Palindrome (37 page)

Feeling a weird jubilance. Empowered. Not taking any more of her shit.

“Orange was a waste of ink,” she says slowly. I bite my lip.

“You can't replicate what happened with Savannah, can you?” I say. “I'll bet you've been trying for years. And you finally came to me when you realized you couldn't. You had to get back the original. What I have in my pocket is one of a kind, and you know it.”

Extended silence. Did she hang up?

“It's true that the procedure has never worked again,” she finally says. “But I'm hopeful. Your daughter is very vibrant, and I've never tried with a child. New York Palace hotel on 88th, just east of the park. I'll call in fifteen minutes. If you walk into the lobby with a friend or a weapon, you'll never see me or your daughter again.”

“Give me a half hour—­” I try. Too late.

S
LOWEST CAB RI
DE
of my life. Goddamn driver laughing into his headset in Arabic. Cab lurches forward for thirty feet then he slams the brakes, like the bus in front of us just materialized out of thin air. Make it halfway through the park on 86th, herking and jerking, making impossibly little progress, when I can't take it anymore. I jump out of the cab without paying and just run.

I start regretting my decision after half a minute. Haven't really tried to run since bruising my ribs or cutting my ankle. I push myself forward through the light snow, actually moving faster than the bumper-­to-­bumper beside me, having to force each painful step. Check my phone without slowing down: another five minutes. Try to convince myself she'll have to give me some leeway on that. For all she knew I could be coming from Staten Island.

Yeah Frank. Greta has shown herself to be nothing but reasonable during this whole ordeal.

Crew's gun is poking me in the ass with every stride. I consider pulling it out and tossing it into the darkness, thinking its presence might encourage me to do something stupid, but I can't bring myself to part with its cold, empowering comfort just yet.

Have to stop for a moment to catch my breath, my lungs on fire, can feel my pulse in my ankle where the wound is rubbing against the inside of my boot. Rest my hands on my knees and just gasp, spit up some phlegm. Check my phone: nothing. Move to confirm the tape is still in my pocket, then realize my left hand has been gripping it tightly since before I got in the cab.

I pick myself up and keep going. Try to remember how many blocks over Madison is once I'm out of the park. Just one?

Phone vibrates. I stop and lean against a cement wall, watching the traffic relent and the taxi that used to be mine shoot past. My chest's heaving and pumping like a rusty accordion.

“I'm not there yet,” I say between breaths. “Five minutes away.”

“I've changed my mind,” she says. “Different hotel. Tower, on Park and 72nd.”

I put my hand over the receiver while I emit a stream of curses into the night air. Take a deep breath, wince as my chest expands and contracts.

“Okay,” I say. “Gimme fifteen minutes. I'll get there.”

“Ten minutes. Walk into the lobby alone, or it's over.”

I hang up and get my bearings. I consider hailing another cab, but the traffic has once again halted to a standstill. It will take at least fifteen minutes to get there running, considering my physical condition. But she must be full of shit, right? Nobody would call this off over five minutes. I have to give her credit: no time to call Courtney or Helen to meet me at the Tower, even if I wanted to.

I take a ­couple of deep breaths, then pick up my jog, limping badly. Barely even a sidewalk here; I'm hauling myself down an asphalt shoulder, past rows of cabs that might as well be parked. I'm just starting to wonder what the deal is with all the traffic tonight—­nine on a weeknight isn't exactly rush hour—­when I pass the accident.

No room for traffic to pass. A crying ­couple being comforted by a paramedic beside one of the ambulances.

I shuffle past, thinking maybe I'm supposed to be taking some kind of weird cosmic solace in the fact that someone is having an even worse day than me.

In a pathetic half jog, half hobble now, I push past a group of tourists in front of the stairs to the Met, nearly get an eye poked out by one of their umbrellas. Hardly even snowing here, ­people, tough it out.

Dash across 80th Street, narrowly avoiding getting clipped by the side of a speeding van. The maze of ­people on the sidewalk is mercifully thin on account of the weather; the only cap on my speed here is the pitiful state of my body.

Phone vibrating. I don't slow down as I answer.

