Turtleface and Beyond (18 page)

“I was wondering if you wanted to take a few tokes with me,” he said. “Unwind a little.” He gave a quick smile and looked around apprehensively.

“Now?” I said. “Here?”

“What do you say?” asked Jim. “I'd appreciate the company…”

We found an empty conference room and opened up all the windows. Jim was giddy with excitement.

“Now, this is crazy!” he said. “Ha!”

We each took a few puffs and then Jim got scared when he heard a cleaning service cart roll down the hall. He flicked the joint out the window and waved his hands frantically, trying to clear the air.

“Let's get out of here!” he said.

We trotted down the staircase to Jim's office, where he shut the door behind us and locked it.

“Ah…” he said. He pulled out a bottle of scotch and offered me a glass. I had never tasted scotch and even though Jim informed me that this was an expensive and aged batch, I could barely get it down. I wasn't feeling stoned either. The atmosphere was all wrong. Jim's desk was piled high with stacks of paper, memorandums about stockholder proposals and merger risk analysis.

“I am so wasted,” Jim said to me. He plopped down onto one of his chairs and lifted his feet in the air. “Whoowee!”

He sipped his scotch and told me about the various people whose faces smiled out at us from the framed photos propped on the bookshelves.

“That's my wife, Sara,” he said, pointing to a picture of a woman holding a hunting rifle. “She loves the outdoors. Very active.”

There was another picture of the two of them on skis, standing at the top of a mountain. Jim's outfit was a little too tight. It outlined his protruding belly and showed off his wide, strangely flat ass. But Sara looked snappy in her red snowsuit. They had a son too, a boy named Wendell, who was even more fat, proportionately, than Jim. He was at a boarding school now, his first year. For each picture of Wendell or Sara though, there were about three of a large dog named Boots. Boots was a mixture of Newfoundland and Irish wolfhound, two big breeds to begin with, and the result was an enormous, goofy combination of the two.

“She weighs two hundred and seventeen pounds,” said Jim.

“She looks like a horse,” I said. “Or a pony.” I stared at a picture of Boots standing openmouthed next to plump young Wendell, their two heads sitting at approximately the same height.

“She's no horse,” said Jim, chuckling. He rubbed affectionately at the red scratch mark on his cheek. “She's one hundred percent dog.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Sara can't stand her,” said Jim. He emptied the last of his scotch into his mouth and swallowed it down.

“She can't stand me either,” he said. “We haven't had sex in eight years. Or maybe nine. It's been a while.”

“Oh.”

“Yup,” said Jim. He looked at me forlornly, as if maybe I might have some advice for that sort of thing. I didn't.

“I think I need to get back up to the library, Jim,” I said. “Thanks for the scotch.”

“Sure. Sure, of course.” Jim wiped back the wispy hairs on top of his head. “Listen, this guy of yours, the one who makes the deliveries. Does he, um, deliver anything else?”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” I said.

“I'd like to try some cocaine,” said Jim. “I feel like I missed out on it when I was younger. Sara doesn't like to experiment.”

“You didn't miss anything,” I told him.

“But still,” said Jim. “I'd like to give it a try.”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Will you ask him?”

“Okay, Jim,” I said. And then I walked out and rode the elevator back up to the library, leaving Jim alone with all those photos of his family and the giant dog.

*   *   *

Over the next week Jim stopped by a few times to check in about the cocaine. I'd thought he might just let it drop, but that wasn't the case. He'd come find me in the hallway after business hours and say something like, “Any word from your man?”

For a while I avoided the subject by saying I hadn't gotten around to it, but then finally I just said, “He doesn't handle that kind of thing.”

This was the truth, actually, but I sensed that Jim knew I could do better than that.

“Oh,” he said, clearly disappointed. The red scratch on his cheek wasn't improving. In fact, it was getting worse. The eye above it looked a little bloodshot, as if it might be getting infected.

“You should take care of that scratch,” I told him.

“Oh sure, I know,” said Jim. “Boots keeps licking at it. I made a doctor appointment already.”

“Good.”

“So listen,” said Jim, “if you hear of anything, you know, about the other stuff, will you let me know?”

