The Deed (29 page)

They secured a table after a half hour or so, and it was there that Jason finally consented to recap the events of the morning, at his witty best thanks to the solid baseline buzz energizing his brain. He marveled at his crowd’s unexpected enthusiasm, knowing full well it wasn’t his expert storytelling. No matter what the job is, everybody cheers when you leave it.

“What a wench,” said Becky, of Diana. “I had an editor like her once. She’d gotten the job because she knew all the right people, and it was clear from day one she was in way over her head. She was just such an idiot, and she knew everyone was just yessing her to death because they had to, so she developed this weird aggression to cover it up.”

“‘If they won’t respect me, let them fear me,’” paraphrased Paul.

“Yeah,” Becky confirmed, “she gave herself a total personality make-over.”

Nick, shifting in his seat beside her, grinned. “You’re in such a pretend industry,” he said fiendishly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her eyes narrowed.

Nick smiled, placating. “Well, you and your fashion-mag gal pals just kind of sit around and decide what trends are hot this month, and whether blue is the new black or not.” Ignoring the middle finger, Nick went on. “In industries where actual
work
gets done, managers without talent find it a little harder to survive.”

“That’s grade-A bullshit,” opined J.D. “
Every
industry has managers without talent.”

“Thank you,” said Becky, still stung.

Gallantly, Jason joined the rally. “
Complete
bullshit,” he echoed. “In fact, it seems pretty clear positions of power attract boneheads.”

“Oooooh, everybody hates Nick,” said Nick.

“Well, don’t be such a dawg,” J.D. replied. “You can’t just insult someone’s passion like that.”

“Hey, it’s not my passion,” said Becky. “It’s just a job.”

“Oh,” said J.D. “Well…Nick, you can’t just insult someone’s casual, temporary, piece-of-shit job that they don’t care about like that,” he corrected, sipping his booze. “That shit ain’t right.”

As the place began to fill up with late-night revelers, the noise and the bustle made tabletop conversation increasingly problematic; after one of many trips to the men’s room, Jason returned to find that his friends had abandoned their claim altogether, leaving the table to be resettled by four sweatshirted NYU students and
their
fruity rum drinks.

He discovered the gang after a quick look around. Nick and Paul were in the back, taking on the old untiltable
Terminator 2
pinball machine. Becky was trying to squeeze some edge out of the very classic rock jukebox, and J.D. had returned to the bar—no surprise there. The empty beer bottle in his own hand settled Jason’s indecision, and he headed for Texas with a purposeful stride. The beer, Jason noted with some surprise, was going down with dangerous ease; he’d reached that free-fall stage of the evening where any further alcohol he consumed was irrelevant to his buzz.

J.D. smiled at his approach, having known all along the path Jason would choose. “I know this isn’t a real birthday party, or nothin’,” he intoned over the crowd as Jason drew near, “but it is sort of in your honor, so I, uh…well, I got you a little something.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jason, immediately wary. “What is it?” J.D. frowned with comic gravity. “I ain’t gonna lie to you. It is, in fact, another shot of tequila.”

In spite of himself, Jason grinned. “You really,
really
shouldn’t have,” he replied. “Really.”

“I know,” said J.D. “But what can I say? I love you, man.”

“Did you honestly buy me another shot of tequila?”

“It’s right behind me on the bar. Don’t look,” J.D. added, shifting his shoulders to block Jason’s view. “You’ve known me for a long time, Jason, and I think you know you can trust me on this one.”

“You know I actually already had one, about twenty minutes ago.” J.D. nodded, still deadpan. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m actually pretty ripping, fucking, stinking drunk already, if you have to know the truth,” said Jason.

“Then one more shot won’t make a lick o’ difference,” reasoned J.D. “Wait’ll you see it. Little bitty thing.”

