Ghosts of Manhattan (18 page)

It looks like an Impressionist painting of a hotel room. This is the Black Hawk Down of bachelor parties.

Kicking the dirt off my shoe, I walk back past the six kids. “Nice work.” They don't look up but this time the hotel manager does. I wave toward the hallway. “Can we have a word outside?”

He's a balding, bookwormy-looking man and his annoyed expression looks natural to him. “Fine,” he says.

We both turn our shoulders sideways to get past the cop, who closes the door and follows behind us. The manager is still holding his papers and looks to be preparing to launch into his tirade. The only way to diffuse him is to launch into a tirade of my own before he does.

“Those goddamn idiots! Little pricks. They bring their drunken mess into your hotel and make my firm look bad. Those little bastards are going to pay.”

The hotel manager had been about to start screaming his accusations and now his head is moving up and down in quick little movements. There's room for only one crazy man in a conversation. He realizes he doesn't need to argue or convince me of anything. He has an ally, a partner in generating the appropriate levels of outrage. “You're damn right! It was a freaking circus in there. Zoo animals! There have been parties in our suites, but in my twenty-five years in the hotel business I have never seen anything like this. Total abandon of anything resembling human behavior.”

“You know I'm their boss. This was in no way a Bear event, but on behalf of Bear Stearns, I want to apologize.”

“That's fine, but we're beyond apologies.”

I look over at the cop, who has his arms folded and a calm smile. He's patient because he knows he'll have his turn. I'd guess there's a fifty-fifty chance he'll let this play out without making an arrest. He may be satisfied with making them squirm, a few jokes at their expense, then bleeding cash from their nose. The more cash that bleeds, the better chance they have of not getting arrested. Maybe he wants to avoid the paperwork of arresting a bunch of overprivileged kids.

“I understand that. And these kids are going to pay. For everything. And then some. I don't care if they have to beg from every friend and relative, but they're going to pay.”

The cop nods and seems to like the sound of this. The manager takes this as a cue to return to shuffling his papers and crunching numbers. “I'm not finished with the inventory, but I'm at a hundred twenty-seven thousand in damages. And counting.”

The cop's eyes nearly double in size and are almost perfect circles. This is good. There's hope to avoid jail.

“Keep counting then. I'll make sure they pay it. And feel free to estimate on the high side. If they don't want to be fired, they'll pay every penny and right away.”

I turn to the cop. “Officer, about criminal charges. If they're arrested, I have to fire them. I'd rather bankrupt them with this bill, then put them through a living hell of my own.”

“Well, I'm still looking into exactly what happened here.”

“There were prostitutes in that room.” The manager points a finger to the door of the suite to remind us of where we've just been.

I'm still looking at the cop. “I was told they were strippers who joined the party after a shift at Scores.” This is true for at least some of the girls.

The cop is maintaining a calm tone, like a loving parent resolving a spat between children. “We sent a few girls home. I don't know who they were but there aren't any charges there. One more we couldn't wake up, but she's free to go when she does. I don't think they were the ones causing the trouble.”

“Okay.” I'm not sure where this leaves the others. “What about the six in there now?”

He nods to the manager. “Let's finish up the damages report and take it from there.”

“I'll get back to work then.” The manager walks back into the room, leaving the cop and me in the hallway.

“So these kids work for you?”

“Some of them. Some are with another company that works with us.”

“Wall Street stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“I never understood all that. What do you guys do?”

I'm trying to decide between a thirty-second and thirty-minute version of this. I also recognize it will be to my benefit not to sound proud about what I do, which is convenient to my state of mind. “Think about it this way. There are people out there who run companies that create goods and services. This hotel, McDonald's, Johnson and Johnson. They're the primary force. They need a way to interact with financial markets, to buy and sell companies, to issue bonds, give or get loans. That's what we help them do. We're the secondary force. They build and we help move around some of the pieces and then we take a slice for our work.”

“Must be a big slice.”

“Yeah. Over time it can get smaller, but then we find a new way to cut a slice. Wall Street always finds a way.”

“You like what you do?”

My body language has been saying no. “No.” I confirm it and I know I sound genuine. “You like what you do?” I wonder how much patience he actually has for this conversation.

The cop looks at me and he speaks slowly and evenly as though reading the words from the inside of his skull. “In seventeen years on the force I've pulled my gun thirty-two times. I've had a gun pulled on me eleven times and I've been shot twice. I have a cracked vertebra from when I was jumped by two drug dealers, and I have one dead partner. No, I do not like what I do but I'll keep doing it until I reach my full pension, and I don't have much time for the kind of crap pulled by your little friends in there.”

The friendly rapport I had hoped we were building is up in smoke. The awkward moment is broken when the manager steps from the suite and I move to him like an expectant father to the OB emerging from the delivery room. “What have you got?”

“The total damages are one hundred seventy-four thousand,
five hundred twenty-seven dollars.” The exactness of the number gives more credibility.

“Jesus.” The cop whistles.

“Okay.” I hang this out there like a question.

“If we receive prompt payment in full, I won't press charges.”

I look over at the cop, who nods at the manager. “If he's happy, I'm happy.”

“I'll make sure they pay it. Do you mind if I go have a word with them?” These two know that people in finance make good money, but they don't grasp the scale. They think these kids will be paying off debt for years. A young kid like Ron just pulled in a bonus of four hundred grand. He could pay this down himself.

“Be my guest.” The manager smiles, starting to feel more relaxed.

I want these six to feel relieved at the deal that has been struck. I walk back in the room and this time all eyes are on me, like kids hoping the teacher will announce recess.

“Jesus Christ, boys.” I find myself enjoying this more than I should. “That cop wants to lock you up. You have cocaine, hookers, and unbelievable destruction of property. If that happens, I doubt any of you hang on to your jobs.” I pause until every eye has dropped from mine to the floor. “I have good news and bad news.” Eyes are back on me. A ray of hope. “You may not be headed to jail. There may be no charges at all, but you have to pay for the damages, including lost revenue while they fix this mess. Every penny, and today.”

There are now some smirks and a few slide their hands back and forth on the top of their thighs as though ready to reach for their checkbooks now and get to work. “Sure, Nick,” says Ron. “How much?”

“One hundred seventy-five grand.”

“Ouch. I didn't know we had that much fun.” Now that jail is off the table, one of the Chappy brokers is already feeling ready to dine out on this story.

“I'm going to go back in the hall and send these guys in. I suggest you act like this is a lot of money for you.”

Ron squeaks, “This is a lot of money.”

“Shut your mouth. Six ways, this is less than thirty grand each. One of you stay here and the rest of you get your checkbooks, get to the bank when it opens, and scrape it together. And go wake up that girl.”

I step back in the hallway and see the cop and the manager standing in a way that shows there had not been any conversation since I left. “They understand. I suggested one stay here while the others find a way to go get the funds together. It could take some time.”

The cop nods. The manager follows with a nod. “Fine. One of them can wait downstairs in the office.” I don't know if I saved them from jail or just cost them some extra money. Either way, it's done and at a cost they won't even remember a year from now.

“I'm going home.”

It's too early to call Julia and too late to get back to sleep. I pick up a couple newspapers on my way out of the lobby and go to French Roast on Sixth Avenue, which is open twenty-four hours and where I know I can get both coffee and alcohol.

The late-night club crowd has already come and gone, and the weekend brunch crowd won't show up for hours, so I have the place mostly to myself. I order a Bloody Mary, coffee, and a scrambled eggs breakfast and settle in with the papers. The first news article shifts my mind to Rebecca's voicemail from the night before and now my eyes are scanning words on the paper but my focus is on trying to repeat her message verbatim.

