Alligators in the Trees (31 page)

After an hour of hypnotic rhythm and blues, the band took a break. Tobias, still tingling with appreciation of such fine musicianship, was submerged in his own thoughts when the bass player appeared at his table. Tobias changed positions so the man could get by, not realizing the bass player had come to speak to him.

“Tobias Jordan, right?” he asked. “I’ve been a fan of yours since I was in high school, man. What an honor,” the bass player said reverently, extending his hand to the rock legend. “Lloyd Paxton,” he added as an afterthought. Tobias offered him a chair, glancing nervously around in hopes this exchange hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention. Even as relaxed and unguarded as he had been, paranoia had become ingrained in him.

“You guys are incredible,” Tobias said, causing Lloyd to bow his head modestly. The waitress came by and Tobias offered his companion a drink. Lloyd ordered a beer and Tobias ordered another scotch on the rocks.

“Is this one of your regular hangouts, or did you come to hear the band?” Lloyd asked.

“I’d like to say I’d heard of you guys before, but this was just a lucky surprise on my part,” Tobias said.

“Really? You just happened to be wandering by…?”

“Something like that,” Tobias laughed.

“I take it you’re a blues fan, then.”

“I am, always have been. ’Course, I like most music. Occupational hazard, I guess.” The waitress returned with their drinks. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard honest nitty-gritty blues. I got to tell you, it’s like a tonic,” Tobias said, raising his glass to Lloyd.

“Thanks, man. I’ll take that as our best compliment so far.” They let the remark hang in the air, content to bask in their musical camaraderie. The noise level rose to the point that conversation was difficult without yelling at one another. Others from the band wandered by, but the din was too loud for Tobias to make out the introductions.

When their break was almost over, Lloyd leaned close to Tobias and asked him if he would lead them in a song. Tobias had one fleeting second of terror, followed quickly by an overwhelming urge to perform. Lloyd assured him they’d keep it low-key—just one song, no big fuss. They could do any song he chose, one of his own, even. Tobias couldn’t say no. Singing for an audience was his most irresistible craving, aside from young, tall blonds. He belted back the remainder of his drink and joined the bass player on stage.

He stood somewhat conspicuously on the edge of the stage while Lloyd conferred with the rest of his band. Lloyd waved him over to choose a number he’d like to sing. A few suggestions were bandied about until they settled on an old, crowd-pleasing standard. With little fanfare, Lloyd announced their guest vocalist, and away they went.

Though Tobias and Brody had written a few songs that were clearly in the blues vein, their style was most closely identified with jazz. They were concretely a rock ‘n roll band, but they had found a way to trick hardcore rock connoisseurs into an appreciation of jazz by weaving enticing, sophisticated riffs into their tracks.

That being the case, no one in The Blue Dragon who didn’t recognize Tobias Jordan would have ever guessed he was not a dyed-in-the-wool blues man. He sang
The Thrill Is Gone
with such depth of feeling, even he was transported by the effect. It took little persuasion to keep him on the stage for another song. Then another. And so it went.

When the band finally wrapped up their performance for the evening, long after the appointed hour, Tobias was still in their company. Not wanting to hog the spotlight from their lead singer, he had sung backup and played keyboards, occasionally heeding pleas to sing the lead.

They threw a couple of
Absent Among Us
songs in to see if anyone in the audience was paying attention. It gratified Tobias immensely to hear hoots of recognition when he sang
No Trouble Like Old Trouble
and
Down For The Count.
By that time, he was so giddy from jamming solely for the sake of it, he didn’t even care about having his cover blown.

When it was all over, Tobias had achieved a sense of euphoria that had been absent in his life since his touring days. He was as high on life as he could ever get, yet as he began saying his farewells, he felt the onset of a major crash. He hid his melancholy as he accepted handshakes and thanks from the band. He nonchalantly refused their offer of a lift, opting instead to call the car service for a driver.

He hung around with the band and the club owner until his transportation arrived, still trying to act like one of the gang. But as soon as he walked out to the awaiting limo, the spell was broken. He was once again rock legend Tobias Jordan and not just a guy with a soulful voice.

Tobias told the driver to head uptown. He didn’t give him any specific instructions because he really didn’t know where he wanted to go. It was late; there wouldn’t be many options open to him, especially in his general neighborhood. How could he follow up that experience, anyway? Anything would be anticlimactic after what he had just done.

