“Hello,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I was calling her, but I remembered the days when I used to call her daily from work, and more than once, too.
When we’d stopped talking to each other, really talking, when we’d started talking about inconsequential things only — I’d stopped calling her three times a day. And there were days I didn’t call her at all, entire twelve-hour periods when not a single word passed between us.
And now there were so many things I couldn’t talk to her about, too — things I was ashamed of, things I could barely bear to think of.
But I called her anyway.
“Hello yourself,” Deanna said. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine.”
“You sure, Charles?”
I wouldn’t realize till later that Deanna wasn’t merely making small talk here. That she knew things weren’t okay with me — not the details, but enough.
But I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity — not yet. I couldn’t.
“Yes, everything’s fine, Deanna,” I said. “I just wanted to say . . . hi. I just wanted to see how you’re doing today. That’s all.”
“I’m doing okay, Charles. I am. I’m worrying about you, though.”
“Me? I’m fine. Really.”
“Charles . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you to think . . . well . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you to think you can't talk to me.” There was something heartbreaking about that statement, I thought. Talking—surely the easiest thing two people can do with each other. Unless they can’t. And then it’s the hardest thing two people can do with each other. The most impossible thing on earth.
“I . . . really, Deanna. There’s nothing. I was just going to say hi. To say . . . I love you. That’s all.”
Silence from the other end of the line. “I love you, too.”
“Deanna, do you remember . . . ?”
“Remember what?”
“When I played the magician at Anna’s party? I bought those tricks from the magic store. Remember?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“I was good, too. The kids loved it.”
“Yes. Me too.”
“When I turned over the hat, remember? And they thought they were going to get soaked with milk. Confetti came out. Oohs and aahs.” I’d been thinking about that for some reason today, maybe because I was searching for another kind of magic now.
“Yes, David Copperfield has nothing on you.”
“Except a few million dollars.”
“But who’s counting.”
“Not me.”
“Thinking of changing careers?”
“I don’t know. It’s never too late, is it?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Charles?”
“Yes?”
“I meant what I said. About talking to me. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Be home normal time?”
“Yes. Normal time.”
“See you then.”
When I hung up the phone, I thought it might actually be possible to make everything turn out okay. Not everything, but the important things. I knew what the important things were, too — they were staring at me from the ten-by-twelve picture frame on my desk.
But that’s when everything began to go wrong.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The phone call came maybe two minutes later.
Two minutes after I’d hung up with Deanna, after I’d stared at the picture of my family and thought that maybe I could make it all work out in the end.
The phone rang. And rang again. Darlene was probably down the hall swapping boy stories with her fellow executive assistants — which is what secretaries liked being called now in lieu of decent salaries.
So I picked it up.
There were over one hundred people who could have logically been on the line—much later, I counted them as an excuse for something to do. Everyone I knew, basically—maybe a hundred people, all in all, who could reasonably be expected to pick up a phone and call me. Not that I wasn’t expecting this call, of course. In many ways, it was the only call I was expecting. But I imagined it very differently. I imagined it was going to be Vasquez on the line.
But it wasn’t Vasquez.
It was her.
Only her voice was strangely reminiscent of another time, another place. That little-girl voice again. Terribly cute when it’s coming from a little girl, but nauseating when it’s not.
“Please, Charles," the voice pleaded. "You have to come here. Now.”
I was thinking several things at once. For instance, where here was. Her home, her office? Where? For another, I was wondering what it was that was causing her to sound like a frightened child again. Even though I knew what it was. I knew.
“Youhave to . . .Oh God . . . please, ” she whispered.
“Whereare you?” I asked her. A good logical question, one of the four Ws they teach in journalism. What, When, Why, Where? Even if I was asking it in a voice that sounded as panicked as hers. Even then.
“Please . . . he followed me . . . he’s going to . . .”
“What’s going on, Lucinda? What’s wrong?” Which, after all, was the real question here.
“He’s going to hurt me, Charles. . . . He . . . he wants his money . . . he . . .” And then her words got muffled and I could picture what was happening. I saw the phone being yanked out of Lucinda’s hand, the receiver covered by a large black fist. I pictured the room, which looked like the room in Alphabet City even if it wasn’t. And I imagined her face — even as I tried to avert my eyes, I did. Don’t look . . . don’t . . .
And then someone was speaking again. But not her. Not this time.
“Listen to me, motherfucker. ” Vasquez. But not the one I was used to. That phony ingratiating tone was gone, the carefully controlled fury. Fury had been let out for a stroll, and it was kicking up its heels and break-dancing on whoever got in its way.
“You thought you could fuck with me. You thought you’re gonna set me up? You miserable piece of shit. Me? You put some pansy in a car, and he’s gonna what? Kick my ass? You fucking crazy? I got your girl here, understand? I got your whore right here. Tell me you understand, motherfucker.”
“I understand.”
“You understand shit. You think you’re some kind of gangsta or something? You send some clown to fuck me over? Me? ”
“Look . . . I understand. I — ”
“You understand? You get your ass over here with the hundred grand or I will fucking kill this stupid whore. You understand that, Charles?”
“Yes.” After all, who couldn’t understand that? Was there anyone on earth who couldn’t grasp the gravity of that statement?
Now we were down to Where again. I asked for an address.
This time it was uptown — Spanish Harlem. A place I’d never been to except in passing while on my way to somewhere else — Yankee Stadium or the Cross Bronx Expressway.
I called Vital for a car. I opened my locked drawer and stuffed the money into my briefcase—I had it sitting there, waiting for the moment to arrive. I saw something else sitting there, too: Winston’s gun. For a second I thought about taking it with me, but then I decided against it. What, after all, would I do with it?
On the way downstairs I passed Mary Widger, who asked me if anything was wrong.