Tales of the Out & the Gone (11 page)

Suddenly, he went into the inside pocket again and withdrew the wallet. He fished for the rows of credit cards stuffed into several compartments. There was American Express Gold, Visa, Diner’s Club, Carte Blanche, Brooks Brothers, all made out in the name
Close Securities-LC
.
Close Securities-LC
was on each one, but why was he studying these cards? What, was he going to buy something? But that was not it, it was something else. It was not clear. It was not on the windows of the buildings he looked at, scanning easily toward each of the four corners. He had moved perhaps fifty or sixty feet in the last five minutes or so, according to his watch. But there was something bothering him. Everything seemed alright—in order, so to speak.

He was at the corner now and the traffic light was blinking, about to change, with people streaming by him, absorbed in their movement and the flow of midday traffic through the glistening part of the glistening city. He too began to cross as the flow of people eased off somewhat. But then it occurred to him that he had some time to kill, that he had been looking in the window, and also that he did not know where he had decided to go. He thought it would come to him momentarily, when he touched the other side of his jacket, running his hand into the other inside pocket. Here was an envelope, a long business envelope with no writing whatsoever on it. Inside was a cashier’s check with the Bankers Trust seal on it for $2.5 million. The check was made out to Close Securities- LC.
2,500,000,
as well as
Two Million and Five Hundred Thousand
Dollars and No Cents
, was written on the check. Made out to
Close Securities-LC
.

The bank at which the check had been drawn was very close to where he was at this moment. He looked at the numbers on the buildings. The bank was … it was across the street, just in back of him. It was over there, just next to that haberdashery. That was the same store he had been standing in front of, where he’d looked at himself in the window. When he’d been amazed that he did not …

He turned, and at this point a steel-gray Bentley eased up to the curb next to him and a black man looked out at him earnestly. In a moment, the man was out of the car and around it, almost at LC’s side. “Sir?” he began. “Shall I wait, or where would you like to go?”

The black man wore a gray worsted suit and dark-blue shirt with gray silk tie. A small accommodating smile played at his lips and he reached toward the Bentley’s back door, ready to open it at LC’s request.

“I should go to the bank,” LC said quietly, staring straight at the black man.

“Yes, sir. But I thought you’d already gone in, sir?”

“Yes.” LC wanted to say more, but he looked across the street at the bank and then at the envelope which he still clutched in his hand. He put the envelope back in his inside pocket. “Yes.”

The chauffeur had his hand on the door handle, and as LC looked at him, the man opened the door easily and held it for LC to enter. With no thought at all, LC entered the rear of the car. There was a small, well-outfitted bar that opened out of the front of the backseat and a small television. There was also a tiny compartment with the day’s newspapers.

On the seat next to him was a leather envelope. LC moved his hand toward it expectantly. At the same time, the chauffeur turned to look at him, asking instructions with his eyes. The question in LC’s mind, as it finally made itself clear, was jokish but at the same time frightening.
Who?
The word pushed into the connecting slide between mouth and brain, remaining unsaid but felt in the softest part of his voice. There was a rush of words flooding through, but what was heaviest was a fearful thrust of steel absurdity. He realized now that he did not know who he was. He did not recognize the face, the voice, the clothes, the wallet, the check, the black chauffeur, the Bentley. He did not even recognize completely where he was, except what he had seen in fragments shuffled by in the day and sun and light, sensuous breeze. He did not know who he was.

So he did not know where he was going or where he had been. He had no instructions for the chauffeur because he did not know anything about anything. Was it amnesia? Was he ill or crazy? What had happened to him? He was amazed at what he looked like. Happily surprised, perhaps, at the wallet, the $2.5 million check. The car and chauffeur, there among the tall rich buildings.

“Sir,” the elegantly dressed black chauffeur was saying, “are you going back to the office as scheduled, or somewhere else?”

“Schedule?” LC was about to say that he did not know who he was, but it sounded too stupid. “Can you open the window, please?” he said instead. He thought perhaps a little more air and time, some of the sun, maybe, anything. But there was no real panic, it was just aggravating. And for a while he had not even understood that he knew nothing, that there was nothingness just a little before thirty minutes ago. Blankness.