The decision was made ten minutes into the ride, as his eyelids began to sag. As the euphoria lifted, fatigue took its place. He wasn’t the kid he used to be. He surrendered to his exhaustion. He had the driver drop him at his hotel.

Priscilla’s eyes bugged as Philip deposited two more storage boxes onto the worktable. That made eight boxes of invoices pertaining to the construction of The Phoenix Tower. Sensing her trepidation, Philip lifted the lid on one and thumbed through the contents.

“Darn. I was hoping they were at least in chronological order,” he said, turning to Priscilla apologetically. “It looks like they might be filed alphabetically. It’s too bad I can’t remember the name of the company we used for the caissons. That would make this process a lot easier.”

“Yeah,” Priscilla agreed, as she removed a lid and took a look for herself. She could already feel a headache coming on. “Is there anyone you could contact who might remember the name of the company?” she asked hopefully. Philip looked doubtful.

“Not anyone I would feel comfortable calling,” he said. Priscilla made a face. “The company that poured Jack Cafferty’s caissons is Tri-State Concrete and Cement. I suppose it’d be too much to hope we used the same firm, but at least that’s one name to watch for. I could get a staffer or two in here to help us sort through all this,” he suggested. Priscilla didn’t much care for that idea.

“No, it’s all right. We can do it ourselves,” she said, lifting a box off the table and setting it on the floor. She kicked off her shoes and sat down cross-legged in front of it. “So, what should I be looking for? Is the invoice just going to say ‘caissons’ on it?”

“Well, it would be handy, but every company has its own way of invoicing. See, like this one here—all it has is the company logo, invoice number and date, and a total. “Engineering” is all it says under description. Not very helpful. That could mean anything.

“This one only says “order completed 2-19-04.” Fortunately, I know Northern Alliance supplies drywall, so we can eliminate this one. I’m afraid it’s just going to take some diligence,” Philip said regretfully. Priscilla suppressed a groan and pushed up her sleeves.

“Maybe we should get your temps to fire up some more coffee,” she said, as she took a handful of invoices out of the box and began to sort through them.

“Good thinking,” Philip agreed. He went to his phone and buzzed the reception desk. “Yes, could someone please make a fresh pot of coffee and bring it here when it’s ready? Make it strong,” he added. Following Priscilla’s lead, he grabbed a box and sat down on the floor, not as agilely as she had, but it had been a long time since he had assumed such a position.

“Found it yet?” he asked facetiously, as Priscilla scrutinized a pink work order.

“Ha ha,” she replied, as she dropped it into the reject pile. They both fell silent as they examined one invoice after the other. So engrossed were they in their project, neither noticed that the temp had entered the room until she set the coffee tray down on Philip’s desk.

“Oh great, thank you,” Philip said from his roost on the carpet.

“Is there anything else you need, sir?” she asked, eyeing the two curiously. “We normally leave here at 2:30, but I can stay later if you need me to.”

“Thank you, we’ll be fine. You go on and we’ll see you tomorrow.” The temp nodded and headed for the door. “What time do you get here in the morning?” Philip asked as an afterthought.

“Eight-thirty.”

“Good. We’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, then,” he said, cheerfully waving goodbye. The temp gave a hesitant wave in return and ducked out the door. “Who knows, if we’re lucky, those girls might be putting in their first honest day’s work since they’ve been here.”

Priscilla grinned half-heartedly as she tossed another invoice aside. “Hold that thought,” she said, taking another batch out of the box. Philip gazed at her with gratitude and admiration as her brow crinkled over her task. There probably wasn’t anything that could induce Marianne to get down on the floor and sift through hundreds of bills, and the thought of helping him would certainly never motivate her. Priscilla looked up, catching his open stare.

“I guess I should pour us some coffee,” he said, struggling to raise himself.

“I’ll get it,” Priscilla said, easily springing to her feet. “How do you want it?”

“How strong is it?”

“It looks pretty strong.”

“Better give me the works.”

Priscilla stirred in generous amounts of cream and sugar into both their cups and handed one to Philip. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her mug to his.

“To good luck,” he replied, taking a cautious sip. Priscilla resumed her post and picked up where she had left off.

“Any idea what “W.K. Armstrong & Company” is? All it says is “work complete” she said, handing the bill to Philip. He studied it for a moment before he remembered the type of business it was.

