Memoirs Of An Invisible Man (26 page)

“Sure, just a second. Mr. Peters of Badlands Energy, returning your call. A Mr. Riverton — wouldn’t leave a number or a business — said it was personal.”

“Billy Riverton. That’s fine. He just wants to play squash.”

“Lester Thurson, of Spintex. And Roger Whitman wanted to get together with you—”

“Right. I’ll give him a call. No one else called? No one called and didn’t leave a name?”

“That’s everything I’ve got. I told them you were out of town. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“That’s perfect. Listen, I’m feeling a little off today. I don’t think I’ll be in unless I’m doing a lot better this afternoon—”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Is it serious?”

“No, no. It’s nothing. Just not quite myself. Listen—”

“Have you been to the doctor?” Cathy was someone for whom visits to various doctors were an important feature of daily life. I myself hadn’t seen a doctor in years.

“No, I haven’t. I don’t think a doctor would be… Actually, that’s an idea. I might go out and see a doctor at some point.”

“Shall I say you’re out sick?”

“No. No. What I want you to say is that I was in earlier and had to go out again. Say that I’ll be in and out of the office all day. Hard to catch. Just take messages, and I’ll get back to whoever it is.”

“O.K.”

“Listen, Cathy. Could you do me an enormous favor? I hate to ask, really, but I just don’t feel up to getting in today. Could you possibly bring some things by my apartment so I can work at home?”

“No problem. What do you want?”

“Just dump all my mail and messages into a folder. Wait, I’ll tell you what: look in the lower left drawer of my desk. There should be a black pocket-sized agenda from last year. Bring that too. I seem to have lost my agenda with all my appointments and phone numbers. And why don’t you Xerox the next few weeks’ pages in your appointment book. Do I have anything important in the next few days?”

“Wait a second. No. You were supposed to be in Houston Monday. Don’t forget you have the monthly review on Thursday.”

That would be the first real problem. The one meeting I really had to attend.

“I’ll be fine by then. I’ll probably be all right tomorrow. It’s just a question of whether I want to travel again. Why don’t you cancel Houston. I’ll probably come into the office instead. Look, is there any money in petty cash — or do you have a couple hundred dollars in your checking account? I’m completely out of cash and I just don’t feel up to going to the bank. Haven’t got any food in the house. I’ll give you a check when you come by.”

“No problem. I’ll cash a check on the way. How much do you want?”

“Two hundred would be fine — or make it two fifty, if you can.”

“Are you O.K.? Do you want me to pick up some food or anything?”

“No, no. I’m fine. Actually, if you could pick up a
Journal
and a
Times,
that would be great. I really appreciate this. I think I’ve just got one of these twenty-four-hour things. I’ll see you in a little while. You have my address, don’t you?”

“Twenty-four East Eighty-ninth. Are you sure you don’t want me to pick up anything at a drugstore?”

“I’m fine. Oh, and when you go out, remember to tell whoever’s taking calls that I’ve just gone out and I’ll be back in this afternoon. Nothing about being out sick.”

“Fine. I should be there in under an hour.”

“I’ll see you then. Thanks very much, Cathy.”

I hung up the phone and sat there for a moment thinking. Better to deal with everything as promptly as possible. I dialed the main office number and asked for Whitman.

“Hello, Roger?”

“Nick. Thanks for getting back to me. I wondered if we could get together sometime today to go over something — just for twenty minutes.”

“Absolutely. The only thing is that today is pretty tight for me. In fact I’m out of the office right now and I don’t know when I’ll be back this afternoon. Is it something we could put off until next week?”

“I promised to get back to someone on this by Monday morning… Is this a good time for you? Maybe we could go over this thing on the telephone.”

“Sure. That might be better for me, actually.”

“I’m looking at a situation down in Louisiana. Deltaland Industries, it’s called.”

“Chemicals and feedlots?”

“That’s the one. Fertilizers. Interesting little company. Earnings have been flat for years, and they’re selling at around six times, but they have these stockyards, a lot of them closed, actually—”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’ve heard something about them recently, or read something. Some sort of asset play.”

