I sit on the side of the bed, my side, facing the window, phone in one hand, letter in the other. I stall for a bit, thinking there might be a way out of this, then just enter the number really fast. I get through to someone who puts me on hold for five minutes. Is this a display of indifference on their part, I wonder, contempt for the client, or have I set an alarm bell ringing? Do I stew in irritation or paranoia? I don’t know, but either way, it’s a long five minutes.
I look around, a tinny ‘Windmills of Your Mind’ ringing in my ear. The bedroom, like our whole apartment, is oppressive. What little space remains, when you discount the bed itself, is cluttered with shoes, clothes and books. There’s also a strong scent in the room, a mix of candles, perfume, soap and stray lingerie. When I moved in over a year ago, living here was supposed to be temporary. I had a lease in Williamsburg that was nearly up and the timing seemed right. I didn’t have much stuff with me, and, besides, before we knew it we’d be getting our shit together and moving on to a bigger apartment.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Um, okay . . . this afternoon at four. Mr Galansky will see you then. Do you have the address?’
‘Yes, I do, and I’d—’
But that’s it, she’s gone. No have a nice day, no thank you for calling, no fuck you, loser.
Whatever.
So who is this Mr Galansky? I study the letter again. It was signed by Abe Porter, Assistant to the Vice President of Legal Affairs and the person I’d asked to speak to before I was put on hold. I google Galansky on my phone and find out that he’s the actual Vice President of Legal Affairs. Which could mean I’m moving up in the world.
Or about to leave it.
My first interview with Gideon Logistics was in a building downtown, and although they had a suite of offices on the third floor, the rest of the building seemed to be virtually deserted. Subsequent interviews and orientation sessions took place in a remote and very basic facility in Pennsylvania. Their corporate HQ on Third Avenue was never really on my radar. But now, out of the blue, I’m headed there for a sit-down with – I look at my phone again – with Arthur P. Galansky?
Holy fuck.
So, irritation or paranoia? There’s no contest. Not any more.
*
By the time I come out of the bedroom Kate’s ambivalence has evaporated. She’s able to speak again, able to express both outrage at what I told her and a keen desire for me to be free of any fallout. I mention Galansky and the appointment at 4 p.m. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea.
Nodding at her laptop, I tell her I’m going to go outside to clear my head for a bit, give her a chance to get back to her coding thing. She looks at me, eyebrows raised, about to object it seems, but in a flash I’m out the door and down the stairs.
I check the time, and then put my phone on silent. I have about two hours. It probably would have made sense for me to stick around, have a shower and change my clothes, even shave, but another part of me thinks, fuck it, I should go into this meeting as scruffy and dishevelled as possible. Who are these people? Legal Affairs? They’re going to walk all over me anyway, so what do I care? What difference does it make?
I hit Second Avenue and head uptown.
What I need to do is make a convincing case to this Arthur Galansky that my time at Sharista is behind me, that I’ve moved on, and that if they want to withhold my last pay cheque for some contractual reason, fine, they can knock themselves out, because what can I do about it? I signed the contract, didn’t I? And, besides, I’ve moved on. The idea being that they’ll back off and leave me the fuck alone. The thing is, I’m just as outraged as Kate is about all this, and there’s nothing I’d like more than to see Gideon Logistics exposed. But I’m not a fool. I don’t have any illusions. I know if I make trouble for them, if I start acting the loudmouth, they could – and would – crush me as quickly as they did those two guys in the walk-in freezer.
As I pass a store window, I see my reflection. It occurs to me that maybe I should smarten up a bit. No matter how reasonable I sound, if I look like a street person Arthur P. Galansky will more than likely conclude that I am a risk and can’t be relied on to play ball. I pass another window and realise that I don’t look that bad. Besides, my idea of smartened-up probably wouldn’t register with them as being all that different from how I look now. But something else occurs to me as I cross 14th. Is that what I’m proposing to do here? To play ball? It is, isn’t it? Which is why I don’t want to go back to the apartment, or look at any of the three text messages (I’m assuming from Kate) that I’ve already felt vibrating in my pocket. I don’t need to be reminded every five minutes that my response to the Gideon letter is craven and spineless. I know it is. But whose is the more lawyerly approach in all of this? Mine or Kate’s? Who’s being more pragmatic?