“I’m just not sure I can do it justice, that’s all I’m—”

“Okay,” J.D. interrupted. “Now close your eyes…”

By the time the bartender returned with his beer, Jason had determined to put some distance between himself and J.D.’s liver, and he wandered to the back of the bar with a sense of victory, the tequila still burning in his chest.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Nick was furiously rocking the machine back and forth, to a chorus of angry electronic tilt warnings he knew he could ignore. Paul looked on, introspectively sipping his big-bowled rum drink.

“Put Bally in,” said Nick after a high-scoring series, and Paul laughed.

Jason was out of the loop. “In what?”

“Paul and I are starting a mutual fund,” Nick replied, expertly passing the ball from one flipper to the other, then rocketing it back to the top.

“I’m impressed.”

Paul shrugged. “It’s really more of an investment club and a deal with a trader.”

“You’ll get a prospectus,” Nick assured him.

“We’re predicting the specifics of the new industrial age by researching the financial history of the last one and scoping out parallel patterns,” Paul explained. “Think of your computers as cars. Chip companies are the new Big Steel and Big Oil, broadband is the railroad, et cetera. We’re picking the blue-chippers for the next generation by metaphor only.”

“Wow,” said Jason. “How’s it going?”

“We made two million dollars in pretend money last month.”

“Bought myself a pretend Porsche,” said Nick, slapping flippers madly to save an out-of-control ball. “Drives like a dream…literally. Fuck
you,
” he added for the machine, then stepped aside.

“So how does one go about setting up a mutual fund?” said Jason.

Paul considered his response before taking up a position at the helm of the pinball machine. “I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” he replied, cocking the plunger. “It’s very complicated.”

“Try me,” said Jason.

“Nope,” Paul replied. “The way I see it, it’s highly unlikely that your desire to know outweighs the pain in the ass of me telling you.”

“Come on,” Jason protested. “I’m not a complete moron.”

But Paul shook his head gravely, watching his ball ping-ping-ping like lightning between two bumpers. “Let’s not take that risk.”

Jason laughed and waited, but heard nothing but pinball chirps and beeps. He turned to Nick. “He’s seriously not going to tell me.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Now you’re both just making me feel stupid.”

Paul nodded. “Let’s just chat about current TV shows and stuff.”

“I’m going to tell J.D. you dare him to a chug to the death,” said Jason. “Nick,
you
tell me how this thing works.”

“She’s here,” said Nick, whose attention had been caught by something behind them.

“Who’s here?”

“J.D.’s new hog,” said Nick, pointing toward the front entrance. “That Century Twenty-one realtor by the door.”

Jason followed the sight line from Nick’s pointing finger to a pixieish girl in a bright red corduroy jacket.

“Just what we need,” said Nick. “A girlfriend hanging around making J.D. do even stupider things than he already does. Look at that haircut and tell me she’s not an idiot.”

“What a couple of sassy girls you are,” said Jason. “I’m hitting the john.” With that, he stepped toward the gently beckoning light of the men’s room, rubbery legs threatening to give out at every step, thanks to the diabolical mixed-liquor brew sloshing around in his guts. Slowly, the light grew closer.

Severely underestimating his inertia, Jason missed the turn into the doorway and ran smack into the wall, catching his balance with a spastic lunge and knocking a painting cockeyed with the effort. The painting was of a slave galley battling a storm at sea, and in its new orientation the ship seemed to be climbing the crest of an unimaginably huge wave.

In the bathroom, Jason conducted his business and checked himself in the mirror. He was relaxed and jubilant; he could be happy hanging out in this moment, with these guys, forever. He was acutely conscious of how unique this was, this twilight happy hour between the juvenalia of college and the inevitable onset of adult concerns. With a frown, he raked his fingers through his messed-up hair.

Moments earlier, watching Becky chatting up some random guy, he’d found himself picturing them together, peeling each other’s clothes off. They were destined, all of them, he supposed, to pair off eventually, and in the heady adolescent one-night stands going on, he could glimpse the diaspora to come. As close as they all were right now, would they even know each other’s names in ten years? he wondered.

