The Ask (22 page)

There was a clatter near the kitchen door.

One of the caterers stood with a tray of cups and saucers. Other than his short white jacket he didn’t look much like the others. He wore his hair up in a beige bandana. He’d rolled his sweatpants up past his knee. The sunlight spearing through the steep windows made his metal shins twinkle.

“Come again?” said Kyle Northridge.

Don’s tray hit the floor with a clap. Cup shards skidded. Don strode toward us, his gait a near glide, smoother than I’d ever seen it. Purdy slid down into a crouch on the chair.

“I said, ‘How about Fallujah?’” said Don. “Or Baghdad. Or fucking Anbar. Anbar Awakening Stuart. Or maybe just Surge. What do you think? Surge Stuart?”

“Hey,” said Purdy. “Those are all good.”

“Really.”

“Hey, yeah,” said Purdy, gentle, beseeching. “Yes. How are you?”

“How am I?”

“Yes.”

“How am I?”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Oh,” said Don. “Is it? Is it good to see me?”

“Of course,” said Purdy. “You are like family. I mean, like, family.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Purdy looked down on Don from his perch. They both appeared to quiver. It occurred to me that Purdy had never seen
his son before. Don had only caught sight of his father in photographs, through motel windows.

“You’ve earned it, son.”

Don’s eyes softened, beamed, something boyish and quasisainted glowing in them.

Now came the slap of hard shoes, dark fabrics flashing, a glint of jewels. Giant men swooped in from the edge of the room. You could tell they were the bodyguards because they dressed better than the guests. The rangier one guided Purdy down from the chair. The other, his head the size and hue of a glazed ham, cupped Don’s elbow with bling-sheathed fingers.

“What the hell?” said Don.

“You really have earned it, son,” said Purdy, nodded at Don’s legs. “For what happened to you. For what’s happened to so many of you. We are all in your debt. And we should all take responsibility.”

“Is that a fucking joke?” said Don.

He shook off the bodyguard, but the huge man snatched Don’s hand, bent it behind his back.

“I was over there, too,” said the bodyguard. “Don’t be a fool.”

“Blue falcon,” said Don.

“I ain’t no buddy fucker,” said the bodyguard. “This is my job.”

“You could have waited to move her until I got back,” said Don, looked hard at Purdy.

“What difference would that have made?”

“You rotten shit. I should just—”

“Don.”

“Don’t even say my fucking name.”

“Don, please …” said Purdy.

“I said don’t say it.”

Now Michael Florida crossed the oak floor in a pair of alligator boots, leaned forward to whisper in Purdy’s ear.

“Right,” said Purdy.

“What?” said Don.

Purdy nodded to Melinda, turned stiffly to the tables.

“What’s going on?” said Don.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut this evening a little short,” Purdy said. “I’ve just this moment received some awful news about a dear friend. Lee Moss has died. I suspect he did so with his loving family at his bedside, as he wanted and deserved. I feel I’ve lost another father. I think it’s better if we grieve quietly tonight.”

Purdy pinched his lips, made a short, grave bow, walked off toward the study.

“Where the fuck are you going now!” shouted Don. “Come back, Daddy!”

Michael Florida flicked his chin and the bodyguard let Don go. Don jogged a few steps toward his father, his boat shoes stabbing at the antique oak. His heel caught a scoop in the wood and he slid, twisted, pitched over in an violent braid of metal and meat. Somehow he got to his knees.

“She loved you more than anything!” called Don.

Purdy stopped for moment, seemed about to turn around.

“She did,” Don sobbed.

Purdy ducked into the study and shut the door.

“She did,” said Don again, softer, as though suddenly aware of the room, his audience, who had already begun to look away and whisper.

I walked over and knelt near Don, rubbed his arm.

“Hey,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“Get the fuck off me,” he said.

“Really, Don, it’s okay. Let’s just get out of here.”

“I’ll kill you,” Don snarled.

I rose, backed away, watched Don sit with his head on his knees, rock. Michael Florida walked over and squatted beside him. He must have said something amusing because Don looked
up with an odd half-smile. Michael Florida began to talk, very rapidly, it seemed, and Don cocked his head.

Now Michael Florida stood and hoisted Don up, looped the boy’s arm across his neck like they were soldiers in some statue about blood and brotherhood. Together they stumbled out of the room.

I was about to follow them when Melinda stood to speak, worried the thin platinum chain at her throat.