It occurs to me that I should probably get something to eat. The only thing I’ve had since I got up this morning is a glass of OJ, and I’m beginning to feel light-headed. After another few blocks I stop at a diner, sit in a booth, and order a BLT. I feel better once I’ve eaten. I drag my time out with a few refills of coffee. Then I leave and take the train up to Grand Central.
The place where Gideon has its offices, the Wolper & Stone Building, is one I’ve passed many times but have never given a second glance. It’s an anonymous glass box that houses dozens of companies, and there’s a constant flow of people in and out of it. I pace the sidewalk for a while, but then just head inside and walk straight over to reception. I’m half an hour early, but I don’t care. I give my name. The guy at reception checks my ID, consults his register, and calls up.
A few minutes later I’m in an elevator on the way to the seventeenth floor. Gideon’s reception area is spacious and sleek, and, although I’m all too familiar with the company logo, I’ve never seen it in such an anodyne corporate setting before. I stand at the reception desk as the lady I spoke to on the phone earlier deals with a call and checks something on her screen. Music hums in the background, but it’s so low and subtle it might actually be some sort of brainwave entrainment.
‘May I help you?’ the receptionist says, her eyes still on the screen. After a beat, she looks at me. Her voice may be neutral, but those eyes tell a different story.
‘Danny Lynch,’ I say, ‘for Arthur Galansky. I’m a bit early.’
She consults a sheet in front of her. ‘Yes, sir. Indeed.’
In my pocket, I feel the pulse of another message alert.
‘I’ll let Mr Galansky know you’re here. Please take a seat, Mr, uh . . . Lynch.’
I move across reception to an area with some seats and a low glass table. As I’m sitting down I take out my phone. Kate’s first two messages were basically ‘Call me.’ Her third was ‘Call a lawyer’ . . . as in, I might need one, so shouldn’t I take care of that before I actually meet with anyone? She has a point – I guess, in theory – but it’s too late now. I’m here, I’m on my own, and the last thing I want to do is give these people the impression that I’m even thinking of lawyering up. The fourth message, the one that came through just a few moments ago, is longer and somewhat panicky in tone. Kate looked up Galansky too, and got a bit more detail than I did. It seems the guy is something of a legend in corporate legal circles, with an impressive record of crushing it in whistle-blower litigation cases. So basically her message – sent at 3.41 – is that I should skip this meeting . . . that I shouldn’t go near Galansky . . .
I look around reception again.
I could just walk out, but . . . there are surveillance cameras everywhere. If I bolt now, they’ll have footage of me behaving like a suspicious low life that could be used at some future point – in a courtroom, say, or online. Something else that’s bothering me is Kate’s use of the word ‘whistle-blower’. Even though this is exactly what I’m proposing not to become, it isn’t really how I ever thought of myself in the first place. But I suppose when I was confronting the Gideon manager at the base, or attempting to speak with Congressman Jack Gwynne, what the hell did I think I was doing?
Sensing movement, I look up and see a man appearing from a hallway over to the left. As he passes the receptionist, he says something I don’t catch and then heads over in my direction. I stand up as he gets near. He’s mid-sixties, I’d say, medium height, burly, muscular even, and tanned. He’s wearing a suit, but not a tie. There’s something about him . . . two things, in fact. One, he doesn’t really seem like a buttoned-up corporate type. And two, he looks vaguely familiar.
I stretch out my hand, ‘Hi. I’m Daniel Lynch.’
We shake. His grip is firm, and fairly intense, like his smile.
‘How are you, Daniel? Or . . . Danny, right? I can call you Danny?’
‘Sure. And I’m good. I guess.’ I pause here and take a deep breath. This is uncomfortable, but better to forge ahead, I reckon, better to get right to it. ‘Look, Mr Galansky, I got a letter from you this morning, from Abe Porter actually, that . . . well, that came as something of a shock to me.’
‘Of course.’ He nods vigorously and places an outstretched hand on my shoulder. ‘But listen, Danny, first I owe you an apology, okay? I’m not Mr Galansky. Artie is otherwise engaged, there’s been some development in . . . I don’t know what in, some case, who knows, but he’s pretty much chained to his desk for now. You and I can talk, though, right?’ He withdraws his hand from my shoulder. ‘And you know what?’ He glances around, as though someone might be listening. ‘Frankly, I’m happy to keep legal out of this.’