“Excavators,” he said, handing it back. Priscilla tossed it in the pile and fetched another handful.

“Isn’t it funny how life has a way of leveling a person?” he asked rhetorically. “Virtually all my life I dreamed of becoming an architect—a famous New York architect, no less. I spent hours in the library as a kid reading about Adolf Loos, William Holabird, Theodore Link, Frank Lloyd Wright and others. I was going to become world renowned. Books would be written about my life and works. My designs would be studied in school. I worked so hard to make a name for myself. Now, here I sit, in the empty offices of my defunct firm, rummaging through stacks of five-year-old invoices.” Philip shook his head and forced a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze.

“At least you had the luxury of having a goal and making it work for a long time,” Priscilla said, taking a sip of coffee. “Whether you’ll be written up in books, I don’t know. But your architecture has had a lasting impact on the city. That’s a tremendous accomplishment, Phil. I wish I could know that kind of satisfaction.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I was whining. I do have a lot to be grateful for, I realize that. I guess I’m feeling a little humbled. I always thought if you have a good plan and worked hard, you could be the master of your own destiny. In hindsight, that seems ridiculously naïve.” Priscilla shrugged.

“Not ever having had a plan myself, it’s kind of hard for me to relate. I mean, it sounds like a more logical and reasonable way to approach life, but then again, the world’s full of surprises you just can’t anticipate,” she said.

“That’s my point, exactly. You can have the most admirable ambitions and work like a devil, but if the fates decide your time in the sun is up, look out!”

Priscilla took a break and rested on outstretched arms for a minute. She cracked her neck on both sides, sighing with relief as the pain subsided. She watched Philip as he poured over a sheaf of invoices stapled together.

Her life had been short of fulfilling, to put it mildly. And that was without the measure of goals or ambitions. Sure, she hadn’t gained much in her thirty-two years of living, but that was due more to lack of trying than anything else. The juxtaposition of her life to Phil’s made her wonder: how did an underachiever’s remorse compare to that of an overachiever? Was there more shame in falling from great heights than there was from slithering on one’s belly through the obstacle course of life?

She considered herself a nothing, a big fat zero. If that wasn’t a sign of failure, what was? Yet, with all his merits and successes, Philip Glessner had the taint of failure after one bad incident. It was true what he had said: life was the great equalizer. If this realization was meant to comfort her, it didn’t. The underachievers didn’t deserve much, but surely the diligent did. Especially a man like Phil. She reached over and grabbed some more invoices.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Philip said softly.

“What?” Priscilla asked, nose in her work.

“About life being a leveler.”

“Why? I think you’re right,” Priscilla said, looking over at him.

“It might apply to the high and mighty, but the theory doesn’t fit everyone. Children are dealt hard blows that inalterably shape their futures. That’s not leveling, that’s having the deck stacked against them. Look at what happened to you. Losing your parents when you were ten was strictly a cruel act of fate. A child doesn’t need leveling. It’s not fair.”

Priscilla didn’t mean to laugh, but Philip’s sentiment was as comical as it was touching. He looked up at her, a hurt expression on his face.

“There’s no such thing as fair, Phil, as much as we’d like to think so,” she said plainly. “We have to deal with what we’re given. If it makes you feel any better, there’s no guarantee I would have ended up with a more promising future if my parents hadn’t quick fried themselves. We’re all responsible for our own outcomes, no matter where we start in life. You became a famous architect due to your own efforts, and I became a coffee shop waitress. Unemployed, I should add.”

“Yes, but I had all the advantages you never had.”

“It doesn’t matter, Phil. There are thousands of stories about disadvantaged kids going on to be mega-successes, while just as many privileged brats turn out to be deadbeats. You know the old story—you’ve got to put something in to take something out,” she said, discarding another unfruitful invoice.

“It’s not too late,” Philip said earnestly.

“Not too late for what?”

“To make something of yourself.” Priscilla scoffed. She could give pep talks, but she hated being on the receiving end of one. “You can go to school. You’ve got a wonderful mind.”

“Please, Phil—not that again.”

“What? Are you afraid of the thought that you might be good at something besides serving food?” Priscilla emitted a sigh, part exasperation, part indignation. “Or do you simply lack the imagination to see yourself doing something you find rewarding?” Priscilla sat up straight, mouth fixed in a hard line. When did Mr. Sunshine acquire the knack for mind reading? “I look at you and I see someone who would be an asset in almost any situation.”

