The Up and Comer (22 page)

I stood and waited. The shadows across the street began to grow heavy and longer. Twilight gave way to darkness. There was one advantage to that, I thought. I would be a little less exposed when tailing Tyler once he left the bar. I looked at my watch.
If
he left the bar. All sorts of images went through my mind. Some were harmless, like Tyler standing atop a bar stool and declaring that drinks were on the house. Others made me worry, like Tyler blabbing away about his big score. I began to fear that he would name names
 
— my name — in relating all the details. In the days to come, I'd be forced to hope that no person listening in was a big reader of the obituaries and capable of putting one and one together.

Over an hour passed.
So this was what it was like to be on a stakeout.
As much as I wanted to duck into a nearby deli and quickly grab some coffee, I stayed put. There was no way I was going to let Tyler slip by me. Out of boredom, I picked up the receivers on both pay phones. Neither one gave me a dial tone.

Finally, he came out. I crossed the street and fell in line behind him. It wasn't what you would call a straight line, though. Meandering was a more apt description for Tyler's walking, or as I'd often heard it called, the Inebriated Shuffle. All the better. His reaction time would be that much slower.

As predicted, the darkness allowed me to stay closer to him. It didn't hurt that the street lamps appeared to be maintained by the same city department that was in charge of pay phones. Were Tyler to look over his shoulder, all he would've seen was the very occasional pool of light cast from overhead. I was sure to be lost amid the black.

Something told me it wouldn't be much longer. That something was when Tyler didn't light up another cigarette. He had been chainsmoking the entire time, and when I didn't see the flare of another match right away, I got the sense his apartment was nearby. On the other hand, he simply could've been out of cigarettes.

I found out soon enough. Not a minute later, Tyler stopped in front of an entrance midway down the street. What little light existed was enough to see him dig into his pocket for keys. He was home, Lucy. There would be no false alarm this time.

I reached into the backpack and grabbed the ether, popping the squirt top of the Poland Spring bottle that I'd poured it into. Right behind it came the handkerchief, folded in a square and ready to receive. No need to look down. I'd feel the wet against the palm of my hand through the cotton. My eyes would be needed for the charge.

Quickly, I glanced around the street. It was empty.

I knew from the adrenaline of sport and the adrenaline of sex. The heightened awareness. The blood pumping. Yet as I sprinted toward that entrance knowing what I was about to do, the pure reckless abandon of it, I discovered a certain rush that I'd never before experienced. To strike a comparison would be to imply that some other feeling came close. But nothing did. Had any drug that I'd ever tried been remotely similar, I'd undoubtedly have been the biggest junkie of them all. Perverse as it may sound, Risk Factor 9 wasn't without its reward.

The timing was perfect. There was no chance for Tyler to react. When I caught up to him, his back was to me as he was about to push his way through the second glass door of his building. He had obviously heard me behind him — or something, at least — because he was starting to turn his body. Maybe he saw me, maybe he didn't. I wasn't sure. If he did, it was merely a glimpse, a fleeting second of something white being slapped over his face. What he must have been thinking as it happened....

That ether stuff really works. Within a few seconds and with minimal struggle, Tyler's body went limp in my grasp. I looked behind me. No one. I looked ahead of me. No one. So far, so good — no witnesses. Though if I wanted to keep it that way I had to move fast.

On went the gloves. Mental note: wipe the first door free of any fingerprints when leaving.

Tyler's keys had fallen to the floor. I picked them up and started to check the directory. You didn't think he'd actually have his name listed next to an apartment number, did you? Neither did I. It would be too easy. Hastily, I fumbled around on his key chain and found what looked to be the mailbox key. It was trial-and-error time. Four mailboxes had apartment numbers without names. On the third try I knew where Tyler called home. Apartment 4F.

The ground floor hallway was as narrow as can be, with stairs right in front. It was dimly lit and reeked of garbage, two of the three necessary requirements for a place to be officially labeled a dump. I was convinced I'd see the third requirement crawling about at any given moment. Mind you, I wasn't expecting Trump Tower. In fact, my plan banked on the belief that Tyler was slumming it to a certain degree. Doormen and elevators would have obviously made things a bit more complicated.

The trick at that point was getting Tyler up the stairs without being seen. That's why I had to do a little solo journey first to make sure the coast was clear. As for what to do with my unconscious cargo in the meantime, I spotted a space tucked behind the stairwell, in the shadows and out of the way. Breathing hard, I grabbed Tyler under his arms and dragged him over to it. For a skinny guy, he sure did weigh enough.

Hurry, Philip.

Having further brushed up on my pharmacology, I knew that ether, when inhaled directly, would knock someone out for approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. The clock was ticking.

I hightailed it up to the second floor. I heard plenty and saw nothing. The muffled sounds of canned laughter from a TV, along with a baby crying, but the hallway was empty.

Up the stairs to the third floor. I peeked left and right. It too was empty. Quiet, this time, as well.

Onward to the fourth floor and apartment 4F. More trial and error with the remaining keys. The second Medeco did the job. I was in. I opened the door and groped for the light switch. Short of a sign that read "Tyler's Place," it was his apartment, all right. The unbelievable mess had his name written all over it.

Leaving the door cracked open I headed back down, checking for people again at every floor.
Tick, tick.
I needed everyone to continue their hermit ways for a few minutes longer. Returning to the ground level, I found Tyler still passed out as could be, reeking of alcohol, ethyl and otherwise. I picked him up again for the long climb ahead. In what little time had elapsed, I could've sworn he had gotten heavier.

My back was aching by the fifth step. Between the backpack and Tyler, I would've been quite the sight, exactly what I couldn't afford to have happen. As gingerly as possible, I turned the corner on the second floor and started up to the third.