I stare at him, trying to make sense of what I’ve just heard.
‘Look at you,’ he says, and laughs. ‘Wondering who the hell this guy is. Well, I don’t blame you, Danny, to be honest. But let me introduce myself, okay? My name is Phil Coover.’
I don’t recognise his name, but I do remember where I’ve seen him before. It was in Afghanistan, at the base, and probably more than once. I would have seen him around the admin offices, is my guess, or in the back of a car coming through the checkpoint, or with a visiting group of military brass. Who the fuck knows. But he radiates a confidence that you don’t forget, a looseness. People with serious skin in the game, like high-level corporate execs or four-star generals, tend to be very uptight and locked in to what they’re doing. This guy has none of that. It’s as if he thinks it really is a game.
But clearly he’s with Gideon Logistics, even though you wouldn’t think it from the way he’s behaving. After supplying his name, for instance, he consults his watch like he’s on a golf course and says, ‘You know what? Enough of this shit, let’s go for a drink.’
I do an internal double take.
Because right now I’d fucking love to go for a drink, but not in these circumstances, not with this guy. Not with a possible lawsuit hanging over me.
I look at him. ‘A drink?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘why not? There’s a little place across the street, it’s quiet, they have these exquisite olives. Best in the city.’
So, before I know it, we’re riding the elevator down to the lobby. Turns out this is another thing about Phil Coover: he doesn’t take no for an answer, and he has the force of personality to back it up.
As we’re crossing Third, I picture myself just taking off at a run and heading for the nearest subway station. But, appealing as that might be, it’s not a serious option, because at some level I’m being played here – that’s what it feels like – and I really need to find out what’s going on. Besides, I suspect it’d take more than a few stops on a 6 train to escape the orbit of Coover’s attention.
We go into a bar – a cocktail lounge, the Bradbury – and sit in a booth near the back. So far, Coover has done most of the talking, and about nothing really – how busy he is, his travel schedule, even the weather. We could be two guys who just happened to leave work at the same time and decided to grab a drink together.
But we’re not.
So I lean forward now and look him in the eye. ‘Mr Coover, I don’t . . . I don’t get this. I don’t even know who you are. I mean, I recognise you from Sharista, but . . . this?’ I indicate where we are. ‘A drink? With some fancy fucking olive in it? Is this supposed to make up for my last pay cheque or something?’
Coover shakes his head. ‘No, Danny, it isn’t. And you have every right to ask, but . . . give me a second, will you?’
When I realise he’s reaching for his phone, I roll my eyes. He takes it out, and, as he’s scanning whatever message is on the screen, he says, half in a whisper, ‘Call me Phil, by the way.’
Our waitress arrives before I can respond.
‘Hi there, gentlemen. I’m Cecily. How are you fellas doing today?’
Coover finishes with his phone, puts it on the table and turns his attention to Cecily. Effusing courtly charm, he orders two . . . something Martinis, I don’t catch what he calls them, but I’m assuming they contain olives. The whole time, he doesn’t consult or even look at me, so when he’s done, I turn to Cecily and say, ‘And I’ll have a club soda.’
Coover laughs.
When Cecily leaves, he looks at me. ‘Okay, Danny, okay.’ He pauses. ‘I’m a consultant, yeah? These days mainly for Gideon, but I’ve worked with some of the other PMCs, and on both sides of the fence: direct combat, security details, all of that, but also management, and people.’
Where is this going?
‘People?’
‘Yeah, not human resources exactly, more conflict resolution. In the workplace, and elsewhere. It’s funny, but most of these disputes could either be avoided altogether or resolved by the simple application of a bit of basic goddamned common sense.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Psychology. Because it never ceases to amaze me how flat out stupid people can be. For instance, I get called in on some thing that has already spun out of control, okay? I look at what they’re proposing to do about it, and ninety-five per cent of the time you know what my initial response is? I’ll tell you. It’s me going, holy shit, excuse me, this is your plan, this is what you want to do, you’re kidding me, right?’ He throws his hands up in despair. ‘It’s unbelievable, because what the “this” invariably is is fuel they’re adding to an already raging fire.’
‘So . . .’
‘So what’s my solution? I look people in the eye, I hold their attention, and get them to focus for five minutes on the least damaging options they have in front of them. Figuratively speaking, I talk them down from the ledge.’
