Icarus. (26 page)

"Jack, you gotta trust me on-"

"Listen to me, Kid, for God's sake!" Kid's mouth closed at the force of Jack's words. "You asked my advice and I'm giving it to you. Afterward you can do what you want. What I'm telling you is that no matter how much I knew when I started Jack's, it wouldn't have worked without Caroline. Yeah, I knew what food to buy and how long to age which cut and I had the idea. The vision. I knew what I wanted. But to make it a reality… She had the social contacts. She had the good-looking friends who'd become models, and they started coming in, and they brought the athletes, who always want to be around the models, and the athletes got actors coming, and then everyone was coming because they wanted to see who else was here. And that was just the beginning. Caroline knew the right PR people, or she knew people who knew the right PR people, who put items in the right columns. And she knew how to get people talking, who to send a drink to, when to change the menu. Yeah, the place delivered. It was good. It was really good. But really good doesn't always matter. Sometimes it's timing and luck and a lot of other things. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah," Kid said sullenly. "You think it's a shitty idea."

"I think it's a shitty idea for now. For you," Jack said. "And partly because you can do so much better."

"Jack, don't say that, please." It was barely a sentence, it was almost a moan that came from Kid.

"I've seen what you can do. I've seen the kind of potential you've got. My God-"

"Bryan, let's get outta here. He'll give us the money. He promised us the money no matter what."

"But he doesn't think it'll work, does he?" Bryan asked quietly.

Kid put his head down on his hands. The breath seemed to ooze out of him. "No," he said, almost in a whisper. "He doesn't think it'll work."

There was a long silence now around the table. Kid stood up, slumped to the side as if physically beaten, walked slowly but steadily away from the table and out of the restaurant. Jack stared after him in astonishment.

"It's okay, Mr. Keller."

Jack turned to Bryan, almost surprised to find him still there. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't expect that kind of reaction. I thought we'd have a discussion, find a way to-"

"Don't worry about it." Bryan smiled what Jack was sure was meant to be reassuringly. "You were just bein' honest, right?"

Jack forced a grin. "Just being honest."

"He'll understand. He just needs to calm down. He gets this way sometimes." He put his hand hesitantly on Jack's hand, in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. "I know how to handle him. He'll be okay. You don't have to worry."

Jack nodded. Then Bryan cleared his throat and said, "Well, I guess I better go find him." He stood up slowly from the table. Put his hand out and Jack shook it. "Thanks for everything, Mr. Keller. I'm sorry you didn't like the idea but, hey, there are other ideas, right?"

"Thanks a lot, Bryan. I really appreciate it."

Their hands then broke apart and Bryan Bishop went lumbering out of the restaurant, searching for his best friend.

Jack Keller sat at the table for another half hour, finishing his steak and his potatoes and wondering what the fuck had just happened.

The next morning, Kid was setting up the barbells on the terrace. From the living room, Jack watched him for several long minutes, then shook his head and stepped outside. Kid looked up but avoided making eye contact, said nothing, went back to his weights. Jack allowed him his petulant silence, began his warm-up routine: stretching, crunches, ten minutes on the stationary bike.

Finally, as the ten minutes were almost up, Jack took a deep breath and said, "Well, I'm glad to see you take rejection as well as ever." Kid didn't respond, so Jack continued: "And at least you keep your temper under control."

Kid threw his hands up in the air, turned to face Jack. "I'm sorry. Christ, I'm so unbelievably sorry…"

The red "10 minutes" flashed on the bike's panel and Jack slowly let the pedals spin to a halt. "Listen, asshole. Yesterday I said there were two reasons why the gym might not be a great idea and you clearly weren't paying attention to the second one: you can do better than that. A lot better."

"Doing what?"

"I'm hooked up with a giant company. They might not want my opinion on Jack's menus but I can get you in their management training program. I've been giving this a lot of thought, so listen to me for just a minute. Try not to fly off the handle and try not to say anything stupid, which I know won't be easy. Six months ago, hell, six weeks ago, I would have said I was out of the business for good. But I'm feeling so much better, thanks to you, and I've been thinking that when my contract's up – I have a three-year no-compete clause – I might want to start something. Something new and exciting. I don't know exactly what, but… start over in a way. And you can come with me."

Now Kid made eye contact. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, as if he didn't want to put a jinx on what he was hearing in case it might not come true. "As what?"