“I'm three blocks away,” I plead over the honking of taxis and shrieking of sirens, my voice hoarse.

I'm rewarded with some heavy breathing and then again she just hangs up. Christ. Really can't wait to get a nice, easy client next time. Maybe snap some pictures of an adulterous liaison and call it a day. Or, maybe, might be time to start thinking about changing career paths. Maybe Courtney and I—­

A stab in my chest as I remember Courtney and Helen. Surely they understand what I did, what I
had
to do . . .

Bust through the revolving doors into the lobby of the Tower hotel. Can hardly breathe. Rip off my jacket, grab my knees and pant. Totally aware I'm getting some stares. Think I see a concierge moving my way. I force a warm smile to connote that
yes, I'm a fucking guest,
despite my torn jeans, T-­shirt garnished with healthy yellow pit stains, and a face that could probably melt plastic right now.

Force myself to act like I belong. Saunter to a long velour couch and collapse, each laborious breath escaping my lips sounding muffled and throaty, what ­people on respirators sound like. Across from me, on an identical couch, a businessman looks up quickly from his laptop, raises a fleeting eyebrow, then returns to his shit.

Beautiful lobby, beautiful hotel, but I'm not in much of a mood to appreciate the fountain with stone-­carved angelic faces spewing airy streams of water, or the grand, glittering chandeliers, rich velvet carpeting, grand piano, marble counters.

It's not the Ritz Tavern, but it does the job.

I stare at my phone, and my stomach twists: one missed call from a blocked number.

I missed her fucking call.

I try to call back, but of course my phone can't because it doesn't know the number. I scan the lobby, hoping to spot her. Nothing. Check my watch: It's been twenty-­two minutes since our last talk. I'm seven minutes late.

I wipe a film of cold sweat off my forehead with the corner of my jacket. My nose is running from a healthy combination of cold, general malaise, ten days of substituting heavy drinking for sleep, and inhuman stress levels.

Climbing up walls of slippery shit.

When my phone rings again, I pick up instantly.

“I'm here,” I say. Can't believe how bad my voice sounds, like a dying cat's. “Lobby of the Tower. I don't see you.”

“Does anybody know you're here?” The anticipation in her voice is unmistakable. I look around, trying to spot her. Is she in disguise?

“No, I swear.”

“You have it on your person?”

I rub my eyes. Think maybe that was stupid. Should have stashed it in a gym locker or PO box or something. Now she can just kill me and grab it.

“Yes,” I say.

I hear her raspy, expectant breathing.

“Lamb,” she says, “I'm a reasonable person. I'm not crazy. When I make deals, I keep them—­”

“You lied about who you were,” I whisper harshly into the phone, “and you kidnapped my daughter.”

“You broke our deal first. If you'd never gone to Orange, I wouldn't have had to resort to this. But I couldn't be sure that you wouldn't sell him the tape.”

I'm sweating again. “Fine.” I want to sound like I'm driving a hard bargain, but my voice is falling apart. “So what?”

“I'm reasonable. And I want you to be reasonable. If you don't try anything stupid, this will work out well for both of us. Are you armed?”

I grope around my ass for the butt of my gun, rub it like a talisman. “No.”

“I am. I have a gun. If you're lying to me, I'll kill you as soon as you walk in the door.”

“How would you even—­”

“I'm in room 3206. Top floor. Your daughter is untouched, but she's not here with me. Come straight up. Knock four times.”

I
STARE AT
myself in the elevator as it shoots up to the thirty-­second floor; mirrors on parallel walls so I see an army of Frank Lambs stretching to infinity on either side. Every movement I make is imitated by my clones, reverberates all the way down the line.

I close my eyes to make them go away. Kenny G's saxophone hums distantly from somewhere over my head. I try to control my breathing; I'm still panting from my run, plus sweating uncontrollably. Awful cotton mouth. Ankle protests vehemently every time my right foot touches the floor.

A soft tone, and the elevator smoothly ends its ascent. Doors open like the yawning jaws of a demon. I warily step off onto the beige carpet, hands trembling. Faint Muzak's still buzzing from somewhere impossible to pin down. Drop of sweat trickles down the back of my shirt, making me shudder. The recycled air is still, foreboding.