Jason thought about Amanda, for the first time in hours; tried to decide whether she was soul-mate material or just a passing fancy. Tough to tell; all that held them together at the moment was a single thin, quite possibly imaginary, piece of paper. He laughed at himself for coming back to the deed after all, on his night off, as if some dedicated problem-solving center in his mind couldn’t rest, searching subconsciously for a solution that danced just out of reach.

Taking a deep breath, he plowed back into the fray.

The balding right-front tire of the garbage truck bounced heavily into a pothole on Little West 12th Street, splashing into a stagnant puddle and spraying a corner mailbox with unspeakable filth.

The truck was northbound, happily beating feet out of the Meatpacking District, a small maze of streets squeezed into a rough triangle south of 14th between Hudson and the West Side Highway. It was an old and weary corner of the city, bleak and shadowy even at high noon, a theme park of bricked-in windows, rattling overhead corrugated metal doors, and crumbling concrete facades. No residences, no retail stores to speak of, no visible police protection. No color, even, apart from the ribbons of graffiti scattershot all over the walls and doors, and the varicolored crack-vial caps that frosted the gutters in a candy-sprinkle rainbow.

In another hour or so, the morning light, strained into great shafts of gold by the vertical sieve of the cityscape, would begin to knife into this lawless western reach, scattering the last of the ratty night people. By breakfast, scant evidence of the wee hours’ sex-bazaar commerce would remain. No receipts, no W-4s—just telling little circles of cigarette butts, the odd unfinished malt-liquor bottle, a straggling school of latex jellyfish bobbing down the mighty Hudson.

With dawn already on the move, the real meatpackers were lumbering into action, unlocking freezers, sniff-testing fatty haunches, throwing open wide-mouthed delivery doors. The streets would soon be lousy with well-marbled men in blood-spattered aprons ambling around, dangling cigars from fat lips and drinking in the rich, bloody aroma, talking of coarse grinds and last night’s sitcoms. But for now, only the diesel roar of the lone garbage truck split the silence, a last machine sadly rumbling the empty streets after Armageddon.

Creaking and groaning in saurian claustrophobia, the garbage truck reached 14th Street at last, where the crazy quilt of southern Manhattan gives way at last to a navigable grid, and turned right. Then a quick left up 8th Avenue, past a doughnut store that used to be a different doughnut store, and it was gone.

“Okay,” said Freddie as the truck disappeared—leaving himself, in the passenger seat, and Vinnie, at the wheel, alone again. “Now turn the car off.”

“Why?” sighed Vinnie, dog-tired and petulant, comical in his raccoon’s black eye. “What the hell are we doing here?” His head was aching; all he wanted on earth, swear to God, was to drive straight home, climb in bed with his wife, and sleep away this whole horrible night. But Freddie had insisted they drive here first and then refused to explain why, which scared and irritated him.

“Do it,” said Freddie, gazing out the passenger’s window, and Vinnie shook his head with a sigh and turned the key. The engine wound down and expired, perfecting the silence.

Freddy rolled his head slowly left and eyed his compatriot with barely concealed contempt.
Good a spot as any,
he thought.

“I’m really fuckin’ tired, Freddie,” whined Vinnie, jerking his head around nervously. “What’s happening? Why are we here?” A seagull cried in the distance, like a voice from a dream.

“Open your mouth,” said Freddie absently, still staring out the passenger window.

“What the f—?” Vinnie began, choking off his own protest when he saw his partner withdraw a Glock from his coat pocket.

It took only a split second to pin Vinnie to the seat with his left hand and thrust the piece up to the smaller man’s quivering lips. Freddie knew it wasn’t the mere
fact
of the gun that had paralyzed his companion, it was partly the impressive gun itself; a huge, jet-black, hand-finished motherfucking Glock that looked, even in his big strangler’s hands, like a goddamn cannon.

“Oh, God! Fuckin’…Freddie,” blubbered Vinnie, trying to keep his lips pursed against the invasion of the gun barrel. His fists were curled up insect style behind the massive forearm crushing him back into the leather, as if his very arms were withering in terror.