He waves a hand in the air, as if to say It’s that simple, then sits back and smiles.
All of a sudden my heart is thumping.
‘You think I’m on a ledge?’
‘No, Danny, I don’t, not at all. But I think our mutual employer might be. That’s the point.’
I stare at him for a moment. What am I supposed to make of this? I hate it when people talk to me in riddles. I end up just wanting to punch them in the face.
‘I’m sorry, Phil, but you’re going to have to explain that to me.’
‘Fine.’ He taps the table with his index finger. ‘Things are very tense at Gideon these days, with the DoD, with the industry in general, with everyone suing everyone else, to the extent that it seems like the whole thing is getting out of control. I mean, Artie Galansky is on a troubleshooting roller-coaster right now and he doesn’t know how to get off. All he does know is how to escalate shit and make it worse. He’s a lawyer, it’s what they do, they generate billable hours, but sometimes you have to take a step back, you know what I mean?’
I shrug, half wondering now if Coover has made a mistake, if he might actually think I’m someone else. Because why would he be talking to me like this?
‘So then,’ he continues, lowering his voice slightly, ‘along comes some low-level employee, a food-services guy, say, and there’s a situation, there’s uncertainty, there’s a perceived risk. What does Artie do? What’s his plan? Crush the little cockroach, that’s what. He doesn’t give it a moment’s thought, doesn’t have to, because it’s all mapped out in the contract of employment, signed – as Artie sees it – by the cockroach.’
I swallow. And loudly.
Coover waits, giving me a moment. ‘Did you ever read your contract, Danny?’
I shrug again. ‘Yeah, of course, but—’
‘I know, who gets beyond page one, right? But interestingly, on page fifteen there’s a confidentiality clause that effectively prohibits you from speaking to anyone – journalists, investigators, prosecutors, your girlfriend, doesn’t matter – about any allegations you might have against Gideon. The declared purpose of the clause is to protect the company’s internal review process, but in essence it’s a gag order on whistle-blowers. So, put that with your GO-1C violation, and you’re in a very vulnerable position. In fact, as far as Artie Galansky is concerned, you’re not even a problem any more, because your employment’s been terminated, you have your letter of warning, and the next step, if required, is automatic legal action, which – believe me – will be clear-cut, swift, and brutal.’ He smiles. ‘You’re a ticked box, my friend.’
It’s not thumping any more, my heart – it’s paralysed, frozen over. Coover’s passive-aggressive style is exhausting, and I’m not sure what to think, let alone what I might even begin to say.
Our drinks show up.
But the time-out is all too brief. Coover doesn’t even acknowledge Cecily’s presence, which means that Cecily, being the pro that she is, doesn’t acknowledge ours. She’s gone pretty quick.
For a second or two I look at the Martini on my side of the table, then reach for the club soda. I take a sip from it.
‘Okay, Phil,’ I say, ‘what are you telling me here that isn’t in the letter? Why is this cockroach getting special attention?’
‘Well . . .’ – he drags the word out – ‘that’s simple. It’s because I think Artie Galansky is wrong.’ He reaches for my Martini and pulls it towards his so that the two glasses are aligned directly in front of him, the large olives hovering below his face now like an extra set of eyeballs. ‘He’s paranoid is what it is, about whistle-blowers, because these days even the word is enough to—’
‘But I’m not a whistle-blower.’
Coover clicks his tongue. ‘Maybe not technically, Danny, maybe not yet—’
‘What are you talking about?’
But even as I’m asking him the question, I get an uncomfortable sense of what the answer is going to be, or at least its shape, the contours of it.
‘Listen, Danny,’ he says, ‘Gideon has its systems, its internal review mechanisms, and they’re looking at what happened that night, all of it, the riot, the thing you saw, or think you saw, they’re investigating it, you can rest assured of that . . . but what they don’t need is someone loudly confronting senior officials or approaching a congressman in a goddamned airport lounge. What they really don’t need – according to Artie Galansky anyway – is some emotional, guilt-ridden wreck of a guy walking the streets of Manhattan ticking like a goddamned time bomb.’
‘Jesus . . . am I under surveillance?’
‘Well, duh.’ Coover takes a sip from the first Martini. ‘They’re watching you like you’re a video game, Danny. What did you think?’ He takes another sip and puts the glass down. ‘They’re just waiting for you to finally crack and take up where you left off back in Afghanistan, making wild accusations, shooting your mouth off. At which point they’ll crush you.’