Priscilla laughed dismissively.“Now you’re having me on.”

“Why are you so insistent on selling yourself short?”

“Why do you persist in making me feel inadequate?” she countered.

“What are you talking about? I just said I think you’d be an asset in any situation.”

“Yet you’ve only seen me in one—taking orders. I think I know my capabilities better than you do, Phil. I’ve been around me longer.”

“Ah, but that’s just it. You don’t have any perspective where your own attributes are concerned,” Philip insisted.

“Oh, is that it?” Priscilla said sarcastically. She threw the last invoice on the stack, then began the task of straightening them and putting them back in the box.

Philip kept quiet for a moment, then tried again. “The other night you mentioned something about wanting to be a writer. That’s something you can go to school to learn. You could be a journalist. You’ve been reading newspapers so long, it’d probably be second nature to you. Or you could try your hand at fiction—whatever interests you.”

Priscilla glanced up from her task and gave him a dubious look. “I tried that once.”

“What, writing?”

“Yeah. I took classes at night school in creative writing. I wanted to write short stories.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t any good at it. My stories were too short,” Priscilla said, fitting the lid on the box. She didn’t elaborate, and Philip was too confused by her answer to pursue it further. She stood and traded the completed box for a new one.

“I’ll stick this one by the door so we don’t end up going through the same box twice,” she said.

“Good plan,” Philip endorsed, as he got to his feet and followed suit. “Two boxes down, only six more to go,” he said, as he plopped back down on the floor.

“Don’t even say that,” Priscilla warned, knowing she would go blind if she had to inspect four boxes’ worth of invoices. They fell silent again as they each waded through the seemingly endless sheaves of paper. After several minutes of unproductive labor, Philip got excited.

“I think I’ve got something here,” he said, examining the bill closely. “I can barely work this out, but doesn’t that scribble look like “caissons” to you?” he asked, handing the bill to Priscilla. She squinted and concurred.

“I think you’re right,” she said passing it back to him. He sprang to his feet, his agility much improved by this stroke of good luck.

“Atillian Ready Mix, Structural Concrete Pouring,” he announced as he rounded his desk, intent on the phone. “Now the hard part—finding someone who will remember if they used an admixture on The Phoenix. Or if they’re willing to admit it, if they did. Keep your fingers crossed,” he said, as he dialed the number.

Priscilla, overcome by hope and relief, fell backwards onto the floor, gradually stretching herself to her full length as she unknotted the kinks. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes, listening to Philip’s protracted attempt to make contact with the right person. After a few minutes of listening to his patient but frustrated efforts, she got up off the floor and went in search of a restroom.

As she washed her hands in the sink, she stared quizzically at her reflection in the mirror. It struck her as absurd that Philip could look at this face and find potential in it. It wasn’t that she had a bad face; she supposed it was a decent face, but there was nothing remarkable about it. It was just an anonymous face lost in a crowd of millions.

She found perverse humor in trying to picture herself as a professional, in a suit and blouse, face and hair made up all prim and proper. She tried to imagine working in an environment like this one, working among other professional women similarly attired. She envisioned them walking into the restroom, talking amongst themselves, eyeing her disdainfully as they took pains to avoid contact with her.

Even in her fantasies, it was impossible to imagine anyone aside from Phil attaching any credibility to her. What potential did he see in her? If she really had it, wouldn’t she be able to see it, too? Maybe deep down inside, all that motivated him to build her up was pity. That had to be it. Philip simply wasn’t the kind of person who could bear the thought of anyone not fitting in and being happy.

Priscilla exhaled a deep, exhausted breath while she continued to stare at herself in the mirror. She would feel better once she got to Florida, she assured herself. The likelihood of attracting another Philip Glessner down there was remote. She’d be able to assimilate into the masses unnoticed, fade into the crowd of laid-back, stress-free souls, don their mask of tranquility and just live her life.

Surely, in the land of beachcombers no one would try to convince her that she could “be someone.” Why was it so important to be
someone
or
something
? Didn’t she have enough trouble getting through every day without having to “be” something? She splashed some water on her face and left the ladies’ room, training a nasty look at her imaginary coworkers on her way out.