“That’s it. They carry these stockyards on their books at purchase price, but they’ve also acquired these natural gas reserves…”

As he talked I became aware once again of how odd the telephone receiver seemed, floating magically over my chair. The sight, to which I should already have been accustomed, produced an unexpected wave of nausea. I ought to be paying attention to Roger, who was reading off wellhead prices and contract expiration dates. I could see why he was calling me. He hates numbers and arithmetic. He also hates reading anything with small print and no pictures. I like Roger, but I often wonder why he is in this business. He is in this business because his aunts were inexplicably willing to let him manage vast gobs of money, and with the fees, he can pay people like me who are willing to perform long division and read 10Ks. He was asking a question about natural gas deregulation.

“The whole issue of deregulation as it bears on pricing is extremely complex,” I ventured, not sure exactly what the question had been. I took it that this answer had not been adequate, as there was a silence at the other end of the line.

“And what kind of value would you assign to the reserves at this point?” I ventured, hoping to get myself back into the discussion.

“That’s what I’m trying to get your help on,” he responded. There was a discernible undertone of puzzlement and annoyance in his voice. “Is this a bad moment for you?” he added.

“No, no, not at all. I just have a lot of things on my mind today. Sorry if I seem a little distracted. I just wondered if you’d already made a first pass at the numbers. Actually, I’m a little off today. A bit of flu.”

“You all right?” he asked.

“Absolutely. Look, Roger, I just don’t want to give you a hasty answer on this. What with the uncertain regulatory picture and the shifting political context, the whole natural gas area can be extremely tricky. Extremely. I’ll tell you what. I’m working at home today until I shake this flu, and Cathy’s about to bring some stuff over to my apartment. Give her whatever you’ve got, and I’ll give you a call as soon as I’ve had a chance to look through it.

“Sure, Nick. I appreciate it. But if you’re not feeling well, don’t—”

“I’m fine, Too much wine, women, and song, probably.” Whitman would like that. You just have to jolly him along.

“That’s the ticket. If you have to cut back somewhere, I would recommend the song. Say, that reminds me. That girl you were having lunch with at the Palm the other day…”

Anne.

“Anne Epstein,” I said. “But she’s not a girl, which is why your chances with her would be negligible. She’s a
person.
In fact she’s a reporter for the
Times
business section.”

“Jesus, she looked just like a girl to me, Nick. In fact, more like a girl than pretty much anybody I can think of offhand. If at any point you find you’re not getting along with her, I wish you’d just mention to her that I would like to leave my wife and family and follow her wherever she wants to go.”

“I’ll try to remember to tell her, but she wouldn’t be interested. She doesn’t go for the fascist capitalist pig type. You probably even vote Republican.”

“What about you? You voting Farmer-Labor these days? Although, as a matter of fact, she did look a little bored with you. She probably needs—”

“I never vote for anyone. I’m saving my vote for a truly nice candidate. I’ve got to run now, but I’ll probably see you this afternoon. And I’ll get back to you right away on” — what was the name of that stock? — “on that natural gas question.”

“O.K. Thanks, Nick. I appreciate it. So long.”

I should give Anne’s number another try. I should eat too. I was starving. Perhaps literally starving. I wondered again if it was possible to live eating only once a day. With Anne’s help I could manage. It was just that she was apt to want to help by writing a story about me. Tragic victim of nuclear technology.

First things first. Cathy would be here soon. I had to work out how I would handle that — and be careful not to make a mistake, overlook something. I took a sheet of paper and a pen from my desk drawer and began to write, watching with amazement as the pen danced over the paper.

Cathy,

Had to run out to the doctor. House key and apartment keys enclosed. Sorry to make you hike up all those stairs. There is a check for $250 on the coffee table. Dump the mail and the cash anywhere in the apartment. Talk to you this afternoon.

Thanks,

Nick.

P.S. Please leave both keys locked in the apartment.