I'm in a hallway, with my back to a wall of three elevators and an endless parade of doors to either side of me. I nearly jump out of my skin as a door slams on my left and a man in a suit exits, walking toward me, giving me an obligatory smile, which I try in vain to return as he brushes past me.

I turn to my right, headed for 3206, but stop when I pass an inlet with a coke and ice machine. An idea starts forming. I'm in no state to assess its judiciousness, so I act on instinct.

I enter the closet-­sized space, pull the tape out of my pocket, and stash it between the wall and the vending machine. Stop to think for a moment. That makes sense, right? I try to concentrate, think what Courtney would do here, but I feel feverish, and my heart is screaming and my stomach feels like someone with cruel intentions is tightening it with a wrench.

Then I pull the gun out of the back pocket of my jeans, look at it lovingly, and tuck it in with the tape. Vaguely thinking,
She frisks me, we negotiate, then I leave to get the tape, come back and shoot her in the forehead.

Can hardly feel my hands as I walk back into the hall. Turn right and limp down the corridor. Numbers going down from 3242, 3240 . . .

Is this a trap? Am I walking into the lion's mouth?

I notice a security camera, disguised in a corner of the ceiling as a mirror. Smile grimly and wave as I pass, thinking this might be the last anyone ever sees of me.

3210

3208

3206

I stop in front of the featureless white door. I swallow, close my eyes, and knock four times.

Open my eyes and smile for the peephole. She's probably inspecting every square inch of me through that thing. Or maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. She's never given any indication that she fears me in any way.

I knock again, four times.

Nothing.

I check my phone. No missed calls. Only been four minutes since we talked.

I hop anxiously from foot to foot. I have to pee really bad all of a sudden, and it feels like it might start dribbling out on its own if I don't—­

I jump and turn as I sense something behind me. The door to 3207, directly across the hall, is open, and the woman who calls herself Greta Kanter is standing in silence.

More gorgeous than I remember. Somehow even more phenomenal in person than she'd been in my dreams: a few inches taller than my five foot ten; very short, shiny brown hair; breathtaking cheeks with just a gentle twinge of pink; deep green eyes that are fixed on me, seem to be boring through my chest like an ice pick. Potently, overwhelmingly, frighteningly gorgeous.

She's dressed entirely in some kind of black spandex that extends from the ankles of her black leather boots up to the top of her neck. Almost looks like a yoga outfit, although the silenced pistol she's holding in her gloved hand sort of spoils that vibe.

“Unarmed,” she says.

I nod, flummoxed, tongue stuck.

Something blazes in her eyes.

“Come in,” she says, stepping backwards into near darkness.

I follow her into 3207, letting the door slam behind me. A luxury hotel room lit only by a green reading lamp resting on a small table next to the window. A California king bed to my left adorned with plush pillows and a leopard skin throw blanket. Floor is rich cherrywood. The gold tasseled curtains are pulled open, and I glimpse the Manhattan nightscape spreading out beneath us like a carpet of Christmas lights.

She sits down at the table by the window, facing me and the door. Sets her pistol casually onto the tabletop—­so polished I can see her reflection in it—­then purses her lips and almost,
almost
smiles at me; shows me just a sliver of her snow-­colored teeth. But then her face quickly reverts to an emotionless mask.

She locks her leather-­gloved hands together on top of the table. I remain standing, unable to really come to terms with her physical presence. Yet even in my terror, I'm unable to ignore her beauty. The green reading lamp illuminates half her face in soft, smooth yellow light. Every contour of her body is visible beneath the tight black shirt, her breasts like round, supple pears. The spandex squeezes her body like a fist and doesn't leave a trace of skin visible below her chin. Her radiance—­in light of what a monster I now know her to be—­only adds to the unreality of this moment.

“You can sit down, Lamb,” she says.

It takes me a moment, but I pull out the chair opposite her at the table and gently ease myself in. I force myself to face her but can only look into her face for a moment before flinching, turning away from her burning intensity as if it would blind me. But for a split second our eyes are locked, and I feel I understand her: