The Guest Room(81)

It was a risk, but I had to do something, yes?

And so I decided I would go back to Bronxville. To the house where it all began.





Chapter Thirteen


Before leaving the hospital in Brooklyn, Richard had sent Spencer a text. He wrote that he had something for him and to meet him at Rapier, a restaurant a few blocks west of the Cravat. He suggested eleven-thirty. Spencer had texted back a smiley face. Richard assumed that meant he would be there.

And now it was eleven-forty-five, and there was no sign of the guy. Richard had taken a seat at the end of the bar—a redoubtable slab of burnished mahogany—that gave him a view of the entrance. He had ordered a beer, largely because of where he had just been and not because of what he was about to do. He couldn’t recall the last time he had started drinking before noon. Just when he was about to text the fool once again, he saw him outside on the sidewalk, taking a last drag on his cigarette and then flicking the still-smoking butt to the ground. Then he was pushing his way through the glass doors and eyeing the tables. It took him a full ten seconds before he spotted Richard at the bar and smiled his way past the hostess.

“The bar, eh,” he said, taking the stool beside Richard. “Sometimes I like to eat at the bar, too. Feels kind of manly.”

“We’re not eating,” Richard said simply, hoping to take Spencer’s unendurable self-satisfaction down a peg.

“A liquid lunch? That’s fortifying, too.” He got the bartender’s attention with the singular ease of a drunk and ordered a vodka tonic. “Good to see you, Richard. Though you’re looking pretty informal for an M and A stud. Black hoodie and jeans? This is…what? Your Breaking Bad chic? Or is this your hausfrau costume while you wait for Franklin McCoy to take you back?”

“Casual Friday.”

“I approve. And, I must say, I’m very glad you’re going to be a friend and have my back on this one. Just when things seemed to be getting worse, it seems you’ve come to your senses and are going to make everything at least a wee bit better.”

“Oh, I think we both hit rock bottom this week. I don’t think things could possibly get any worse for either of us.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, they could. They really could. Just wait till you see me testifying someday. But it beats jail. And, thanks to you, I will have paid my legal bills—at least some portion of them.”

“They’re that bad?”

“So bad. And I am expecting it will take beaucoup bucks to dial down Chuck ‘Shithead’ Alcott and ensure that the frail Mrs. Fisher makes a full recovery.”

“Nuisance suits.”

The bartender brought Spencer his drink, and Spencer tapped it against Richard’s bottle before taking a generous swallow. “I know.”

“But,” Richard added, “that party really might have ruined the Fishers’ marriage. Or scarred Chuck Alcott in some way. That’s one more thing we have to live with.”

“Well, I didn’t put a gun to Brandon’s head and say go f*ck the talent or else. And Chuck could have left whenever he wanted.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to be a killjoy. Maybe he didn’t want to pass judgment on Philip at his bachelor party.”

“That’s why you took one of the girls upstairs and f*cked her in the guest room?”

“I didn’t f*ck her, Spencer,” he said, lowering his voice and hoping that Spencer would follow his lead.

“Your loss, in that case.”

“I was drunk.”

“We all were.”

Richard considered adding that he only viewed being drunk as an explanation—not a defense. But there wasn’t any point. So instead he let the thread go and said, “Anyway, given all the money pressures you’re feeling—”

“I wish that was it. I am constantly looking over my shoulder and expecting to see some skinhead bruiser amped up on steroids. I look on the street and see black SUVs everywhere.”

“Can’t help you there.”

“My lawyer says I am worried for naught.”

“There you go.”

“But still…”

“But still. So, it seems to me, my thirty thousand dollars will barely make a dent into what you may need.”

“Happy to make it thirty-five.”

“How do I know you won’t?”

He smiled cryptically and took another sip of his drink. “You don’t.”

“In the old days, I would pay you—you know, get down in the muck with you, really sink to your level of leech and—”

“Flattery will get you everywhere. If you want, I can simply send you my legal bills and whatever part of Mrs. Fisher’s ‘treatment’ I’m saddled with. Let you handle it.”

“I would sink to your level and hand you a check for thirty thousand dollars,” he went on. “And you, in turn, would hand me the negatives and the prints. But now? I have no guarantees. You could be storing the digital files anywhere. For all I know, they’re already in the cloud with all your other filth.”

“Okay, you brought me a check today for thirty. I will, of course, take that off your hands. And someday soon, I may ask you for more. But if that day comes, I will give you my assurance that I have deleted the files everywhere and you have nothing at all to worry about. You will have my word as a scholar—and, I guess, a bit of a rake.”