* * *

But the aggravation was being replaced now by something else, because the chauffeur was asking him to respond. In effect, for him to be someone. Why couldn’t he remember? Perhaps he should go straight to the doctor. Thank god for the chauffeur, after all. He, the chauffeur, knew who LC was. Indeed, on the leather envelope at his side (which his left hand nervously covered) were the initials in slight, elegant gold.
LC
. And the chauffeur knew what these initials stood for. He knew who he, LC, was. He even had some knowledge of his schedule, where he, LC, was supposed to be going. “Follow the schedule. That’s it.” This was soft, but it rose as he repeated, “Yes, by all means, follow the schedule.”

The car slid smoothly away from the curb. The chauffeur wheeled it slowly up Madison Avenue without comment. At LC’s fingertips were control buttons. He pushed one on the far right, and quiet music rolled into the back. It was made by a violinist and … what was that … a saxophonist, it seemed. He did not know who it was. Drums and bass came in seamlessly as the sounds throbbed through the car in gentle harmonies. It pulled at him very softly. He rather liked it, but had no idea whose music it was.

As the car rolled up Madison, LC pulled at the leather envelope and picked it up. It was obvious that it belonged to him the way the rest of these things (or the rest of this situation) did. But he’d been too caught in wonder, blank wonder, and an aggravation that perhaps had now turned the corner toward something more stark. As the car took a right turn, he finally drew the envelope up fully into his hands and opened it. There was only a single sheet of paper and a typed schedule on it. At the top of the paper in gold lettering,
Close Securities-
LC.
Directly beneath this title, the heading,
Schedule: Sept. 1.
The schedule, his, read:

12pm Bank—Mr. R.

2pm Office—Briefing

4pm Les Arouilles
(?)

6pm Home

11pm Depart Watercrest Port for B.

The schedule was initialed
A.L.
, with a
cc:
to
J.W.
&
R.M
. The question mark caught his eye. Why was it there? He looked up at the chauffeur, who was moving his head very slightly to the music and looking straight ahead. The music was playing sweetly, but there was no other sound, not even the car or the traffic.

In a few minutes, the handsome Bentley had circled to Park Avenue just above 70th Street, pulling to a stop in front of a very narrow and new looking building that seemed like it was made of metal. The building was not as tall as the other buildings on both sides, and though it was only slightly shorter, its metallic look made it stand apart. It was not aluminum but seemed like highly polished steel, with no bolts in sight. What was even more striking about this piece of metal sculpture that seemed to be a building was that there were no windows. And just as the building itself seemed narrow in comparison with the buildings on both sides, the entrance also seemed very narrow.

There was an understated sign cut into the metal which read,
Close Securities.
The chauffeur exited without looking back at LC, and was quickly pulling open the rear door for him to exit. What was going on? LC was moving to get out, and he was out, but a larger flood of thoughts washed behind his eyes.
I don’t know who I am. I don’t even know that. But it
all seems arranged and orderly. A schedule.
He had the leather envelope in his hand. It may be that all of this would soon be clarified … That seemed stupid. He wanted to turn and ask the chauffeur, but he was moving toward the wooden door of the metal building. He was already pushing it, holding it open for LC to enter. LC tried to move as if he was in control, but he was being swept along. He knew nothing except what the chauffeur said, what the check read, and the credit cards, the money, the schedule. He glanced at the street signs as he passed into the building, and it occurred to him that he did not even recognize the streets. East 70th and Park. The newspapers had said
New York
. He recognized
New York
as a word, a geographic location, but he had never been there. He had no knowledge of New York. He had no knowledge of anything.

They had now passed into a lobby, which, unlikely as it might seem, was paneled completely in wood. There were thick rugs somewhat darker than the wood on the lobby floors. On the walls, large abstract paintings matched the wood and the rugs. On one wall, a small tasteful sign:
Close Securities
. And against another wall just before a bank of elevators, a middle-aged man in a gray suit stood up quickly as LC and the chauffeur entered, nodding respectfully.

