*
It takes just a couple of seconds to find the main number, a simple web search, then click the first link and hit CONTACT, no need to scroll, right there at the top of the page. The magic of the internet. It’s easy to forget this, looking at the toxic effects of social media, at the economic devastation wrought by online retail and the tech-driven gig economy and the decline of Main Street, at the mis-and disinformation that threatens the integrity of democracy, in fact the integrity of everything. It’s a long list of negatives. But they’re easy to ignore when you want a late-night ride home from a bar, or a pizza delivered, or an anonymous hookup. Or a phone number for anyone in America.
It’s not news to Ariel that this main number is easy to find; she’d conducted this exact search before. She’d even punched in these very same digits, attempted to reach this man in this office, in this fashion. She’d failed before. She’s prepared to fail again. She knows what the failure will sound like. And she knows what she’ll do afterward.
*
“Will he know what this is about?”
“Yes he will.”
“One moment please.”
Ariel is now on her third iteration of the same conversation in as many minutes, presumably making progress, each person who answers in closer physical proximity to her destination. All these gatekeepers have been hesitant—they’ve never heard of anyone named Laurel Turner—but none is willing to be overtly incredulous, or dismissive, or hostile. You never know who’s going to be on the phone; you don’t want to piss off the wrong caller.
Although American offices are largely closed today, Ariel is sure that the man she’s trying to reach has been working. He probably works every day, no holidays, not even Independence Day.
Ariel has been on hold for a long time. She imagines that this must be the final gatekeeper, the person who has walked into the boss’s office, waited for a break in the conversation, then leaned over to whisper, “There’s a Laurel Turner calling, she says you’ll know what it’s about?”
He wouldn’t immediately respond. He’d sit stone-still for a second or two, his mind racing to game out the scenarios, considering the downsides to taking the call versus refusing it, speculating about what could happen next, how this threat would escalate, why, and to what end.
The conclusion he’ll inevitably come to is yes, he does need to talk to this caller. But no, he does not need to take this call at this moment, not in this office, not among these witnesses. “I’ll get back to her,” he’d mutter, trying to sound dismissive, not meeting the assistant’s eye, hoping that his nonchalance will bury this interaction in a haystack, and thus that she won’t be able to recall the caller’s name, later. Even though he hired this woman precisely because she remembers absolutely everything and keeps immaculate, comprehensive records. Plus, Ariel has no doubt, she’s good-looking.
He’d debate this with himself: Should he ask this assistant—who let’s face it is not just good-looking, but drop-dead gorgeous—to not log this call? Or would that only draw more attention? Should he instead redact the record himself, after the fact? Both choices would seem bad. And this recognition would maybe lead him to worry about the endgame that would eventually follow from this call’s opening gambit. The situation is bad, and he has no doubt that the badness has just begun.
He knows that his security is buttressed by ironclad agreements, by incontestable law, by the threat of financial ruin, of jail even. But it’s also possible that none of this matters anymore. The world has changed since those agreements were signed; the law has lost some of its bite, some of its relevance. Facts too. Mere accusations can be just as bad—or worse—in the current climate, when innuendo and rumor and falsehoods can travel farther, faster, than the truth ever hoped to. This shift has benefited him, to be sure. But he’s fully aware that it can harm him too. It can destroy him.
Maybe he’d beckon the assistant back, and speak softly so the half-dozen other middle-aged men wouldn’t hear him say, “This is personal, please don’t put it in the log.”
She wouldn’t miss a beat, she’d nod, “Of course,” while panic rushed through her because it was too late for that, and she’d be trying to figure out how to doctor her records, how traceable that would be, and by whom, and when, and what sort of trouble she’d end up in for that, versus what trouble she’d be in for not doing it, for not even trying—this is the debate that would consume her as she crossed the large room away from all those men, a couple of them probably watching her ass. She wears tight skirts because she knows it’s expected. And she really, really wants this job.
“I’m sorry,” she’ll say, back at her desk, “may I take a number? He’ll have to call you back.”
*
Ariel needs to exhaust all possibilities. The cops need to do it, the embassy, the CIA: There’s a protocol for everyone, for everything, a set of escalating responses to increasingly urgent indicators, one check after another, marked in one box after another.
She calls John’s office, even though she suspects that she won’t get through to any live person there. But she needs to make this effort, and hope for something in response, anything. First his direct line, where voicemail picks up immediately: “Hi, this is John Wright, I’m out of the country on business, and our offices are closed for the holiday. We’ll reopen on Wednesday the fifth. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
Ariel leaves a message relating the bare bones of the predicament, in case someone other than John picks up his voicemail. She repeats the exercise with the company’s general line, gets the same response—closed for the holiday, we’ll get back to you on Wednesday.
She’s doing what she can do. What else is there?
*
“Bucky? He’s refusing to take my call.”
“Well I guess I’m not surprised.”
“But you can get through to him, right? You’re still friends.”
Bucky doesn’t answer.
“Please, Bucky. I need you to convince him. Please.”
“Convince him? How?”
Ariel is reluctant to say this aloud; she feels the severity of it, the crime of it. “I have a recording of our final conversation.”
“Whose?”
“Me and him.”
“Sweet Jesus. I don’t want to hear this, do I?”
“I was wearing a wire. Tell him.”
“Oh God Laurel. That sounds pretty illegal.”
What it sounds like is a surreptitious recording made without consent. It sounds like blackmail. It is, indeed, both.
“Do you really want to do this?”
Ariel snorts. “No, I don’t want to have anything to do with that bastard ever again; you of all people know that. What I want—sincerely—is for him to be in jail, or better yet dead. But I need—” She cuts herself off before she loses her composure. “I don’t have a choice, Bucky. So right now I need to make sure that neither does he.”