Too Easy (3 page)

Robert laughs. “How'd you know?”

They go into the foyer. “Robert,” she exclaims, “hold me.” She leans against him and his big hands press against her back. Anne looks up at him. “You're so reassuring,” she says.

This makes him shrug awkwardly. He grins.

Anne says in a girlish voice, “You did mention the good stuff? The twenty-year-old port perhaps.”

“Oh, yeah, great,” Robert says.

She stands on her toes, kisses him solemnly on the mouth. Robert stares at her through half-shut eyes. But she's so nice, he thinks. Anne is so nice.
The perfect wife.
I always said that, didn't I?

“You're not tired,” she says, “are you?”

“Oh, no, wide awake.”

“And raring to go,” Anne says, with a sweet nervous smile, as if she's said something outrageous.

•
 Robert sits in the back of the place, the one Kathy found. It's just off Lex, six blocks below where they work. Better than a dive, but not the kind of place other editors would go. “A good safe place,” Kathy said. Just hearing the word
safe
made him feel uneasy, guilty.

He's in a booth, staring at the front, watching, waiting. She's a few minutes late. The first time they did this she was there ahead of him. He came in, saw her, it felt good. Now he has time to think, worry. He stares furtively at each of the people walking in the door, or walking by him. Does he know them? Could anybody recognize him? Does it make any difference? The light is very low. Still, he keeps the parka on, sitting there with his arms on the table, his shoulders hunched up to cover part of his face. He feels obvious, conspicuous. He always laughed at people sneaking out of porno stores or cruising the hookers on Tenth. Hell, he thought, if I do that, I'm not hiding. Bullshit. The more hiding
the better, that's how he sees it now.

You don't see anybody you know for years. Naturally he'd see someone here, now.
Hey, Rob, how's Anne? You alone? Can I join you?
The obnoxious little scenario unrolls in his head.
What's up? You're not waiting for somebody, are you? Business, Rob? Hey, you're not . . . running around, are you?
 . . . Robert imagines snatching the guy up, throwing him over the bar. A little late. He knows. Everybody knows.

Robert looks at his fingers, realizes he's tapping the table. His body feels tense, his mouth dry. He hates waiting anyway. But now he's waiting for Kathy, and they're bound to be discovered, and besides they don't have that much time.

Just a little meeting, pretend it's casual, no big deal, doesn't mean anything. Well, what the hell does it mean?

“Jesus,” he mutters.

I just wish she'd come in the door. That smile. The way she glides in, a little cocky, a little flirtatious. Dressed up in a nice, elegant way, one of those executive outfits. But you don't forget it's a woman inside there. Not for a second. Oh, she makes sure of that.

That's the thing. She's running this whole game? Controlling it? Feels like that sometimes. But for what? Love, lust, getting ahead? Or she's this little girl falling for the big editor? Maybe a
Cosmo
girl, doing what that dumb magazine tells her to do, try some new adventure. Maybe she's just friendly. Maybe she doesn't fucking
know.
Damn it.

Robert feels the insanity of being here. Drifting out of work a little early. Making excuses. Hell,
lying.
Trying to look invisible. Hoping nobody notices when he walks south instead of toward Grand Central. And for what? So he can sit across the table from her for a half hour?

Jesus. Am I crazy?

Ahhhhh. He sees her framed in the doorway. Fifty feet away, he can feel the heat of her, the joy. God, what a rush. He sits up straighter, stares at her, can't help smiling.

Come on, baby. Come on down here. I'm waiting just for you. . . .

•  •  •

Not much time left, if he's going to catch the 6:04. Finally Robert says, “So why are we here?”

That's good, she thinks. Either the dumbest question she's ever heard, or the smartest.

She lets a few seconds go by. Then she makes a little shrug, answers in a low, sincere voice. “You have to ask?”

Impulsively, her hands reach out, take one of his. The first time they've touched. He tries not to notice, not to gasp. He thinks his hand will catch fire.

A tremor starts up from his left knee, stalks through his genitals and skids to a stop in the skin of his belly. Lovely and scary.

“Damn,” he says aloud but softly. Trying to be casual. “Nice hands.”

