a place where I can concentrate rather than in the back of a taxi. This way I can just decide about it all later.





16 | THE MORNING AFTER


January 21, 2006

THE RING OF MY CELL PHONE BEGINS TO CRACK through my sleep and enter my consciousness.

“Hello.” I answer because it’s the fastest way to make it stop.

“Nick, it’s Ron.” I almost say Ron who, but another part of my brain narrowly wins the race and figures it out first. Why the hell would Ron be calling? I didn’t know he even had my cell phone number. It feels like the beginning of a practical joke, but I’m only barely processing information.

“Ron. What time is it?”

“I guess it’s about six a.m. We’re in some trouble.” I have an image of him mugged and beaten, lying next to his car, which is stripped and up on cinder blocks.

“Who’s we and what kind of trouble?”

“Me and William. A few other guys. We’re still at the Soho Grand. Things got a little out of control last night and the manager is here and he’s freaking out and he’s going to call the cops. I think we need your help, Nick.”

When a person makes a habit of asking for help and abusing it, it becomes easier to say no, that I’ve already done my part. You’ve come to this well before and the well is dry. If a person has never abused it and sends out a distress call, the minimum human response is that I’ll see what I can do. William and Ron have never asked for my help before.

“All right. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thanks, Nick.”

I turn back to Julia. Her face is angled slightly up from the pillow and her eyes are still closed. She never lets the pillow against her face. Her breathing is soft and slow. “Are you awake?”

“I was just wondering that very thing. What was that about?”

“Ron. A kid from the office. He and some other guys got into trouble last night.”

“Are they in jail?”

“No, but they’re about to be. They called to see if I can help.”

“What can you do about it?”

“I have no idea, but I’ll go see what I can do. They’re at the Soho Grand now.”

“Sounds like high-class trouble.”

Her eyes have stayed closed for the conversation. I lean over and kiss her forehead. “I’ll call you later. Maybe we can meet somewhere for breakfast.”

I pull on jeans, loafers, and a long winter coat and put on a wool hat, which will flatten my bed hair. At 6 a.m. on a winter Saturday, the streets are strangely deserted like the setting of a Stephen King novel. The only movements are the few taxis roaming like fishermen on an unstocked stream. I hail one. I close the car door and lean forward to direct him to the Soho Grand as the smell of burnt lamb climbs up my nose. Some sort of god-awful gyro at 6 a.m. I crack the window for relief and start counting streets downtown.