I folded the note around my spare keys and slipped everything into an envelope, on which I wrote “Cathy Addonizio.” Walking out onto the landing, I became conscious again of how silly the whole thing was: the envelope bobbing and swooping through the air. It was a late weekday morning: the other tenants would all be in their offices, and it was unlikely that my landlords would be peering out their peephole at the deserted entrance hall, but there was no point in taking risks. The secret of survival, not to speak of success, is to take the risks you have to take but never the ones you don’t. I held the envelope out over the railing and let it drop: steadied by the weight of the keys inside, it plummeted three stories straight down and landed with a plop on the carpet in the middle of the ground floor hall. Even if someone did hear it, there would be nothing extraordinary to explain away — nothing like the sight of an envelope walking unaided down the stairs.

Taking a quick look at my digestive tract to be sure that all signs of my last drink of water had entirely dissipated, I walked down the three flights of stairs to the entrance, pausing to listen for any sound of people moving behind my landlords’ door. Nothing. I waited until a woman walking her dog in the street out front had passed by, and then, pushing the entrance door open, I slid the envelope along the floor and quickly picked it up and wedged it partway into my mailbox, with the name showing.

I was startled by the enormous feeling of relief I experienced on regaining the safety of my apartment, and equally startled to find that my heart was racing: after what I had been through the day before, this simple task, devoid of any real danger, should have seemed inconsequential. But the unrelenting anxiety, the continuous fear of making some small error that would lead to discovery, was grinding me down. One mistake and I would be noticed, and once noticed, I would be done for.

I laid out on the coffee table in the front room a check to Cathy Addonizio for $250 and my payments to Bloomingdale’s and American Express. Nothing to do now but wait for her. Rather be doing something. I went over and began rinsing the invisible clothing in the bathtub. Better not do that: I wouldn’t hear Cathy come in. What if she used the bathroom and for some reason plunged her hand into the tub? I went and got an old bedspread and threw it into the tub on top of the clothing. Too many things to think about; too many contingencies to guard against. How long could I go without appearing at my office? Have to try to make some arrangement with Whitman to work at home. In the worst case I would quit. How long before the authorities arrived? That was the real question. Not safe here. No point in thinking about it now. Have to find a way to put them off. It was safe for now; I would have some warning.

It would be good to have another drink of water, at least. Better wait until after Cathy’s visit. It suddenly occurred to me that all the doors between rooms ought to be open, just in case she inadvertently walked toward me and backed me out of a room. And then what if she heard me moving? Breathing. Yesterday I had moved past people outdoors and in noisy public places — streets, railroad stations, subways — but in an empty apartment you could hear everything. It would be like sensing the presence of another person in the dark. It suddenly seemed to me that by having Cathy come here I had arranged my own destruction. She would enter the apartment and know instantly that I was there, or at least that something was wrong. I felt like someone who has hired his own assassins and sits waiting for the sound of their tread on the stair.

But it came as a relief when I finally did hear Cathy’s tread on the stair, followed by the sound of the key sliding into the lock. The door swung open and she stepped into my apartment. I was standing by the door to the kitchen, so that I could observe her and at the same time be ready to escape at once from the room if anything went wrong. I was immediately startled by the forthrightly appraising way in which her gaze moved over the room. It was not the way you would look around if the owner were there greeting you. She walked over to the coffee table and laid out on it the large manila envelope and the two newspapers that she carried under her arm. Then she opened her handbag and took out a letter-sized envelope — that would be the money — which she set on top of the pile. She picked up my check and the envelopes underneath it, inspecting each of them and then placing them in an outside pocket of her handbag. Perfect. Everything had worked perfectly. Now she would be leaving, latching the door behind her.

But for some reason she set down her handbag before walking to the door. And when she got to the door she double-bolted it and fastened the chain lock. I had never once during my tenancy fastened that chain lock. What could she be doing? What was she suddenly afraid of? She turned around and headed straight toward me. I was dumbfounded. It seemed that she knew exactly where I was. The game was up, as the expression goes. I was so nonplused that I nearly spoke aloud to her.