Which brings us full circle to the terminus of commerce, Grand Central.
What do I want? I thought I made that perfectly clear in my letter.
I’m getting older and I need a retirement account.
Proof, you say? I have her picture right here, isn’t that enough?
How did I get it? I suppose it can be told, now that the trap is snapped. I – ah – found your wallet at Track 27. With your driver’s license and family pics. Like I said, you businessmen can be careless after a few drinks.
So do you have the money or not?
Not to worry if you don’t. I tweeted ransom instructions to the Daily News and the Post. Sure I’m on Twitter. Do I look like a Luddite to you? I set up my account at the Apple Store on the balcony level.
An observant reader should be able locate you. I hope for your sake that you’re trending.
It appears that your Blackberry is losing its charge, vibrating ever so much more faintly. My heart grows sick – on account of the dampness of the tunnels. I’ll leave you now.
Meet Me at the Clock – by R. Narvaez
SNOW! AND LOTS OF IT.
Lew Conrad stared out the window and watched the feathery stuff descend onto the cars and the street and the sidewalk. Blankets. This could be bad. This could screw everything. He closed the curtains and dressed as quickly and quietly as he could in his bedroom. He didn’t want to wake his wife. They always got along better when she was asleep.
But, with an abrupt cease of her snoring, the great and powerful Magda stirred. Without lifting her head from the pillow or opening her eyes, she said, “Want coffee?”
Lew tied his tie right up to his neck. “No thanks,” he said. “You make me bitter enough.”
His wife mumbled, “Suit yourself.”
Then she went right back to sawing her way through a redwood.
Lew put on his best Brooks Brothers business suit pants – a little worn at the pants cuffs but only a busybody midget would notice – and then his shoes and then rubbers over his shoes. He took his old-fashioned gray fedora off the dresser and walked out of the bedroom. As far as the wife knew he was off to an imaginary office in midtown place. Let her keep dreaming. Only a nuke could get her out of bed anyway.
In the living room, he took out a videotape box of The Godfather Trilogy. He slid out the sleeve for Part III, which he’d thrown away a long while ago, and pulled out a fat envelope containing one hundred hundred dollar bills. He put the envelope in his inside jacket pocket.
He left the apartment building earlier than usual, and when he got outside he saw there was just one or two or maybe three inches on the ground, and so he decided, what the hell, he’d save what was left of his subway money and walk the thirty blocks to the 125th St. Metro-North Station in Harlem. How bad could it be? It was just a little snow. But the sky churned, as dark gray as a tunnel rat, and as he slogged his way uptown the snowfall grew heavier. And heavier. He slipped at a corner. And again a block later and almost lost his old hat. He really should have checked the weather. What a stupid thing to foul up.
When he got to the station, his pants wet to his thighs, he ran up the stairs and caught the 5:50 a.m. to Scarsdale just as its doors were about to close.
Lew felt it was only the first of many lucky breaks he was going to get that day.
Lew easily found a seat on his favorite side of the northbound train, so he could see the loveliness of the Hudson Valley. But a curtain of white hid all the good scenery.
“Some snow, eh?” the conductor said, suddenly hovering above Lew, but looking out of the window and not at Lew.
“Astonishing,” Lew said, showing his monthly pass quickly. It was a counterfeit, and he didn’t want the conductor examining it too closely. But for some reason the conductor gingerly took it and held it in his hands.
“It’s a blizzard. That’s going to screw us up and down the line up all day,” the conductor said.
“Absolutely,” Lew said, watching the man’s hands.
The conductor stood there, watching the snow like a child. Lew’s counterfeit pass couldn’t stand much scrutiny. It wasn’t even the right color for the month.
But the conductor only had eyes for the white fluff outside the window. He handed the pass back to Lew and then waddled away, looking past all the passengers as he went. “Yeah, some snow,” he said to himself.
The weather slowed the train down, made it sluggish. To pass the time, Lew tried drying his pants by opening and closing his legs like an accordion player on espresso.
The train pulled into Scarsdale at 6:45 a.m., a little late but leaving Lew with more than enough time to take his spot.
He bought a black coffee for $1.50 using change he found at the bottom of his pocket. Then he looked around – all the other passengers were bundled up, huddled in groups and with heads tucked down. Magda called people like that “Penguins in the Arctic.” He turned and bent into a deep trashcan for a copy of the Wall Street Journal that lay jammed into a corner. He pulled it out and stood up, looking around again. “Penguins.” The paper was slightly stained but usable.
At 7:01 Lew took in his usual spot on the crowded southbound platform, two cars from the back. He tapped the paper against his thigh, to all appearances a businessman with busy thoughts.
A few minutes behind his normal schedule, Warren Kiner stumbled through the crowd and took his own usual spot, right next to Lew. Kiner wore a heavy parka, galoshes, a winter hat with fur-lined earflaps, and the look of a sheep.
“Conrad. Good morning,” Kiner said, brushing snow off his shoulders.
“Warren. Good morning. Some snow, eh?”’
“Sure is, sure is. Listen, about today -.”
“Shhh. Prying ears,” Lew said. “Let’s talk about it on the train.”
“Sure, sure,” Kiner said, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Of course.”
Across the tracks and piling high, the snow fell in a steady thrum.
“Say, I was wondering,” Kiner said. “Do you live in the Tudor on Walworth Avenue? I passed it the other day, and I’m pretty sure you told me you live near Fox Meadow, but I saw workmen redoing it.”
“Yes, that’s ours. We’re having a little work done.”
“Wow, I don’t know that I would consider renovating a gable roof, and one as steep as that, minor work. And are you getting all your windows redone? How are you guys living in there while all that work is going on?”
“Oh wait a minute – you mean the Tudor right by Fox Meadow? No, we’re the Tudor a couple blocks over. You and Wilona should stop by sometime.”
“We’d love to. Where exactly – ”
“Oh, here we go.”
Parting the dense white curtain as if emerging from a fairy tale, the southbound train chugged into the station. The train was near to full, but the two men were lucky to find seats together.
“So, yes, everything is set,” Lew said. “Mr. Carswell can’t wait to meet you. Are you all set?”
“I have the check. And I can’t wait to meet Mr. Carswell.”
“Cash, Warren. You know I don’t trust banks.”
“Of course. Cash. Right. Sorry.”
“Magnificent. I love to help friends make friends.”
“So, where will it be? Did you finalize that?”
Lew took out his cell phone, which hadn’t worked since he stopped paying the bill two months earlier, and pretended to scroll around, making sure to keep Kiner from seeing the screen.
“Yes, of course, three days ago. Sorry, but my secretary only reminded me about it yesterday. She’s a hottie but not a smartie, like the kids say. Ah, here it is: We’ll meet at my regular suite at the Grand Hyatt, so it’s more convenient for everyone all around.”