"In the beginning, an overpaid schmuck. Eventually, my partner."

"You and me?"

Jack nodded, enjoying Kid's stunned tone. "It's what we talked about a long time ago, before you flew the coop. What goes around comes around, I guess. One thing I know," Jack said, "is that I'm better with a partner. The best partner I ever had is dead; that's the reality I have to face, and I'm starting to face it. So as near as I can tell, that leaves you. If you're interested. You were five years ago. I hope you are now."

"Jack… what do I know about restaurants?"

"You'll learn."

Kid said nothing for a long time. Then: "I want you to do me a favor."

"Christ," Jack said, "haven't I done enough for you?"

"No." Kid tore over to the weight rack, furiously loaded up the barbell with heavy weights. Jack stared, bewildered. In a controlled frenzy, Kid jerked the bar up and hoisted it above his head. It weighed over two hundred pounds but in his fury, Kid was holding it as if it were made of feathers. "See this?" he said, biting off the words. "You're gonna do this. But only if you start now. The only thing holding you back is fear. And I'm telling you, you're strong enough to get rid of the fear. You're strong enough now. Right now."

"I'll hurt myself. It's too soon. I don't think I can go through that again."

"You won't. You're just afraid."

"Yes," Jack said.

"Fear is your lover, Jack. Stick your tongue down her throat! Grab her!"

Jack hesitated. Then he said, "What do you want me to do?"

"Take off your back brace."

Slowly, Jack removed the heavy brace. He felt both free and afraid the moment he set it down on the ground.

"Take the brace off your knee, too."

"Kid…"

"You don't need it. I swear."

Jack unwrapped the knee brace. For a moment, as he paced, getting used to the feeling, he felt so light and springy it was as if gravity had stopped holding him down to this earth.

Kid now put the barbell down. He removed some of the weights at each end. Not many but some. "Don't ask how heavy it is, Jack. It doesn't matter. But it's heavy, okay? It's not easy. This is big-time stuff now."

Jack walked over to the barbell, stood over it.

"I want you to give me an upright row." Kid spoke quietly now. Soothingly. "That's all. You're not doing a clean. You don't have to lift it above your head. Just bend down, grip it like this, use your legs, and lift the bar to your waist. Give me ten reps – no – just give me five. That'll be plenty. Even three. I don't care how many you do."

Jack didn't move. He looked down at the barbell. He felt his back start to tense and spasm. Felt the ache in his knee and his hip. He began to sweat…

"You are fucking Arnold," Kid said. "You are Hercules Unchained."

Jack took a deep breath, bent down, and grabbed the weight.

"All you have to do is say when it hurts, Jack. If it hurts, you can stop."

Jack nodded. He got a good grip. He closed his eyes, steeled his legs, pushed up, lifted…

He felt the resistance of the weight, was stunned at how heavy it was; for a moment he was out of control, thought he might topple over. Then he was standing. His arms up by his waist. His hands wrapped around the metal bar.

He opened his eyes, looked at Kid, who had a loopy grin on his face. Jack was fairly sure he had the same grin.

"Fear is your lover," Jack said in mock disgust. "Stick your tongue down her throat… where the hell did you come up with that one?"

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah, it worked." Jack could hear the amazement in his own voice. He could feel the overwhelming relief and the release of the fear that had gripped him for the past thirteen months. "You took away my pain." '

"No, Jack. You took away your pain."

Jack did his five reps. No pain. None. None whatsoever. It was exhilarating. As if he were drunk, drunk for the very first time. More than that, really. He felt separate from the world, for just these few moments, hovering above, free of all restraints. When he reached his limit he glanced at Kid, who knew him well, read his mind, shook his head and said, "No. Just five. Let's not push it."

Jack crouched, eased the bar down to the terrace floor. Then stood up again. He waited, still expecting it to come, but it didn't. No pain.

He turned to Kid, still not fully believing, still not accepting that it was over.

"What do you say, Jack? You want to celebrate tonight? I'll take you out. I'll know what I need to know by then, all the stuff I've been hinting at, and I'll tell you everything."

"Knicks play-off tonight," Jack said, his entire face bright and alive and unable to stop smiling. "Come with me. I was supposed to take Dom, but he'll understand. He just goes for the beer anyway. Seventh game against Indiana. I'll meet you at the Garden at seven. Game's at seven-thirty."

"I've got a six o'clock client."