The chauffeur led the way past the group of elevators to a narrow wooden door at the back of the lobby. They stepped through it and there was a smaller elevator. The chauffeur pushed the button and the door of this elevator slid open. There were two leather jump-seats at the back of the elevator, which apparently could be pulled into place if a rider wanted to sit. But LC could make no independent moves, though when the chauffeur moved to pull down one of the seats, LC made a move with his head that seemed to say that he did not want to sit. But otherwise, the chauffeur said nothing.

The building was twenty stories high and the elevator shot swiftly up, with the lights on the board near its roof blinking as they passed each floor. In a few seconds, the elevator stopped smoothly and the door slid open. The chauffeur stepped out of the elevator, leading the way. They had entered a large room. It was an office, but was outfitted not for any heavy work, but rather to house a presence—a person whose tastes were somewhat intellectual and artistic, and very wealthy.

The taste ran to antique books, wood, Persian and Chinese rugs, and hard-edged abstractions on the wall. There was a highly polished bar and high fidelity components. And for the first time, there was a window. The chauffeur touched a switch and one panel in a wall slid back to reveal a glass-enclosed balcony, somewhat like a hot house with various kinds of flora.

“You want the roof opened, sir?” the chauffeur asked softly.

LC could only nod, and in a moment the glass panels slid away and a cool breeze from the open city swept in. LC moved to the edge of the terrace and looked down at the swirling streets below, across the avenue toward the East River and Queens. The trees on the roof swayed and the air was clear. Behind LC, the chauffeur moved and stepped close to him, holding a drink which he then handed to LC, as if he was expected to.

“You have fifteen minutes, sir. You want me to ring for Miss London?”

What would LC say?
He thought.
And what would he say to
a secretary?
Maybe she would open up some path to what was happening. It was probably amnesia or something. He did not even know his name. But the idea of a name had not meant anything to him until this moment. Apparently, he was LC and he had some position of responsibility and authority at Close Securities. He could ascertain these things, but they seemed abstract. They were words, in his head, of some meaning. But they signified nothing specific or ultimately clarifying to him.

He had accepted the chauffeur’s offer. This tall, dark-skinned black man in the elegant clothes. The chauffeur, LC noted, was dressed as tastefully as he, but how he got in the clothes he had on was blank as well. He appreciated the things he saw and had on and seemed to have, but still there was a distance between him and all of it, because he understood nothing.

The chauffeur went to the desk and pressed a button. “Miss London.” Turning toward LC, he said, “If there is nothing else, sir, I’ll be in the outer office at 3:30.”

LC nodded, trying to be more positive. But still he said nothing. He wondered if that bothered the chauffeur, but apparently it did not. The chauffeur made a deferential gesture with his head and as he was leaving, a tall middle-aged woman with tinted wire-rim glasses and gray suit with light gray scarf knotted like a tie came into the room. She wore black Cuban heels and carried a leather folder and gold pen. She was smiling as an efficient person smiles to let her boss know that she has completed all assigned tasks and is ready for anything.

“Sir,” she said simply, “I hope you are well.”

LC nodded, at a loss as how to respond. The woman—her name was London, the chauffeur had said—stopped to open her folder and began speaking like the efficient person she seemed. It was a low, steady, airy voice, like one that could be heard over loudspeakers in airports or department stores. “Everything is prepared for the meeting, sir. I have the agenda. Nothing special, just the preparation for your trip tonight.”

She handed a paper from the folder to LC. It listed four names, and under them in brief sentences the apparent responsibilities they had while LC was on his trip.

“Mr. Wallace, Mr. Edrick, Mr. Costen, and Mr. Wray are all waiting in the conference room. They each have a brief response to the assignments they’ve been given in your absence, but there seems to be no real hitch. It should go smoothly. Mr. Williams is about to go into the conference room. He’ll arrive at Watercrest at 10 p.m. to accompany you. Mr. Scales is finishing up the last tasks he has in that regard, and of course will be waiting in the outer office when the meeting is finished.”