She laughs, squeezes his hand tighter. “That's my line.”

I've got a hard-on, he thinks, and I feel exactly like I'm sixteen. It was
just like this.
All hot glands and awkward everything. What do you do? What do you say? That's just it. You never know. You just sit there with your tongue hanging out, and your dick sticking up, and you don't know what the hell you're supposed to do. Or what you want to do. Or how you feel.

He struggles for some middle ground, no cheap jokes, no wild declarations. He wants to say, “This is a little, uh, unsettling for me.” Too wimpy? Instead he says, “You look real nice.”

She nods, smiling in a serious way. Showing him she understands what he's feeling, that she's patient. Moving her fingers slightly, caressing the back of his hand.

He glances down, sure there'll be burn marks where she's touching him. Actual red marks. No, his hands look
completely ordinary. But the tingling, the electricity, going up and down his arm is astonishing. But what is it really? Desire? Wonderful, idiot desire? Or some weird playing with danger? Something he shouldn't have, so he desires it more? And this desire, being so strong, so mixed up with guilt, seems more valid than any other thought or emotion? If he were single, if he could lean over and casually kiss her, would he feel even half of it?

“This is nice,” Robert says, taking her hands briefly between his. “But it's getting late. If I start now, I can walk it. Like I said,” he smiles, “you're looking real nice.”

He gets out his wallet, puts a ten on the table for their drinks.

Kathy says, “I think it'll be all right to leave with you.” There, that conspiratorial note. She's good at letting it slip in now and then. They're in this together. In deep.

They stand up and move toward the door. She walks a half step behind him. He feels her fingers lightly clutching his elbow, or tickling it. A little secret communication: I'm here.

Yeah, Robert thinks, like I'm going to forget.

He pushes through the door, goes out onto East 36th, glancing nervously at the people walking by.

•
 Anne Saunders stares from one big monitor to the other, spread sheets on both screens. She leans back in her chair, glances at the clock on the wall, sighs, plays with a pencil.

Yeah,
clock,
she thinks. My clock. What time is it? It's late.

The rows of figures blur. This company's books are so unbalanced, she knows she'll be struggling the rest of the day to put them in order.

Robert, she thinks, seems not quite himself . . . or perhaps I'm more needful. Probably it's my fault. Oh yes, definitely. . . . The job's not so challenging anymore. But I
want
that promotion. . . . The possibility of children floats before her mind, very real, and she scans the terrain for dangers to this idea. . . . I'm so sensitive to the little pluses and minuses. You think about the problems and you're overwhelmed. It's a wonder anybody has children.

A knock on the door. She turns and sees Edd—“that's two
d's”—Lawrence. “Hi, how're you doing? Eating in? Want to try the cafeteria with me?”

She stares at his bland, pleasant face. Just the sort of man who makes everyone think tax people are dull. The most interesting thing about him, she thinks, is the two d's.

“Oh, sure, Edd. I'm having a rough morning with Smithers, Inc.”

“Oh, well,” Edd says casually, “just throw the IRS a VP, they'll be happy.”

Anne frowns. Not exactly the way she sees her job.

She shuts the door to her office, and they walk down to the elevators.

“The IRS usually wants money,” she says. “Or does the VP trick work for you?”

“Just kidding,” he says with no smile. “But, hey, the books are a mess, maybe somebody's been cooking.”

“I hope not. I think it's just a case of people finding more tax gimmicks than a corporate body can digest.”

“Ah, the Nineties. I miss 'em.”

They go up to 12, where the firm has a swank little cafeteria. The idea being to keep the drudges in the building. Anne takes the fish and salad. Edd takes the burger, fries, red jello, and chocolate mousse cake. As they're sitting down, Anne says, “You in training?”

Edd doesn't see the joke, or won't acknowledge it. “They make a good burger here.” He's lean, almost stiff in his movements, wearing a navy-blue suit and white shirt. Close to her age, Anne thinks.

“Right.” She smiles briefly. “So what's new with you?”

Edd shrugs. “Well, I keep getting more master points. You don't play bridge, do you?”

“Not well.”

“I remember. Scrabble's your game.”