I lean forward now, almost halfway across the table. ‘Yeah, I get that. Jesus. I’m not an idiot. And the reason I’ve been walking the streets is because I’m looking for a fucking job, Phil. Which is something I really need. So I don’t have any intention of shooting my mouth off. As you call it. But you know what? If Artie Galansky wants to push things—’
‘Yes.’ Coover slaps the palm of his hand on the table. ‘There, that’s it, you see? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re a smart guy, Danny. You get it. But you have your limits too, and if Artie pushes you over some line, all hell’s going to break loose, am I right? Though’ – he pauses, and holds up a finger – ‘if that happens, make no mistake, you’ll still get crushed. My argument is that if it happens, Gideon will suffer too. But in ways they don’t foresee.’
I lean back again, listening closely, my anger now cut with real confusion.
Coover huddles forward. ‘Look, Danny, I’m going to be straight with you. Gideon is a fairly dysfunctional outfit . . . and, okay, you know, maybe I don’t like the way they run those bases over there, fine, but my job as a strategist is to protect the company, and in this particular situation the most effective way I can do that is actually very simple. It’s to make them leave you alone.’
I know I’m being manipulated here, and in a way that I don’t fully comprehend, but if this is a possible outcome, does it really even matter?
‘I’m not going to argue with that,’ I say, as I reach across the table, retrieve the second Martini, and bring it to my lips. If the hit I take from it isn’t quite a gulp, it’s definitely more than a sip.
I put the glass down and add, ‘But I’m not going to pretend I understand it either.’
‘Understand it, as in—’
‘As in why, and . . . I guess . . . how?’
‘How is easy. How is I tell them and they do it.’
‘What, you just tell them to leave me alone?’
‘I tell them that in my professional assessment you’re a level-headed guy with good judgement, that you’re not going to crack, and that they should drop the GO-1C thing and pay up what they owe you. And they listen. End of story.’
‘But . . . why would you do that?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be doing it for you, Danny. I’d be doing it for them.’ He takes a sip from his Martini. ‘Because . . . okay, let’s say you start shooting your mouth off about Gideon, about these two alleged deaths on the base, and let’s say you get some lawyer involved, and Gideon responds by invoking their confidentiality clause, yeah? That’s where I see the trouble starting. For us. As I said before, you’d be buried in a pile of shit regardless, with legal expenses, the GO-1C thing, and a slew of counter suits, all of which you’d lose. But there’s a good chance, in the current climate, that Gideon would face a challenge over the legitimacy of the clause itself. Because there is an argument to be made that it violates the federal False Claims Act. Just possibly. Now that might not sound like much, but it could have some pretty far-reaching consequences, so why draw attention to it? Especially if you don’t have to? Yeah?’ He pauses. ‘It’s a can of worms that we don’t want to see opened up, is what I’m saying.’ He pauses again, as though searching for a better way to explain himself. ‘At the end of the day, it’s not anything you need to be concerned with. It’s nit-picky lawyer stuff that affects us, potentially, but if I can give Artie the assurance that you’re a disinterested party, just some guy trying to get on with his life, then . . . I think we can all relax. Artie cuts a cheque. You tear that letter up. Everyone’s happy.’
There are several things I could say to this, questions I could ask, remarks I could make, but I think we’ve reached the endgame. Coover has made his offer. There’s really nothing more to discuss.
I look at him and nod. ‘Okay.’
He nods back and gently taps the edge of the table. ‘Good.’
If this was a negotiation, then I’ve actually come out of it with more than I was looking for going in. Which feels good. But also feels too good to be true. In any case, at this point Coover reverts right back to his earlier, chattier mode and starts asking me questions – Iraq, Asheville, the old man – so that by the time we’re finishing our drinks and getting up to leave, he’s morphed into my best bud. He even half apologises for the whole mess and says, you know, the way these corporate types think they can just trample over people is actually sickening. On our way out, he quizzes me about work – what kind of job I’m looking for, what I’m good at. And even though I can’t help feeling that he must know most of this stuff already, I tell him anyway.
‘You know what,’ he says, when we’re out on the street, ‘leave it with me, will you? I’m friends with a lot of people in this town, and if I can’t scare something up then what am I good for, right?’
Again, there’s nothing to argue with here.