Shit!

Halfway up the steps to the third floor I heard the metallic
snap
of a lock down the hall. Someone was coming out. With a frantic look behind me I realized there was too much ground to cover for a retreat. I stayed still and held my breath. At the same time, I was trying to balance Tyler on my shoulder as I went up on the tips of my toes to catch a glimpse of who was coming. It was all very Ringling Brothers. The door opened and I heard footsteps. They were coming my way.

Fuzzy pink slippers, that is.

All my planning was about to go to waste thanks to someone wearing a fucking pair of fuzzy pink slippers. Or was it? Because as soon as I saw them they stopped. With the slant of the next flight of stairs obstructing my view, all I could see were the slippers and the matching set of fat female ankles that filled them. What was she doing? Why had she stopped? When I heard the next sound, I knew. It was the sound of hinges, yet it wasn't a door. It was the trash chute. Lo and behold, she was taking out the garbage. (At least someone did around there.) I listened to the clanking of bottles and cans fade away. It was music to my ears. The only thing left for her to do was turn around and go back to her apartment.
Bring it on home, fuzzy-pink-slipper lady!
Which was precisely what she did. As the door to her apartment closed behind her, I exhaled my lungs out. It appeared I would live to see another floor.

Maybe. The final flight of steps looked like the Hillary Step on Everest. Little did I know that I should've trained for the evening. As much as I wanted to stop and rest, it would've left me exposed to other neighbors that much longer. I kept going. I had to.

It was all clear on the fourth floor as I carried Tyler into his apartment. With a great swell of relief I put him down on a couch, or rather
the
couch, for that and a folding chair made up all of the available seating. As for the rest of the furnishings, to call them sparse would be all too kind. A room at Motel 6 had more character. It also had the benefit of maid service, something Tyler's place was sorely missing. Newspapers, pizza boxes, clothes, beer cans. All of it strewn about so randomly it almost seemed to form a pattern, if that makes any sense.

The first order of business was to look up, everywhere. Tyler would need someplace from which to hang himself, and though I was prepared to improvise, a little luck was much preferred. I found it in the bedroom. An exposed pipe that ran across the room about a foot below the ceiling. Thick, sturdy, and supported by a wraparound bracket mounted to the side of the wall. It was
 
perfect. Nonetheless, I took no chances. Stepping up on an old-fashioned radiator, I grabbed hold of it and made sure it could support my body weight. It was plenty strong.

Stepping back down, I looked at Tyler's unmade bed. Scrunched up at the bottom was a plain white sheet, the no-frills variety. I picked it up and gave it a good hard tug. It too was plenty strong — the rope I had bought would stay in my backpack.

The thing from there on out was to think and act like Tyler. That meant doing everything the way he would've had to do it. I took off my gloves and started with fastening the noose with a slipknot at one end of the sheet. The other end got a double knot tied around the pipe. The measurement that mattered was from the floor up. I stood under the noose and felt a good six inches or so of space above my head. Dangle room, for lack of a better term.

The time had come.

I would get Tyler from the other room and get it over with as fast as possible. Be done with the blackmail, the threats, and the fear. Be done with it all.

So how come I wasn't moving?

Worse, why did I suddenly feel nauseous?

Feet planted, the room on a turntable. I felt dizzy. The urge to vomit. My stomach churning, with a feverish chill spreading out over my backside.

The adrenaline, I told myself. System overload. The rush of it all had been too fast, too great. I was coming down exceedingly hard. Crashing.

Give it a minute, Philip. It'll pass.

I gazed up at my handiwork, the noose hanging from the pipe, and the room spun faster. I quickly looked away. My eyes landed on an old mirror propped up over a makeshift dresser by the bed. I hadn't seen it there until I spotted my reflection staring back at me. It was cold and it was detached, and it made me wonder, really wonder, for the first time.

Up until that point I had focused so much on my plan, the details and the precautions, that I had conveniently avoided thinking about what it was I was doing. As I stood there in that bedroom of Tyler's apartment, however, there was no more avoiding it. I knew why I was there. I knew why I wanted to do it, why I felt I
had
to do it. Yet there was one thing I was overlooking.

Actually doing it.

Without warning the thought of it had swarmed over me. Engulfed me. I realized what was happening. My wave of nausea had nothing to do with adrenaline. I was suffering from a major change of heart.

What the hell were you thinking, Philip?!

That's when I understood. It was like a moral eclipse, the whole thing. My view of right and wrong, good versus evil, had been obstructed by my desire-turned-methodical-obsession to rid myself of Tyler — and in the process rid myself of what had become an all too real reminder of my own transgressions. Some would say that my morality had always been subject to at least some form of partial eclipse. But this... this was a personal darkness that I had never known.

I guess my conscience was alive and kicking.

From there the decision came almost effortlessly, and as fast as you can say
psychosomatic,
the nausea and dizziness disappeared.

It would be as if I had never been here, I told myself.

I would go get Tyler off the couch and put him in his bed. He'd wake up later with a horrific hangover, but at least he would indeed be waking up. He'd have my money and I'd have to live wondering if he was ever going to tangle with me again. I figured I could deal. I had to deal. The alternative was knowing that I had murdered him. That, so I discovered, was something I couldn't live with.

I started to walk toward the other room to pick Tyler off the couch. When I came through the doorway I abruptly stopped.

The couch was empty.

What I saw next was a shiny blur out of the corner of my eye. It was the steely blade of a knife, and it was coming right at me. I recoiled, arms raised, as it missed my body and caught the top of my left hand with a cutting swipe. The blood was instant. The realization wasn't too far behind. That ether wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Tyler was conscious. A little groggy, maybe, but definitely awake. He also looked pretty pissed off, to put it mildly.