Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(45)

“I’m going to go back in the hall and send these guys in. I suggest you act like this is a lot of money for you.”

Ron squeaks, “This is a lot of money.”

“Shut your mouth. Six ways, this is less than thirty grand each. One of you stay here and the rest of you get your checkbooks, get to the bank when it opens, and scrape it together. And go wake up that girl.”

I step back in the hallway and see the cop and the manager standing in a way that shows there had not been any conversation since I left. “They understand. I suggested one stay here while the others find a way to go get the funds together. It could take some time.”

The cop nods. The manager follows with a nod. “Fine. One of them can wait downstairs in the office.” I don’t know if I saved them from jail or just cost them some extra money. Either way, it’s done and at a cost they won’t even remember a year from now.

“I’m going home.”

It’s too early to call Julia and too late to get back to sleep. I pick up a couple newspapers on my way out of the lobby and go to French Roast on Sixth Avenue, which is open twenty-four hours and where I know I can get both coffee and alcohol.

The late-night club crowd has already come and gone, and the weekend brunch crowd won’t show up for hours, so I have the place mostly to myself. I order a Bloody Mary, coffee, and a scrambled eggs breakfast and settle in with the papers. The first news article shifts my mind to Rebecca’s voicemail from the night before and now my eyes are scanning words on the paper but my focus is on trying to repeat her message verbatim.

I’d like to call her back but I know it’s a bad idea. On the other hand, it’s rude not to return her message. I spend a moment considering which outweighs the other, then realize it’s too early to call anyone anyway. I think if I still want to call her in a couple hours, I will. I conclude this deal with myself and order another Bloody Mary.

The waitress has taken me in like a boarder and seems happy for the company of someone to check in on. She matches my drinking rhythm, and each time the first few ice cubes in my glass are exposed to open air, she’s back with a fresh drink.

After an hour and a half, I’m satisfied I’ve gotten all I can out of the Times and the Post for today. I’m also sure that no harm can come from calling Rebecca, and I want to do it. Actually, I’d like to see her. Not to get her into bed, but because I think this can draw out why I’ve been fascinated with her and why things have been such crap with Julia lately. I haven’t before had an interest in another woman during my years of marriage. I’ve never even slept with a hooker. This new interest isn’t boredom. Something is compellingly good about Rebecca, or inversely, something has gone compellingly bad with Julia. I think I’m equipped to confront it.

I work out my game plan, which is not to mess around with small talk on the phone. I’m better in person and if I want to see her, I should go for that directly and put her on the spot. The more we get comfortable talking, the more she can manipulate a plan. I’ll just make this a tight yes-or-no offer.

The waitress stops by and I ask her to check back in a minute. If I get voicemail, I’ll order another drink then. I feel jitters and I push my dishes to the far side of the table to symbolically clear space around me. I pull up the number that called me the night before and press dial.

She answers on the second ring and instead of saying hello she says, “Hi, Nick.” I know she’s using caller ID, but I don’t expect it and it sounds seductive.

I ask if she can meet and she suggests she can be at Hudson Bar and Books in about an hour and it should be open then. It’s a library-themed cigar bar in the Village and one of the last places in the city a person can still smoke. I haven’t smoked in years but I don’t mind. It seems like the kind of place where nobody would see us.

I have some time to kill, so I get another Bloody Mary to get my thoughts together. I have the sense that I’m cleaning house, but when it comes to Julia and Rebecca, I don’t know what that translates to. Whatever the answer, I’m not sure I’m the type of person who can have a happy marriage anyway. I’m not that happy a guy and marriage isn’t a magic ingredient. A happy career seems even more unlikely. Who the hell likes his job? Trying for more, thinking there could be more, is salt in the wound. Blissful marriages are for movies and storybooks. Blissful jobs are a goddamn farce. Not even the movies go that far.

I decide to stop getting my thoughts together. There’s no way to prepare for something like this and it’s only having the effect of depressing me.

I switch to beer and pass about forty minutes before the walk over to Hudson to meet Rebecca. The walk takes twenty minutes and the cold air combines with the alcohol to get me into a good state. I get there early, so I order a bourbon and sit at a table way in back.

The place is a single room shaped like a rectangle with an alcove in back and a bar to the side of the entrance. It’s mostly a late-night place and now there is only a bartender, waitress, and one person at the bar smoking a cigar. I’ve forgotten what a stink that makes in a closed room. The walls of my alcove are lined with bookshelves and I browse titles to distract myself. There’s a direct line of sight from the door to my table in back, so I adjust the angle of my chair a few times and try which elbow in what position will give me the most relaxed appearance. I keep watching the door but I want to time it so that I’m looking away at a book spine when she walks in and sees me first, then I can pass my eyes around the room and act the right amount of surprised to see her at that moment.