The Up and Comer (21 page)

I nodded.

"So, she's scraping away at my teeth, when all of a sudden that song 'Kiss You All Over,' or whatever it's called, starts playing. She's like six inches away from my mouth going, I
want to kiss you all over... over and over.
In this real sultry voice too. Mind you, she had one of those protective masks over her face, so it sounded a little muffled, but still, I couldn't help it."

"Couldn't help what?" I asked.

"Popping a chubby right there in the chair."

"Get out!"

"I'm serious. I'm sitting there with a tent in my trousers and the whole time I'm going, please don't look down, please don't look down!"

"Tell me she didn't."

"No, thank god, she was too busy singing. Close one, though."

I cracked up. It was funny to picture it. It was also an answer to a question that I had never had the gumption to ask Shep: Where exactly did his paralysis from the waist down begin? I was heartened by the inference that he could still get laid.

At six-fifteen, I returned to my office and went over my billable hours for the week. It was either that or organize my paper clips.

Six-thirty. I ate one very cold egg roll.

Finally, at six-forty-five, I loaded up an old backpack of mine with everything I needed and ducked out of the office. As I rode the elevator down, I remember it getting very warm.

TWENTY-TWO

Tyler cupped his hands and lit a Marlboro. He was wearing an old pair of jeans and an even older Deerfield sweatshirt — most definitely on purpose. Waving out the match, he asked me, "You like being a lawyer?"

I was in no mood for his bullshit. Given the circumstances, however, I indulged him. "Most of the time," I replied.

"Ever help a guilty person go free?"

"Probably," I said without hesitation. He wasn't the first to pose such a question and he wouldn't be the last.

Said Tyler, "You're comfortable with that, helping guilty people go free?"

"I sleep fine, if that's what you're asking. Though if I'm not mistaken, you were the one who told me that we're all guilty of something."

"I did say that, didn't I?"

We were standing amid a row of run-down storefronts.
 
A nearly empty outdoor parking facility was our backdrop. Across the street, high above a billboard, was one of those electronic display signs that alternated between the time and the temperature, neither of which appeared to be correct. Clearly Tyler hadn't picked the location for its ambience. Or maybe he had. Regardless, it was a part of Manhattan that I rarely had occasion to be in. No clients, no restaurants or shopping to speak of. A block up was one of the many entrances to the Lincoln Tunnel. It was still rush hour, on a Friday to boot, and cars with New Jersey license plates were lined up bumper-to-bumper, waiting to get in. It explained the less-than-subtle aroma of exhaust in the air.

"So, I believe you have something for me," said Tyler, finally getting to the point.

"What, no gadget to wave over me first?"

"You wouldn't be that stupid."

He was right. The microcassette recorder had been left behind. I reached into my suit jacket and pulled out the bank check. I held it out to him without ceremony. Slowly he took it in his hand and gave it the once-over. I could see his lips move as he read the amount.

"What's with the made-out-to-cash bullshit?" he asked.

"So I don't have to explain who the hell you are to my accountant," I said. "What are you worried about? The money's there. That's what a bank check is for."

Tyler stared down at it again. "Looks real enough," he said.

"That's because it is."

Tyler tossed his half-smoked cigarette to the curb. He folded the check in half and stuffed it into the front right pocket of his jeans. "Thanks, Philly," he said, all happy now. "You're truly a man of your word."

"I presume you are as well."

A squint of nonrecognition, followed up by, "Oh, of course… the pictures." Tyler pulled up his sweatshirt to reveal the same manila envelope he had first shown me at our lunch. Tucked lengthwise into his jeans, it sort of looked like a cummerbund.

Opening the envelope, he removed the photos plus five or six cut negative strips. "Expensive roll of film, huh?" he cracked.

I didn't give a response, though many nasty ones came to mind.

Tyler slid the pictures along with the negatives back into the envelope and handed it over to me. "Wouldn't leave it lying around the house if I were you," he said.

"Not to worry," I assured him. Then I needed him to assure me. "This is it? You only made
one
set of prints?"

"One was all that was necessary."

He had his money. I had my negatives. While not exactly quid pro quo, the transaction was complete. Yet somehow I could tell he wasn't ready for our last rendezvous to end.

Said Tyler, "Screw the accountant, what are you going to tell Tracy if she asks about the missing money?"

"She won't ask."

"How do you know?" he pressed.

"I know. Believe me."

Tyler wasn't about to. "You'd think someone would notice if that much money had disappeared," he said. "Unless, of course, you two are so stinking loaded that this was merely chump change for you, in which case I've let you off far too easy."

"Hardly."

"Perhaps I should have asked for more."

"Perhaps I've paid you too much as it is."

"No, I definitely don't think that's the case," he said, shaking his head. "I'm sure you do very well for yourself, Philly, but it's your darling wife who has
set for life
written all over her." He peered over my shoulder. "What's in the backpack, by the way?"

"What?" I asked him with my best confused look.

"I said, what's in the backpack?"

"Everything that's required to end your life," I held back from saying. Instead, "Everything that would be in the new briefcase I ordered if it had arrived yet. I ditched the old one and took your combination-lock suggestion. I guess you can never be too careful."

"Isn't that the truth."

I had prepared myself for the question knowing it might have been coming. Tyler seemed to have no misgivings about my made-up answer. There would be no further discussion of my backpack. Rather, he stood there looking at me, his eyes fixed on mine. It was as if he was trying to figure out what I was thinking.

"You want to know, don't you?" he asked.

"Know what?"