I'd like to call her back but I know it's a bad idea. On the other hand, it's rude not to return her message. I spend a moment considering which outweighs the other, then realize it's too early to call anyone anyway. I think if I still want to call her in a couple hours, I will. I conclude this deal with myself and order another Bloody Mary.

The waitress has taken me in like a boarder and seems happy for the company of someone to check in on. She matches my drinking rhythm, and each time the first few ice cubes in my glass are exposed to open air, she's back with a fresh drink.

After an hour and a half, I'm satisfied I've gotten all I can out of the
Times
and the
Post
for today. I'm also sure that no harm can come from calling Rebecca, and I want to do it. Actually, I'd like to see her. Not to get her into bed, but because I think this can draw out why I've been fascinated with her and why things have been such crap with Julia lately. I haven't before had an interest in another woman during my years of marriage. I've never even slept with a hooker. This new interest isn't boredom. Something is compellingly good about Rebecca, or inversely, something has gone compellingly bad with Julia. I think I'm equipped to confront it.

I work out my game plan, which is not to mess around with small talk on the phone. I'm better in person and if I want to see her, I should go for that directly and put her on the spot. The more we get comfortable talking, the more she can manipulate a plan. I'll just make this a tight yes-or-no offer.

The waitress stops by and I ask her to check back in a minute. If I get voicemail, I'll order another drink then. I feel jitters and I push my dishes to the far side of the table to symbolically clear space around me. I pull up the number that called me the night before and press dial.

She answers on the second ring and instead of saying hello she says, “Hi, Nick.” I know she's using caller ID, but I don't expect it and it sounds seductive.

I ask if she can meet and she suggests she can be at Hudson Bar and Books in about an hour and it should be open then. It's a library-themed cigar bar in the Village and one of the last places in the city a person can still smoke. I haven't smoked in years but I don't mind. It seems like the kind of place where nobody would see us.

I have some time to kill, so I get another Bloody Mary to get my thoughts together. I have the sense that I'm cleaning house, but when it comes to Julia and Rebecca, I don't know what that translates to. Whatever the answer, I'm not sure I'm the type of person who can have a happy marriage anyway. I'm not that happy a guy and marriage isn't a magic ingredient. A happy career seems even more unlikely. Who the hell likes his job? Trying for more, thinking there could be more, is salt in the wound. Blissful marriages are for movies and storybooks. Blissful jobs are a goddamn farce. Not even the movies go that far.

I decide to stop getting my thoughts together. There's no way to prepare for something like this and it's only having the effect of depressing me.

I switch to beer and pass about forty minutes before the walk over to Hudson to meet Rebecca. The walk takes twenty minutes and the cold air combines with the alcohol to get me into a good state. I get there early, so I order a bourbon and sit at a table way in back.

The place is a single room shaped like a rectangle with an alcove in back and a bar to the side of the entrance. It's mostly a late-night place and now there is only a bartender, waitress, and one person at the bar smoking a cigar. I've forgotten what a stink that makes in
a closed room. The walls of my alcove are lined with bookshelves and I browse titles to distract myself. There's a direct line of sight from the door to my table in back, so I adjust the angle of my chair a few times and try which elbow in what position will give me the most relaxed appearance. I keep watching the door but I want to time it so that I'm looking away at a book spine when she walks in and sees me first, then I can pass my eyes around the room and act the right amount of surprised to see her at that moment.

I can't keep my eyes from the door, and I screw it all up when she walks in and I wave hello before she even sees me.

I'm astonished all over again at how beautiful she is. There's nothing unusual in her face. There's nothing distinct or remarkable other than it is classic, perfect beauty, almost devoid of character as though it doesn't belong to her.

I marvel at her face as she walks toward me, smiling. The perfect angles, the perfect composition of her eyes, mouth, nose, and cheeks. I can't keep myself from staring and I can't imagine anyone has ever been able to. She must be used to people studying her. Her whole life, every guy turned on and intimidated. Every girl with a burst of negativity filled with resentment and competitiveness mixed with hopelessness.