I couldn’t hide forever. I had known this for three days. But talking even for thirty seconds with the police guy made this clear. I needed help. I needed to do something. I needed to do something now.
That’s when it hit me. What I really needed was a miracle, and maybe the miracle was still behind or beside or in little girl’s bed in Bronxville—Sonja’s condom wrapper with a tiny piece of paper with a phone number on it. It might be my best chance. Yes, it was possible it was the Georgian who had turned Sonja over to Yulian. I am not big dope, I thought to that. But why would he? He didn’t work for Yulian. And she had business deal for him. So, maybe she never even got to the Georgian. Maybe Yulian got to my Sonja first. And maybe Richard, the only john ever who didn’t fuck me or use me or hit me or want something from me that he just couldn’t have, would help me find that tiny piece of paper. Who knows? Maybe he would even help me find the Georgian.
It was a risk, but I had to do something, yes?
And so I decided I would go back to Bronxville. To the house where it all began.
Chapter Thirteen
Before leaving the hospital in Brooklyn, Richard had sent Spencer a text. He wrote that he had something for him and to meet him at Rapier, a restaurant a few blocks west of the Cravat. He suggested eleven-thirty. Spencer had texted back a smiley face. Richard assumed that meant he would be there.
And now it was eleven-forty-five, and there was no sign of the guy. Richard had taken a seat at the end of the bar—a redoubtable slab of burnished mahogany—that gave him a view of the entrance. He had ordered a beer, largely because of where he had just been and not because of what he was about to do. He couldn’t recall the last time he had started drinking before noon. Just when he was about to text the fool once again, he saw him outside on the sidewalk, taking a last drag on his cigarette and then flicking the still-smoking butt to the ground. Then he was pushing his way through the glass doors and eyeing the tables. It took him a full ten seconds before he spotted Richard at the bar and smiled his way past the hostess.
“The bar, eh,” he said, taking the stool beside Richard. “Sometimes I like to eat at the bar, too. Feels kind of manly.”
“We’re not eating,” Richard said simply, hoping to take Spencer’s unendurable self-satisfaction down a peg.
“A liquid lunch? That’s fortifying, too.” He got the bartender’s attention with the singular ease of a drunk and ordered a vodka tonic. “Good to see you, Richard. Though you’re looking pretty informal for an M and A stud. Black hoodie and jeans? This is…what? Your Breaking Bad chic? Or is this your hausfrau costume while you wait for Franklin McCoy to take you back?”
“Casual Friday.”
“I approve. And, I must say, I’m very glad you’re going to be a friend and have my back on this one. Just when things seemed to be getting worse, it seems you’ve come to your senses and are going to make everything at least a wee bit better.”
“Oh, I think we both hit rock bottom this week. I don’t think things could possibly get any worse for either of us.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, they could. They really could. Just wait till you see me testifying someday. But it beats jail. And, thanks to you, I will have paid my legal bills—at least some portion of them.”
“They’re that bad?”
“So bad. And I am expecting it will take beaucoup bucks to dial down Chuck ‘Shithead’ Alcott and ensure that the frail Mrs. Fisher makes a full recovery.”
“Nuisance suits.”
The bartender brought Spencer his drink, and Spencer tapped it against Richard’s bottle before taking a generous swallow. “I know.”
“But,” Richard added, “that party really might have ruined the Fishers’ marriage. Or scarred Chuck Alcott in some way. That’s one more thing we have to live with.”
“Well, I didn’t put a gun to Brandon’s head and say go fuck the talent or else. And Chuck could have left whenever he wanted.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to be a killjoy. Maybe he didn’t want to pass judgment on Philip at his bachelor party.”
“That’s why you took one of the girls upstairs and fucked her in the guest room?”
“I didn’t fuck her, Spencer,” he said, lowering his voice and hoping that Spencer would follow his lead.
“Your loss, in that case.”
“I was drunk.”
“We all were.”
Richard considered adding that he only viewed being drunk as an explanation—not a defense. But there wasn’t any point. So instead he let the thread go and said, “Anyway, given all the money pressures you’re feeling—”
“I wish that was it. I am constantly looking over my shoulder and expecting to see some skinhead bruiser amped up on steroids. I look on the street and see black SUVs everywhere.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“My lawyer says I am worried for naught.”
“There you go.”
“But still…”
“But still. So, it seems to me, my thirty thousand dollars will barely make a dent into what you may need.”
“Happy to make it thirty-five.”
“How do I know you won’t?”