"I don't blame you, actually. If I was in your wingtips I'd feel the same way. It would bother me too," he said. "Plane ticket or no plane ticket, you want to know if this is truly the last time you're ever going to see me. I can tell. I mean, yeah, you paid me off and, yeah, I told you that I'd never bother you again, but how do you really know that I'm going to stay away, that one day you won't turn the corner and — wham — there I am?"

"I'd be lying if I said the thought hasn't been on my mind. The answer, ultimately, is that I don't know. I'm not the one calling the shots here; you are."

Tyler shook his head as if disgusted. "That's what gets me, Philly. Hearing you talk like that," he said. "Sure, you did the right thing by giving me the money; it's just that... ah, fuck it, never mind."

I took the bait. "What?"

"It's just that, well, with everything I thought I knew about you, I expected — how should I say — more of a struggle. No, that's not the right word. Challenge… yes, that's the right word…. I expected more of a challenge. Not that I'm complaining."

"No, it's more like gloating," I sneered, my anger beginning to show.

"Maybe," said Tyler, scratching his head. "I suppose you did play it tough at first. Though I'm telling you, you should've seen your face when I sent that bottle of champagne over at the restaurant." Tyler flashed an exaggerated look of fear, much to his own amusement. "I don't know, call me crazy, but it sure looks like you bent over and took it up the ass from there on out."

Hell, it was like he was asking for it.

Without saying a word, I stepped off the curb and out into the street to hail a cab. Tyler threw his hands up in the air.

"Aw, c'mon, Philly, I was only kidding!" he said.

"Good-bye, Tyler," was all I replied.

I waved at a vacant cab waiting at a red light the next block up. The driver spotted me. No matter what Tyler was going to say at that point, I was dead set on ignoring him. Except he didn't say anything. What he started to do was sing. Right there on the sidewalk, he started to sing Frank Sinatra's "My Way" at the top of his lungs. I couldn't help turning back to look.

Regrets, I've had a few,

But then again, too few to mention.

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption.

I
planned each charted course,

Each careful step along the byway,

But more, much more than this,

I did it my way.

Green light. The cab pulled alongside of me and I got in. Tyler kept on singing. The cab sped off almost immediately. Still, Tyler kept on singing.

"Take a left onto Thirty-fourth Street," I told the driver in response to his "Where to?" glance over the shoulder.

One block south later, the driver obliged. After he completed the turn I shouted for him to stop the cab. Before he could get pissed off, I dropped a five-dollar bill over the front seat and into his lap. "For your trouble," I said, reaching for the door handle. I grabbed my backpack, hopped out, and rushed over to the corner. Slowly, I peered around it.

Tyler was no longer singing. Not too far from where we had stood I saw the jeans and plain white back of his sweatshirt. He was walking away from me, which was what I wanted. Had he been walking toward me it would have been a mad dash for cover.

I waited until Tyler reached the next corner. I deemed that to be the safe distance. What was Tyler's safe distance, I wondered? How much ground had been between the two of us when he followed me around? Something told me he got a lot closer, if only for the fun of it. The
challenge.
He had stalked me for god knows how long —
 
days, weeks, a month? It seemed amazing that I had never caught on, that I had never sensed a presence behind me. I had been oblivious, absolutely oblivious. Which was precisely what I was betting Tyler would be that evening. For indeed, the tables had turned.

The stalker was about to become the stalked.

I reached into the backpack and removed a Cubs baseball cap. I put it on and pulled it down snug right above my eyes. I hastily removed my suit jacket and tie, stuffing them into an outer compartment of the backpack. I had known there would be no time for a full wardrobe change; a wardrobe modification was the best I could do. Staying as close to the storefronts as possible, I started to ease my way back up the block.

My hope was that Tyler lived somewhere in the vicinity, as the more terrain there was to cover the more likely it was that I could lose him. Our previous meeting places — the Oyster Bar and Bryant Park — were both nearby midtown locations. A good sign. Not that it really mattered. I was prepared to follow Tyler into the next time zone if that's what it took.

One block became another, then another, and one more. Tyler kept walking and staring straight ahead, seemingly suspecting nothing. That-a-boy, Tyler.

A few blocks later we were right smack in the middle of Hell's Kitchen — a part of Manhattan the brochure didn't talk about. Truth be told, it wasn't nearly as bad as the nickname suggested. Most of the streets were decent, if not actually quite nice. What ruined the curve were the remaining ones, which looked like Dresden after the Second World War. That's what always amazed me about Manhattan — how a short stroll in any given direction could take you from posh to poverty and back again.

Tyler turned.

A right turn. As soon as he disappeared around the corner I sprinted, nearly taking out a bag lady and her shopping cart in the process. Once at the corner myself, I leaned my head out just enough to give my left eye a view. What it saw was Tyler turning into an entrance a short distance away. I started to reach into the backpack for the handkerchief and ether. This is it, I thought. Tyler was home and I was about to make my move. At the same time, though, something made me look up. It was a neon sign right above where Tyler had entered. "Billy's Hideaway," it blinked. A
bar?
With a check for a hundred and twenty-five grand burning a hole in his pocket, you'd think the guy would want to go straight home and stuff it under the mattress. Not Tyler. It would seem that a celebratory drink was in order.

Make that drinks, as in plural. I planted myself across the street from Billy's Hideaway behind a double telephone kiosk. I prayed for a short wait, but after fifteen minutes it was clear that Tyler hadn't merely popped in for a quick shot. I resigned myself to being there for a while.