“Used to play it all the time. Robert's a managing editor now and, in practical terms, that means he doesn't have time for things like Scrabble.”

“There's no way out,” Edd says.

“Well, you play bridge.”

“My wife left me for that very reason.”

Anne smiles. An odd, no-nonsense man. One could well imagine a wife leaving him. Still, he doesn't seem to have any pretensions. Or he has the secret kind that are more fun because nobody knows about them.

A group of young lawyers, all men, come in. Only one has a jacket on. They all wear wide suspenders. They're high spirited and settle noisily at a nearby table, three facing three. Edd glances at them without interest. Anne looks more closely. They make her appreciate Robert. They're all around thirty, but still boys. Nobody wants to grow up these days. They're vital, attractive; but Anne feels something almost maternal toward them.

They trade jokes in low voices, laugh a lot, then start comparing cases and tactics. “All right,” one says loudly, “listen to this. The burglar gets the window open, gets his leg in. The guy in the house, he comes running. Says stop or get out or something. The guy in the window has a tool or makes a move or something. The homeowner shoots him. The guy falls back on the lawn. Wounded bad but he lives. What happens?”

“Witnesses say what?”

“Only one. A house away, in the dark. He can't say how far the guy was in the window. If he was. Or what was said. If anything.”

“I'll take it.” A slim one with slicked-back hair pauses for effect. Anne thinks his name is Stan. He raises his hands, about to paint a picture. “This guy's drunk, says he is. Alright, go with me. He thinks it's his house. Lost his key. He went around back, tries to get in through a window.”

“Come on,” another says, “the houses have to look alike.”

“He's real drunk. Any medical evidence to the contrary?”

“Nope. ER treated for gunshot. Why check blood alcohol?”

“There you go. Guy's really drunk. He's lost. Or maybe it's
a friend's house, guy he knows always leaves a window open. Never mind. He's no burglar. Last thing on his mind.”

“Bingo,” says the guy giving the case. “What else?”

“Now it's a piece of cake,” another says. “Mainly, he never was inside. Guy who shot him is guilty of assault, attempted murder, reckless endangerment, all that good stuff. Wounded guy can sue the homeowner for everything he's got. Wounded guy's wife can sue for loss of services.”

“That's what I'm doing. Wounded guy—get this—has enough presence to drag himself a yard or two away from the house. Guy's done time, learned a lot of law. Police records show him ten feet away. Guy in the house clearly overreacted, used unnecessary force. Probably a gun nut. He could get a few.”

Anne can't believe this. “Wait a minute,” she breaks in from eight feet away, “you're representing the burglar?”

“Alleged.”

They all laugh, staring at Anne.

“But he's probably got a record.”

“Huge. But inadmissable.”

“And you know he's lying?”

That gets a lot of hoots. The slim one named Stan says, “Hey, it's just a game.”

Anne stands up with her tray. “You're helping the burglar sue the . . . the victim?”

Stan smiles up at Anne. In a courtly cowboy accent, he says, “Begging your pardon, ma'am, but victims are shit.”

All the young men laugh at the profound cynicism of that.

“Seriously,” another says, “it's pro-bono work. The firm has to have a conscience, that's what the senior partner says.” All of them grinning at that.

Edd stands up, too. “We're in the tax end, fellows. We don't get to see the juicy stuff.”

They all smile happily. Yeah, the juicy stuff. That's what they get to see all day.

“Isn't that disgusting,” Anne says as they leave the cafeteria.

“What we do with numbers, they do with people.”

“Please, Edd. I'm a little more sentimental about my work, if you don't mind.”

“Of course I don't mind. But you know how the system works. All you can do is stay away from it.”

Anne waves a hand. “I'm sorry, I don't like the way they were talking.”

Edd shrugs and they go back to their floor in silence. In front of her office, he says, “Thanks, Anne. I appreciate the company.” And he wanders on down the hall.

Anne goes in her office. For a minute she stands by her big window, which looks over White Plains. A sliver of the Hudson River in the distance. Bright gray sky. The sun breaking through here and there. Last week of February. Psychologically, Anne thinks, winter's over when we get to March.