Wednesday morning I was still feeling upbeat about myself and the future when I entered my office building and got the shit kicked out of me. It happened so fast I didn't realize what was happening until I was on my back in front of the revolving door and punches were landing against my face. Finally, a security guard pulled Robert Lipton off of me.
Lipton looked like a wreck his thin gray hair hanging over his scruffy face, his eyes swollen and puffy, as if he hadn't gotten any sleep in days. I realized that the edition of Manhattan Business with the negative article I'd written about Lipton's company had hit the newsstands.
"Son of a bitch!" he screamed at me as the guard held him back. "I'll kill you! I'll fuckin' kill you!"
He continued yelling, telling me that, thanks to my article, he'd lost three of his biggest clients. Two cops showed up. After the security guard explained what had happened, one of the cops asked me if I wanted to press charges. I declined. I didn't want any unnecessary involvement with the police, but I also felt bad about what I'd done to Lipton and I didn't want to screw up his life more than I already had.
The injuries to my face from Ricky and Rebecca had almost disappeared, but now I had a fresh welt on my left cheekbone and my upper lip was swollen and bleeding.
The security guard had given me a first-aid ice pack, but Lipton had gotten a few good whacks in and it didn't help much. I was hoping to lock myself in my office and stay there all day to avoid any attention, but Mike, the guy Angie had dated, had been downstairs in the lobby while the cops were talking to me, and when I arrived in the office he had already told everyone what had happened. Holding the icepack up to my face, I had to hold court in the office's reception area, giving my account of the incident. Everyone expressed their sympathy, and then Jeff took me aside and tried to persuade me to press charges.
"It's okay," I said. "I'd rather just forget about it."
"You sure?" Jeff said. "Because we could send that prick to jail."
I explained to Jeff that, given everything I'd been through lately, I didn't want any more turmoil in my life. Jeff said he understood, but he still thought I was making a mistake.
In my office, I tried to block out what had happened with Lipton and focus on work. A few articles had been e-mailed to me for editing, including one of Angie's. Since I'd been at Manhattan Business I'd always written my articles as quickly as possible, treating my work simply as a job, a means of making money. Now, as an editor, I worked much more diligently, laboring over every word, making sure each sentence was as good as it could possibly be. The only break I took from work all day was during my lunch hour, when I browsed the Net for information about upcoming wine tastings in the New York area.
Thursday was a repeat of Wednesday, minus the attack by Lipton. I was enjoying working late and spending a lot of time alone. For months I'd been so absorbed in Rebecca and our problems that I'd barely had time to myself, and now I enjoyed coming home to a quiet apartment.
Friday morning I was waiting for the elevator in the lobby when Angie appeared behind me. We exchanged hellos, and then the elevator arrived. Other people got on with us, so we didn't talk during the ride up. When we got out on our floor I said, "See ya later," and headed toward my office. Several minutes later I was settling in to start my workday when Angie entered and said, "Can I come in?"
"Sure," I said.
She came farther into my office, but remained standing.
"Look," she said, "I know awful things happened this week and I totally understand that, but I still don't understand why you have to treat me this way."
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, all week you've been blowing me off, pretending that I don't exist. Didn't you even notice we've barely been talking to each other?"
"I've been busy," I said.
"I can't do this anymore," she said. "I mean, if you just need some space I totally understand that, and if you want me to back off I will.
But if there's more to it I mean, if you're angry at me for something, or if I did something wrong»
"Have dinner with me tonight."
She waited, then said, "Really?"
"I'll come by your place at eight o'clock. Come on, what do you say?"
"Okay," she said, "but if you wanted to go out, why have you been blowing me off?"
"Because I was a jerk, that's why. I really want to take you out tonight. What do you say?"
She stared at me for a few seconds; then the corners of her lips curled into a slight smile.
"All right," she said.
"Great," I said.
She gave me her address on East Seventy-fourth, and I told her how much I was looking forward to tonight.
Later in the morning, I went downtown to interview the CFO of Prime Net Solutions. During the interview I kept zoning out, thinking about Angie and getting excited about our first date. Back at my office, I conducted a few phone interviews for the Prime Net article and had to edit the text for next week's Company Report section. I was going to stop by Angie's cubicle to say hi; then I had a better idea. I sent her a bouquet of virtual flowers with a message that read, Thanks for being so patient. After she received the bouquet she IM'd me, telling me how sweet I was.
I'd been staying at the office until seven-thirty, eight o'clock the past couple of days, but today I figured I'd leave at around six, which would give me plenty of time to go home, shower, and change before I went to Angie's.
Around five forty-five, I finished up my work and went to the bathroom.
At the urinal, Kyle from Sales told me a long story about his misadventures of trying to sell his East Side co-op. I continued chatting with him for a while outside the bathroom, then headed back toward my office, deciding that I'd take Angie out to a restaurant near her apartment, maybe to one of those little romantic Italian places off Second. It was going to be perfect, I thought, and then I entered my office and saw Kenny, reclining in my chair with his feet resting on my desk.
HE LOOKED THE same as the last time I'd seen him, at the bar the night I was pick pocketed His long hair was messy and greasy, and he had about a week's worth of beard growth. He was wearing a light blue short-sleeved button down shirt, but he'd missed a couple of buttons and I could see his wife-beater tank top and sweaty chest hair. His body odor a combination of sweat and Old Spice had permeated my office.
"How'd you get in here?" I asked, although this was the last thing I cared about.
"I told the girl up front you were doing an article about me," he said.
"This is a business magazine, right? So how 'bout you do a thing about the blackmailing business? Come in, interview me, I'll tell you exactly how it's done."
"What do you want?"
He laughed, then said, "Besides all your money?" and continued laughing. Finally he calmed down and said, "What do I want? That's a good one. Please, man. If you make me laugh any more I'm gonna pull something." He stared at me seriously, then said, "If I really wanted you to put me in your magazine you'd have to do it. If I wanted you to run around this office screaming, "Suck my hairy cock! Suck my hairy cock!" you'd have to do that too!"
Kenny's voice tended to boom, and I was afraid other people in the office might overhear what he was saying.
"But I gotta admit, you had me scared there for a while," he said.
"When the cops came to me and told me about Charlotte, I thought you did her. I mean, it woulda made sense. She comes to you with the pictures, asks you for the money, then you whack her. Actually, you should thank me for saving your ass. That first night the cops were coming down heavy on me, they thought I did Charlotte and Ricky. They had me in lockup overnight. I was almost gonna finger you for both raps, but then the cops came to me and said they found out your little girlfriend did Charlotte. At first I didn't know what to think; then I was glad 'cause I knew you were still my butt boy for Ricky's murder."