“Please,” she said. “Let me apologize for all of this.”

“Don’t even, Melinda,” Ginny said. “It’s okay.”

“Really,” said Charles Goldfarb.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” said Kyle Northridge.

“No, I think I should explain. I doubt any of you knew, because he doesn’t like to brag, but that boy, well, Purdy’s been doing some work with an organization that helps young vets. A lot of them have severe problems. Don has been one of Purdy’s projects. I’m afraid it’s not going that well right now. But don’t let that dissuade you from getting involved in this very important cause. With everything that’s happened in this country, we are forgetting about these poor kids. Not even to mention what we’ve done to the men, women, and children of those other countries. It may not be fashionable anymore, but that’s precisely why now is the time to revisit these issues and really give your support. I hope you’ll excuse us this hasty end to the evening. We all love you very much and can’t wait to see you in a more joyful context real soon.”

Melinda palmed her belly, the context. Other women closed around for soothing squeezes.

“These fucking wars,” said Charles Goldfarb, tilted back in his chair. “Only the historians will have a true sense of what they did to us.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “Blistering.”

“Who’s Lee Moss again?” said Lisa.

“He’s the conveniently dead guy,” I said.

I drained my Scotch, scooped a handful of chocolate stag beetles into my pocket. People began to gather their coats and bags.

“Milo, hold up, I’ll walk out with you.”

“No thanks, Charles. Think I want to be alone.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Say hello to Constance for me,” I said.

“I will. I mean, I hardly see her but … yes, I will.”

“Tell her I’m happy for her,” I said. “And sad for her. And also happy-sad. Tell her to get a better haircut. She looks like the middle-aged head of a girl’s prep school.”

“That’s what she is.”

“It’s the end of us, Charles.”

“I’m doing fine, Milo.”

“Didn’t Adorno say that to write think pieces for mainstream magazines after Auschwitz is barbaric?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“What about Schopenhauer?”

“What about him?”

“Give me the capsule.”

“The what?”

“The takeaway.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re not the enemy, Charles, but fuck you.”

“You’re incredibly drunk.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not even clear on whether I’m standing up or sitting down right now.”

“Then maybe you should sit down.”

“No,” I said. “I think that would be a bad idea.”

That sleeper fiend, my hangover, had given notice at the smelting plant, deposited his family under the floorboards of his garden shed. He stood over me now in Claudia and Francine’s guest room, his eyes fish-dead behind the barrel of his skull-mulching gun.

“Please don’t shoot,” I moaned.

“It’s nothing personal.”

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here?”

“You sent for me.”

“I did?”

“You’re an alcoholic.”

“No,” I said, “I’m just a heavy drinker.”

“Maybe,” said my assassin, “but who’s got the gun?”

I stood dazed in the shower for forty minutes, half dozing, half soaped, loosed wet, scorching farts, muttered things like “Christ,” and “swill,” and “malaise.” When I’d wasted enough water to hydrate an Eritrean village for a year, I remembered the climax of the previous evening, the appearance of Don, his truncated challenge, those stylish goons under stern Floridian command, Michael Florida himself hauling Don out, and to where, exactly? Worry got me onto the rose-embroidered bath mat and into my
clothes. I called Don’s cell and left a message. I called Purdy’s cell and left a message. I texted Purdy to find out if he had gotten my message. Then I staggered over to Claudia’s wicker lounger and collapsed.

Later, misery beaten back into temporary cover with a pot of coffee and some Valium from Francine’s dresser, I made my way to Jackson Heights, stabbed Don’s buzzer, sat on the stoop to wait. A basement door banged open and a young guy in a basketball jersey stepped out.

“Hey,” I said.

The man waved.

“Nabeel?”

“Do I know you?”

“No. My friend lives here. Said your name once.”

“Oh, yeah? Why did he say my name?”

“Just talking is all. Telling me about the crazy boiler.”

“The boiler.”

“Yeah,” I said. “So, you like basketball?”

“Basketball?”

“Your shirt.”

“Shit, man, it’s a shirt. Not a statement.”

“Sorry, just making conversation.”

“Don’t do that. And why are you smiling? You stick out. You see anybody smiling around here?”

Nearby an old lady in a calico dress knelt on the sidewalk, slid a dog turd into a Ziploc bag. Though maybe it was some other order of turd, as I saw no dog.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“I rest my case.”

It was not clear to me what, for this kid, constituted a case.

“I’m waiting for a buddy of mine,” I said. “Seen him?”