“Shut up, Vin,” said Freddie coolly, the voice of reason, not even bothering to look around, knowing with perfect certainty that they were quite alone. “I’m asking you
exactly one last time
to shut the fuck up.” With tiny, practiced movements, he slid the barrel of the gun up under the smaller man’s tented upper lip and tapped it twice against the front teeth. “Open.”

Vinnie nodded dumbly, head shuddering, eyes alternately squinting and staring. A small moan escaped his lips as they closed around the barrel of the gun.

Freddie smiled broadly, deeply gratified at staring once again into the face of abject, total fear. This was so much easier than it looked, he thought; that was, of course, the secret. Now he spared a glance out at the deserted streets; there was nobody in sight.

“I
hate
like
hell
to do this,” he said with gravelly drama, fixing his gaze on Vinnie. “I want to make sure you know that, Vin. This is dirty work, and I don’t like it.”

His victim’s eyes widened. “Wh-wha?”

“You’re out, Vin. End of the line.”

“Wh-what? Wait, wait, wait,” he murmured, panicking.

“Please do not
fucking
struggle,” said Freddie, slamming the other’s suddenly lurching body back to the seat, irritated now. “I don’t like this any better than you. I don’t make the rules; I just try to do right by the company. End of story.”

“Okay,” murmured Vinnie, on bizarre and shaky ground here, trying to focus on subduing his blind panic.

“Maybe that’s where
you
got into trouble. Who knows?”

Vinnie wrenched his mouth away from the gun. “Freddie, I swear to God I don’t understand,” he babbled. “I swear to God I don’t. Freddie, wait, you gotta talk to me, man. What’s this about?”

“Open your mouth, Vinnie.”

“Freddie, please, you gotta fucking talk to me; don’t
do
this, Freddie, look at me; what the
fuck
are you doing?” His speech was cranking up in speed and pitch; mad flecks of foamy spittle whitened the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” said Freddie. “This is tough as it is. Please, just open your mouth.”

Vinnie was shaking, now, sweating hysterically, practically crying. “Freddie—”

“Open your mouth,” the big man cooed. “Open your mouth and be quiet now, okay?”

Lips quivering violently, Vinnie complied, and Freddie poked the gun gently inside.

“When I heard that this had to be done, I volunteered,” said Freddie. “Nothing personal, I swear, I just didn’t want anyone else doing it but me. Now that’s the truth, Vin, okay? I wanted you to know that.”

Vinnie’s body was racking with spasms, and his eyes pleaded silently, loath to break the order of silence and touch off the gun, but choking to death on unreleased terror.

“I am truly sorry, Vin,” said Freddie as he curled a finger around the trigger. “It’s just…business.” Vinnie squeezed shut his eyes and emitted a last, gasping canine whine.

“BANG!” yelled Freddie, loud enough to scare a pigeon off the adjacent curb.

Vinnie squealed and clicked his teeth so violently on the barrel of the gun that Freddie almost did fire the damn thing. He slid the barrel out of Vinnie’s mouth and grinned madly.

As his target stared woodenly into the steering wheel, Freddie smiled and closed his eyes, sublimely happy and at peace with himself, even as the unmistakable stench of human piss violated the airspace. “This isn’t complicated, Vin. You answer to me now,” he said coolly. “You got it?”

A brief pause, and then Vinnie nodded, broken and wordless.

“Come on, get this car moving,” said Freddie. “We got some reconnaissance work ahead of us today. We’ll take care of the old man later.”

The car left the curb slowly, shakily, and he tucked the gun back in his shoulder holster, then rolled down his window to take in the cold morning breeze.

The world was lookin’
big.

UPPER WEST SIDE
, 8:30
A.M.

Somewhere in the ice-choked depths of his mini-freezer Jason had discovered the butt end of an old joint, and he proudly finished it off on the way into the shower, breathing in the smoke and eagerly anticipating the thousand liquid fingers of pleasure poised to leap out and massage his body. Standing outside waiting for the water to get hot, he inhaled deeply one last time, held his breath, and set the tiny roach on the edge of the sink, where it instantly tumbled off onto the floor, the still-glowing cherry decapitating itself on impact. Amused but in control, he coughed just once and pulled the curtain aside.