He extends his hand and we shake.
‘Are you all set?’ he says, looking around. ‘You want me to call a car for you?’
‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Okay, well, I guess I’m done for the day. I’ll talk to you soon, Danny.’
And with that he takes off.
It’s just after five o’clock, and Third Avenue is hopping, offices everywhere letting out, the sidewalk a torrent of humanity. The afternoon has clouded over too, and the air has a dark, strangely oppressive feel to it.
I walk to the next corner, and stop at the kerb. As I wait for the light to change, I glance over my shoulder and across the street. Despite the traffic and the crowds on the other side, I catch a glimpse of Phil Coover slipping back in through the revolving doors of the Wolper & Stone Building.
*
My mind is in knots as I walk home, and for good reason, but it’s only as I arrive at the door to our apartment that I understand why.
I’m going to end up lying to Kate – and hating myself for it.
Of course, what makes it a little easier – at first – is that she’s pissed at me. Did I go to the meeting? Why didn’t I answer her texts? What is the fucking point of having a cellphone?
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her, ‘I just wanted to get it over with.’
She stands there, waiting for more, looking over her glasses at me. ‘Well?’
The version I give her is accurate as far as it goes, but I leave stuff out – like the fact that I have been, and presumably still am, under surveillance. I don’t tell her that my overall impression of the meeting is that Phil Coover pretty much played me like a fiddle. Which is another thing. I don’t actually mention Phil Coover by name. What I tell her is that Arthur Galansky was tied up and I spoke to some other guy. I try to focus on the positives. They’re going to release my last cheque. They might drop the GO-1C charge.
‘I’m confused,’ she says. ‘What changed their minds? How did you convince them?’
This is a reasonable question but what do I tell her? ‘I made a case, I guess. I told them it had nothing to do with me.’
‘As in—’
‘As in the thing. What happened over there.’ I clear my throat. ‘Look, I can barely remember what I said. It was a tense situation. I was nervous.’
I’m beginning to feel weird now, on the defensive, as if I’m being cross-examined.
Kate nods. It’s clear that her earlier ambivalence hasn’t gone away, but she seems to know not to push it.
My own ambivalence hasn’t gone away either. I manage to keep a lid on it while I’m awake, but in bed later – unexpected, unbidden – I get to see a human skull being cracked open, then smashed. It happens in a variety of locations – the lobby of the Wolper & Stone Building, my old prep station at Mouzon, our bedroom. I wake each time, the transition seamless, whatever chaotic setting of the previous moment giving way in an instant to the oppressive smallness of our actual bedroom.
*
In the morning I have a thumping headache. I drink lots of black coffee and eat a bowl of cereal. Kate has a coding assignment to finish today, and it’s going to require a lot of concentration, so I need to be out of the apartment pretty early. I don’t want to be a distraction to her, and, after yesterday, I know I would be. We don’t say much as we glide around each other, from bathroom to kitchen to living room, the familiar pas de deux of couples who live in small apartments. Sort of inconveniently too, and, in spite of my headache, I find myself actually wanting her. This is something I haven’t felt since that first night I got back. And call me obvious or stupid, but it happens as she’s emerging from the bathroom after her shower. She’s in a loose robe, her pale and lightly freckled skin glowing, her auburn hair wet and glistening. But that’s not what this is, not exactly – I see her like that every day. This is more a build-up over time of subtler tensions, of deeper needs, things which are now, suddenly and unexpectedly, uncoiling inside me. But then I realise that it’s always this way, that when it comes to Kate my arousal is unique and complex and layered, and that what I’m feeling in this moment is not just desire, it’s love.
It still is desire, though, and there’s empirical (if ephemeral) evidence for it. But there’ll be no happy resolution here – not at 8 a.m., not with the caffeine rush and Morning Edition on the radio and the screeching baby next door and the looming ones and zeros on Kate’s laptop all so determinedly ranged against it. I wish I could transmit something of what I’m feeling to her, but I know it would get too complicated too fast and end up derailing her morning. So I just decamp. I give her a kiss as I leave – a rushed one, little more than a peck – and tell her I hope her assignment goes well.