“How would I know if I’d seen him?”

“You’d know,” I said. “He’s got metal legs.”

“Sure he’s your friend?” said the man.

“What do you mean?”

“The guys here last night, they said they were his friends. Don’s been pretty quiet. Suddenly he has a lot of friends.”

“Who was here last night?”

“Like I said, some guys.”

“Have you seen Don today?”

“No.”

“Let me into the building, I need to see him. You can come with me. I need to see that he’s okay.”

“I can’t do that. My uncle would be pissed.”

“Please,” I said.

“I can’t do it.”

“How much can you not do it for?” I said.

“I can’t do it for between one and fifty-nine dollars.”

I slid three twenties from my wallet.

“Here.”

We climbed through the hot stink of the stairwell.

“Don,” said Nabeel, knocked hard on the door. “Don!”

The way he called the name, the intimacy of tone, made me wonder if they’d talked some, if Don had told him anything about Purdy.

“You ever rap to Don about his life?”

“Rap? What kind of word is that? Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“So why are you asking this stuff? It’s weird.”

“I just want to help Don,” I said. “Did he tell you anything?”

“Don invited me up for beers a few times.”

“Did you talk about anything?”

“We talked about pussy. Maybe he said something about the war a few times. But really we talked about pussy. We had good talks. We each had our insights, you know? So, what’s the deal?”

“Pardon?”

We stood there for a moment, silent. A TV roared, a toilet flushed, somebody maybe dragged a child into a room.

“Open the door,” I said.

“I don’t have the key.”

“Of course you do. He could be OD’d in there.”

“If he’s dead, he’s dead.”

“He could be alive. People hold on for hours. A day, even. But nobody comes. Open the fucking door.”

“Okay,” said Nabeel.

Then the door swung open and Don stood before us, his pants held up in his fist.

“Milo,” he said. “Come on in. I’m just finishing up a shit. Make yourself at home. Nabeel, you’re welcome, too.”

“No, I should go,” said Nabeel.

I followed Don into the apartment. He slipped back into the bathroom, shut the door. The room looked brighter and bigger than last time, the red drapes heaped on the floor, the apartment stripped. He had never owned much, but now he was down to the card table, one folding chair, a saucepan, some smudged water glasses, a spoon. Papers lay curled under the radiator. I picked one up, a pencil sketch, a fairly good one, of a World War One– era military officer with a bushy mustache, his legs sheathed in shiny black boots. Phone numbers and email addresses and odd bits of math sprouted in the spaces around and between the soldier’s thighs. One number was circled, the same figure I’d seen on the cashier’s check in Lee Moss’s office.

I picked up the spoon, saw burn marks on it, heard Don’s girls creak on the floor behind me.

“Could have used that spoon in the john just now. Colon needs a serious scooping.”

“Thank you for not sharing,” I said.

Don flopped on the bed.

“We’re going to scoop shit and we’re going to cook dope,” he said. “The trick is to use different spoons.”

“The teachings of Lee Moss,” I said.

“That dude,” said Don.

We sat in silence for a moment.

“So,” said Don, “did you come here to tell me what a fool I was last night? Because I already know. Some others from your crew have already been by. It’s all been explained.”

“They’re not my crew.”

“Oh, no? Well, I don’t care anymore. I’m leaving this goddamn city.”

“To go where. Pangburn Falls?”

“That’s right, Bangburn Balls, baby.”

“Don, there could be more for you in life than that.”

“Than what?”

Don stared at me, tapped his knuckles on the wall behind his head.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“No, you don’t. Why would you even say that kind of thing? Did it ever occur to you that unless you have money, every place is equally shitty? You know, those guys, my father, they just wanted to pay me some money to shut me up. Like hell I’ll take it, but at least it’s understandable. It’s scumbags of one breed dealing with a scumbag of another. But you, what are you about? What are you selling? Or are you buying?”

“I’ve never been clear on that.”

“Don’t work it out on me. And don’t try to humanize me, you fuck. It’s insulting. Why did you come here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m never going to be okay. Now leave, leech.”

Back at the Mediocre suite, I slouched at my workstation and wondered how I’d gone so wrong. Where was my dignity? Also, where was my computer? I noticed now that my workstation lacked its primary instrument of work. The telephone looked for
lorn by itself on the desk. I slid a pad and some pencils beside it, wrote: “Ask about your computer. And ask for more Post-Its. It’s your time.”