"You can still get there by tip-off. I'll give you the ticket now." He waited. "We can celebrate afterward," he said. "You can tell me all about the new Destination. And the mysterious secrets you're going to learn tonight. And we can talk about the future."

"Okay, I'll be there," Kid told him. "I'll be there by tip-off."

"Good," Jack said. "I'm glad." He stepped forward and they shook hands. Their grips held for a long time, firmly, warmly.

"And now give me five more reps," Kid said, pointing to the barbell. And as Jack scowled, he added: "Sorry, partner, but you've got two more sets to go."

He was flying. At first, he thought it was beautiful. He could feel the onrush of air sweeping over his body, whipping at his outstretched hands and bare feet. He could see over the rooftops, out into blue sky, all the way to the river, and down onto roof gardens with their splashes of early summer colors, yellow and purple and pink. And there were quick glimpses into windows as they flashed by: TV sets blinking, food being cooked, life, thought to be hidden, suddenly revealed.

Best of all, it was exquisitely quiet. Eerily, wonderfully silent.

He didn't understand what was happening. Didn't know how he could have such power. All he knew was that it was magical. Everything was moving so slowly. A soft haze enveloped the entire world. It all seemed so unreal.

And then it wasn't beautiful.

And it wasn't unreal.

And he wasn't flying. He was falling.

He remembered suddenly. Just a flash of remembering. Someone in his apartment. Leading him outside. He remembered words. Just a few words…

I love you…

Things were moving faster now. There were no more glorious rooftops, only the drab sides of buildings with their pockmarked bricks and scarred concrete blocks. The wind cut into his eyes, blinding him so he could no longer see into people's secret worlds. His hands and feet were not outstretched, they were clawing, reaching upward, trying desperately and illogically to reverse what couldn't be reversed.

More words came into his head. Standing on the balcony. Looking out…

Why don't you love me?

Everything was even faster. And faster still. Out of control. Spinning. Faster and faster and faster.

Whose voice was it?

I love you…

Why don't you love me?

Sounds blared, overwhelming him: horns honking, tires screeching, dogs barking. People yelling. Someone screaming. A painful, terrible scream that filled the air, swept over the city. A siren of death.

It was his scream. Louder and more terrible as the pavement below swept up to greet him, as a passing couple scrambled to get out of the way, as a car swerved, knocking over metal garbage cans. As his flight ended and his teeth were jarred from his body and his nose flattened, then splattered on the cement. As his skull splintered and bones in his arms and legs and hip and back cracked and shattered.

The screaming stopped.

For a moment, there was quiet.

And then a new summer color was added, a bright and savage red, which spread over the dirty gray New York City sidewalk beneath him, then flowed into the gutter and streamed quickly onto the newly poured patches of ragged black tar on the street.

Latrell Sprewell scored his twelfth point of the fourth quarter, a beautiful spin move under the basket, followed by a soft little jumper from maybe five feet away, over the outstretched fingertips of Jalen Rose. The crowd went wild and Sprewell raised a fist, pumped it in excitement, and the Knicks took their biggest lead of the night, eight points.

Normally, there was no place Jack Keller would rather be than at Madison Square Garden during a Knicks play-off game. Especially in his second-row seats, in the corner, right under the home-team basket. He loved the crowd's electricity and the Scoreboard's computerized graphics, the Knicks City Dancers, and most of all the game itself. Tonight, especially, Jack should have been in heaven. His beloved team was hounding and containing Reggie Miller, Sprewell was slashing to the basket as only he could and his outside shot was on, and while the game had been close the whole time, the Knicks led from the very beginning. They had that look to them: the look of winners. But when the final buzzer sounded and the game was over, 103-98 Knicks – now they were on their way to L.A. to meet the Lakers in the finals – Jack was not a part of the ecstasy and hysteria around him. He barely noticed Allan Houston running around the court, the ball held high over his head. He never saw Spree slapping five with the courtsiders and he barely heard his longtime cronies and fellow lunatic fans – season ticket holders, ushers, vendors – congratulating him or felt them pummeling him on the back. All around him, people were hugging and screaming but Jack was still staring at the empty seat beside him, the seat that had never been filled during the course of the game. So as the crowd stood and yelled for the players to come back and share the celebration, Jack rushed out of the arena, raced onto Eighth Avenue, yanked his cell phone out of his pocket, and, huddling against the deafening noise that was even spilling out into the street, dialed.