Recursion(19)

He stops at Lexington to let three snowplows pass and stares at a red neon sign across the street:





McLachlan’s Restaurant


Breakfast

Lunch

Dinner

Open 7 Days

24 Hours



Barry crosses, and then he’s standing under it, watching the snow fall through the red illumination and thinking this has to be the all-night diner Joe mentioned on the phone.

He’s been walking for nearly forty minutes, and he’s beginning to shiver, the snow soaking through his shoes. Beyond the restaurant, he passes an alcove where a homeless man sits muttering to himself and rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his legs. Then a bodega, a liquor store, a luxury women’s clothing store, and a bank—all shuttered for the night.

Near the end of the block, he stops at the entrance to a darkened driveway, which tunnels down into the subterranean space beneath a neo-gothic building wedged between two higher skyscrapers built of steel and glass.

Lowering his umbrella, he walks down the driveway, into the low-lit gloom below street level. After forty feet, it terminates at a garage door constructed of reinforced steel. There’s a keypad, and above it, a surveillance camera.

Well, shit. This would appear to be the end of the line for tonight. He’ll come back tomorrow, stake out the entrance, see if he can catch anyone coming or— The sound of gears beginning to turn gives his heart a jolt. He looks back at the garage door, which is slowly lifting off the ground, light from the other side stretching across the pavement, already reaching the tips of Barry’s wet shoes.

Leave?

Stay?

This may not even be the right place.

The door is halfway up and still rising, and there’s no one on the other side.

He hesitates, then crosses the threshold into a modest, underground parking structure, occupied by a dozen vehicles.

His footsteps reverberate off the concrete as the halogen lights burn down from overhead.

He sees an elevator, and beside it, a door presumably leading to a stairwell.

The light above the elevator illuminates.

A bell dings.

Barry ducks behind a Lincoln MKX and watches through the tinted glass of the front passenger window as the elevator doors part.

Empty.

What the hell is this?

He shouldn’t be here. None of this has anything to do with his actual caseload, and no crime, as far as he can tell, has been committed. Technically, he’s trespassing.

Fuck it.

The walls inside are smooth, featureless metal, the elevator apparently controlled from an external source.

The doors close.

The elevator climbs.

His heart pounds.

Barry swallows twice to clear the pressure from his ears, and after thirty seconds, the car comes to a shuddering stop.

The first thing he hears, as the doors spread, is Miles Davis—one of the perfect slow songs off Kind of Blue—drifting on a lonesome echo through what appears to be the lobby of a hotel.

He steps off the elevator onto the marble floor. There’s dark, brooding woodwork everywhere. Leather couches, black lacquered chairs. A trace of cigar smoke in the air.

Something timeless about the space.

Straight ahead stands an unmanned reception desk with a backdrop of vintage mailboxes that would’ve been used in another era, and the letters HM emblazoned on the brick above it all.

He hears the fragile clink of ice cubes settling in glassware, and then voices drifting over from a bar that’s nestled against a curtain of windows. Two men, seated on leather-cushioned stools, are in conversation as a black-vested barkeep polishes glassware.

As Barry moves toward the bar, the smell of the cigar grows stronger, the air becoming hazy with smoke.

Barry climbs onto one of the stools and leans against the solid mahogany bar. Through the nearby windows, the buildings and lights of the city are shrouded in a whiteout.

The bartender comes over.

She’s beautiful—dark eyes and prematurely gray hair held up by chopsticks. Her name tag reads TONYA.

“What are you drinking?” Tonya asks.

“Could I get a whiskey?”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

She goes to pour his drink, and Barry glances at the men several seats down. They’re drinking bourbon from a half-empty bottle that’s sitting between them on the bar.

The one closest to him looks to be in his early seventies, with gray, thinning hair and an emaciation that suggests terminal illness. Smoke spirals up from the cigar in his hand, which smells like rain falling on a desert.

The other man is closer to Barry’s age—bland, clean-shaven face, tired eyes. He asks the older man, “How long have you been here, Amor?”

“About a week.”

“Have they given you a date yet?”

“Tomorrow actually.”

“No shit. Congratulations.”

They touch glasses.

“Nervous?” the young man asks.

“I mean, it’s on my mind what’s coming. But they do a really thorough job preparing you for everything.”

“Is it true—no anesthesia?”

“Unfortunately, yes. When’d you get here?”

“Yesterday.” Amor takes a puff off his cigar.