He considered the billions of individual droplets packed in behind his showerhead and down the pipe to the basement water heater and out to the street. They’d survived a long journey, each drop preparing for that shimmering kamikaze moment when it would burst briefly into open-air freedom, ricochet once off his skin, and swirl down into the drain again, to mingle with sweat and soap and alligator feces and God knew what else in the sewers on its long, dark journey back to the sea.

What an absurd little career,
he thought.
Maybe they all are.

Jason’s head was still pounding a bit when he stepped out twenty minutes later, but the hangover was definitely in retreat. He left the bathroom dry, nude, and imperial, and surveyed his domain.

His regal eye fell quickly on the stack of papers holding down the coffee table in the living-roomish end of his studio apartment. Sauntering over, feeling quite a bit stoned now, he picked up the top page of the graveyard sketches, pulled out of the book. He let his eye drift to the note-card family tree still hanging hopefully on the wall. The blank break in the middle stood out, in his heightened state of awareness, like a lighthouse beacon.

Flipping through, he found a sketch at the bottom, a rough overhead map of the graveyard, which Amanda had apparently drawn. It looked like a supercharged Stonehenge, the circular yard filled in with concentric rings of tiny
X
s in black, red, and blue. A rash of red dots inside the squared-off secret inner yard solved the color coding: red for the two-
a
older Haansvoort stones, blue for the one-
a
s, black for the rest.

All thoughts of a Hot-Pocket breakfast fled as the thrill of the chase overtook him. “We’re gonna sort this out right now,” he said aloud and sat down to work, naked but determined.

Setting the chart aside, he picked up the grave rubbings and began placing them on the table, absently orienting them side by side in accordance with the overhead drawing. The process triggered a higher sense of order, and he picked them all back up again and began moving furniture around, clearing a section of floor large enough to replicate the map on a larger scale.

Meticulously, he placed the rubbings around the floor, tiptoeing gingerly between them as he dipped in and out of the design to tweak their proper placement.
Look at me: I’m the guy who builds the mashed-potato mountain in
Close Encounters, he thought. Bending over on all fours to place one rubbing, he suddenly became aware of his dangling balls, and the notion struck him as so funny he had to collapse, laughing, on the couch. He looked down at his handiwork. Amazing!

He wondered whether Amanda had gone through this same exercise in her apartment, minus the pot, of course, then wondered whether she’d even have
thought
of doing this. Shifting perspective across scales was a telltale stoner strategy. Might he not, in fact, pretend to be a giant clomping around in this tiny graveyard, making Godzilla noises and terrifying the villagers? And so he did, for a long, long minute or two.

A sober moment came when he recalled, for no good reason, the previous night’s conversation with the guys, and the offhand way they’d warned him not to trust Amanda’s motives. It was as disturbing in retrospect as the first time around. Just male bonding, probably, but the dart, however casually thrown, had stuck.
Could
he trust her…really? Jason wondered. With such a prize at stake, what
wouldn’t
someone do to secure whatever help she needed?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the line of thought. He really, really liked this girl—his heart, brain, gut, and cock were in rare agreement on this. Surely he had to be able to trust his own instincts. Or was that a sucker line of reasoning?

Jason wrenched his attention back to the floor pattern, now an exact replica of Amanda’s scrawly map, but on a more suitably impressive scale. He stepped up onto the couch for the aerial view, staggered once in its springiness, then caught his footing.

It was impressive. The sketches retrieved his memory of the stones themselves, and he felt a sense of vertigo, as if unable to convince his brain that he wasn’t enormous and towering above an actual field of stones. Staring at the masking tape he’d used to indicate the fence dividing off the old graveyard, Jason tried to think of a more wall-like replacement to complete the sense of reality, then correctly recognized this as the leading edge of a black hole that would, if indulged, kill the rest of the morning. He shrugged it off without much difficulty.