Outside it’s sunny, but there’s already a thickening in the air. I walk briskly along 10th Street for several blocks, heading west, and turn right onto Broadway. This isn’t anything different from what I’ve been doing for the past three weeks, but it feels different. It feels like something fundamental has shifted, and I’m now faced with a choice – either I slide further into the shit, or I wake the fuck up and start looking for a job. Because even if I get my last pay cheque from Gideon, that’s it, there’ll be no more money coming in. So it’s really quite simple. I have to get my act together. I have to start scouring job sites and sending out copies of my résumé.
And I have to put Afghanistan behind me.
I stop at a bench in Union Square and sit down, the city swirling all around me, noise, traffic, streaks of colour . . . honking horns, snippets of conversation, dogs, dog walkers, ringtones, skin tones. Some days you don’t even notice this stuff, it washes over you, and others it becomes so dense, so distracting, it’s all you see. I close my eyes for a few seconds, dreading the prospect of actually having to look for work. The first time I ever compiled a résumé was for the Gideon job. Any other jobs I’ve had I got through referrals. That was how I got Mouzon. That was how I got the three or four jobs I’d worked back in Asheville. Someone gives your name out, they vouch for you, you go meet a guy, you talk, next thing you know you’re wearing checked pants and dicing carrots.
Old school, which, I guess, is called that for a reason.
I take out my phone and start searching for listings. It’d be easier to do this at home using the laptop, but I’m not at home and I want to get a move on. In any case, I have an app here that can record whatever notes, numbers or links I might possibly need. Looking down, I try to focus, to shut out all the surrounding distractions, the white noise, but less than a minute in and the fucking phone itself rings.
I stare at it for a moment, annoyed, but also uncertain. It’s a blocked number.
I answer it.
‘Hello?’
‘Danny? Hi, it’s Phil Coover.’
Union Square tilts a little on its axis.
‘Oh . . . Phil.’
‘Hey, glad I caught you, I’m just heading to the airport and I wanted to talk. So. I sat down with Artie, and that thing? It’s sorted, no problem. Last cheque, plus a little extra thrown in. Call it severance.’
‘Jesus, Phil . . .’
‘It’s only fair, am I right? At least, that’s how I look at it.’
My stomach is churning. I glance up and see a small Asian woman gliding by with a dog that’s nearly bigger than she is. Then, passing in the other direction, two middle-aged guys in suits.
‘Phil, I don’t—’
‘And something else, Danny. I made a couple of calls. There’s a place on 44th Street, Barcadero. Get over there this morning and ask for Stanley. He’ll fix you up with some work.’
I close my eyes. ‘Phil, how . . . I don’t . . . how do I—’
‘No need. It’s my job. Which I’ll lose if I miss this flight. Okay, so you got that? Stanley. Barcadero. Forty-fourth Street. Best of luck, Danny. Best of luck with everything.’
And that’s it, he’s gone.
Fuck.
Opening my eyes, I lean back on the bench and gaze up at the sky, which is a hazy blue. What just happened? Another job referral? I’m excited about it, my heart is racing, but at the same time I feel uneasy. I sit forward again, and, as I look around, something occurs to me. Am I still under surveillance? There were those two guys in suits. And right now, in my direct line of vision, I see someone who could easily be watching me. The whole idea is pretty absurd, though. So maybe Coover had just said that as a way to spook me, to make me think it was true.
In which case it worked.
But again, if the outcome is what he said, if he actually delivers – the cheque, some form of severance, an actual job – who cares?
Kate, probably, but that’s not going to stop me.
I stand up and move away from the bench, then head back onto Broadway.
Next landmark, the Flatiron, but Coover said ‘this morning’, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. I know restaurants, however, I know their circadian rhythms, and for sure there are guys up there right now taking in deliveries – the crates of produce, the sacks of flour, the vacuum-packed slabs of meat. In the kitchen someone is halfway through zesting fifty lemons and someone else is hauling a twenty-quart container of chicken stock out of the walk-in. There’s a guy out by the loading dock having a cigarette and another one in the poky little backroom office tearing his hair out over prep lists. But it might still be too early for this Stanley individual. He’s probably at the gym doing kettlebell workouts. Either that or he’s at home slumped in front of his medicine cabinet, nursing a vicious hangover and trying to decide what pills he needs to get through the day.
I’ll stop off someplace, get coffee and a bagel, sit in a booth for a while. Look out the window, read a paper, then show up at around ten, ten thirty.
Stanley. Barcadero. Forty-fourth Street.
I’ve got this.