Horace walked by, hummed the theme song from a TV show canceled before his birth. I remembered the show, my devastation at its demise. It was maybe the first time I understood there were powerful people far away who could destroy your world without even knowing it.

“Milo, toosh dev warrior king, what’s the fine word?”

“Hi, Horace,” I said. “Where’s my computer?”

“Repair guy took it to fix.”

“Why couldn’t he fix it here? And it wasn’t broken. Who told him it was broken?”

“Calm down. Afraid he’ll find the naughty stuff?”

“I wouldn’t be dumb enough to use an office computer,” I said.

“Me,” said Horace, “I’ve got the whole system beat.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m back to actual magazines. Keep some in my desk, even.

Who would ever bother to look? My hard drive is pristine. Not a dirty cookie in sight. I jerk it in the men’s room with real glossy stock on my knees. Like my father, and his father before him.”

“That’s very clever,” I said.

“If a vengeful theocracy took over this country tomorrow, they’d have nothing on me. Probably put me on the morals squad.”

Horace walked off and I picked up my desk phone, dialed.

“Greetings. You have reached the voice mail of the Unknown Soldier. Please leave a massage. Happy endings preferred.”

I’m not sure what I meant to say. I hung there in silence, waited for something unleechlike to arrive.

“Savitsky,” I said. “The officer with the boots in the story your mother liked. His name was Savitsky. It’s from a story by Isaac
Babel. I read it in a literature class in college. Maybe your mother read it there, too. Goodbye, Don. Take care.”

And that was, somehow, officially, that.

Just as I hung up the phone it rang again.

“Don?”

“Milo?”

“Vargina.”

“Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Conference room.”

It occurred to me that calling from the Mediocre line was probably not wise. I’d only just found out six months ago there were surveillance cameras in the suite, and only after Horace directed a
sieg heil
toward a drilled hole in the ceiling tiles, received an email reprimand a week later. Maybe they tapped our phones, too. I’d always scoffed at conspiracy hobbyists, paranoid stylists. The corporate complex wasn’t organized enough for master plans, I’d argue. We’re all just flawed people with our flawed systems. But things had seemed rather organized in recent years. You had to wonder. Maybe the leaders of the global elite did all have secret lizard heads. Maybe my mother had a secret lizard head.

A whole trove of cockamamie theories deserved another look. Perhaps, for example, Lena had told me I was only moderately talented because she felt compelled to speak the truth. Maybe Maura still desired me but for her own sanity could stay in our marriage only if I chose to confront my rage and resentment. There was even a chance happiness had something to do with acceptance, and something to do with love.

No, this was ridiculous. These notions were all part of the trick, the scam. The asks had me nailed from the get-go, ever since they installed the selfware, back in Milo Year Zero. That’s how the whole long con got started.

The conference room felt smaller than it had on my coronation the day before. A berry spritzer tallboy sat half collapsed on the conference table.

Another dented can.

Somehow Vargina and I ended up seated beside each other, the way some couples arrange themselves in restaurants. I’d never understood the appeal, though now I wondered if Maura and I should have given it a whirl. Maybe it granted you a whole new perspective on coupledom, or at least served as a welcome breather from having to look each other in the eye, glimpse all that mutilated hope.

Vargina re-angled her chair.

“This is weird,” she said.

“You mean how we’re sitting?”

“No, what I need to tell you. Your computer isn’t broken, Milo.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell Horace. I was just thinking that …”

The truth sank in as I spoke. I tried my best to resemble a man in whom the truth had just been sunk, to the hilt. I owed Vargina that much, if only for elevating this encounter with use of the conference room.

“I’m fired again,” I said.

“This time there’s severance.”

“Why? Why now?”

“I don’t know the full story, Milo. Call came in from Cooley about it. Your absence was necessary for certain things to go forward.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“I’m a craftswoman. And don’t feel too bad. Sometime next month there’s going to be a big bloodletting. Our endowment is in worse shape than anybody will admit.”

“So, I’d be fired in a month anyway?”

“Probably.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said.

“That’s what we’re saying.”

“Sleep tight, you world, you motherfucker.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You’ll be okay, Milo,” said Vargina. “Here.”

Vargina pushed an index card across the table. It was a recipe for egg salad.

“I watched my husband make it. He can never know. Nobody can ever know.”

“Thank you, Vargina.”

“No more turkey wraps, Milo. They’re gross.”

“I see that now,” I said.