“Sure, Jim,” I said. “I'll let you know.”

Although I didn't want to become Jim's “connection,” I have to admit I enjoyed finding myself in his confidence. Each afternoon in the firm's cafeteria the employees would eat lunch in tightly segregated groups, the library staff at one table, the paralegals at another, and in the center, at a great round table, sat the partners, unapproachable by the likes of us. Sometimes Jim would be there, sweaty and serious, talking some matter over with another tight-faced colleague. I would stay far away from him then, but I liked knowing that I had access, however shady and tenuous, to that rarefied circle.

One of my neighbors in Brooklyn, a gruff Polish fellow named Wiktor, had borrowed money from me earlier in the summer. It was only $40 and he paid me back shortly afterward. When he paid me though, he also gave me a slip of paper with his phone number on it.

He said, “If you ever want to go skiing, you give me a call, okay?”

I said, “Sure,” and thought it was odd that he'd ask me to join him on a ski trip. He didn't seem like the type of guy to be hanging out with Jim and Sara back at the lodge, but later I realized what he meant. Skiing requires snow, and that was a term for cocaine. I kept Wiktor in mind in case Jim ever pressed me about the drug again, which, in time, he did.

Jim came up and found me in the hallway one night just after 3:00 a.m. We hadn't talked in a while and he wasn't looking so good. The scratch under his eye still hadn't gone away. He'd been picking at it or something and it had morphed into a wide red splotch, like a burn mark.

“I thought you were going to see a doctor,” I said to him.

“I did,” he said. “She gave me some cream. I think I'm allergic to it. Boots won't stop licking at it either. It's a mess, I know.”

“What about your wife? Is she concerned about it?”

“She's fed up with me. Everybody is. Listen, how would you like to come down to my office and help me finish off the last of that marijuana?”

I followed him back down to his office. The room was a complete mess. His desk was buried under disorganized stacks of paper and the leather chairs were piled with notebooks and empty sandwich boxes. He had heaps of clothes in there too, some of them covered with long wiry hairs which I assumed came from Boots.

“Isn't someone supposed to clean this place up for you?” I asked.

“Roberta,” said Jim, “but I won't let her in.”

Jim pulled out the envelope which I'd delivered to him nearly a month ago and he emptied the final joint into his hand. He told me he had smoked the other one back at home and Sara had caught him. She was not pleased.

“I can't seem to do anything right around there,” said Jim. “I've moved into a hotel. The Carlyle. It was the only one that would take both me and Boots. It's costing me a fortune.”

“When are you going back home?”

“Back home? Never, I hope.”

“What about Wendell?”

“He'll be fine. He's at school, remember?”

“Oh yeah, right…”

We smoked the joint while sitting on the floor. Jim took off his shoes and appeared to relax a little.

“George,” he said, “I want your opinion about something.”

He pulled a newspaper out from the mess on his desk. It was a weekly paper,
The Village Voice
. Jim turned to the back pages and laid them out in front of me. There were rows of pictures of scantily clad women, escorts, advertising their services.

“What do you think of these advertisements?” asked Jim. “Are they legitimate?

“Well, sure,” I said. “Those businesses exist, if that's what you mean.”

“I mean, are these pictures real? Look at this woman…”

Jim pointed to a picture of a tan, well-toned blond woman in a bikini. Below the picture was the name Lena. “24 hrs—Adult Bodywork,” it said.

“I think the pictures might be fake,” I told him.

“How much do you think she charges?”

“I don't know. A hundred dollars. Are you going to call one of these people?”

“I've considered it, George. I'll be honest with you. I have considered it.”

“Well, I don't know what to tell you.”

“Do you have any experience with this sort of thing?”

“Very little,” I told him.

“But you've had some?”

“Hardly any,” I replied.

“Come with me,” said Jim.

We walked over to a conference room and Jim picked up the phone. He dialed a number and handed the receiver to me.

A sleepy, scratchy woman's voice answered, “Hello?”

“Hello?” I said, looking at Jim.

“Ask her how much she charges,” he whispered.

“How much do you charge? For your service,” I asked.

“Three hundred for the hour,” she said, “plus tips.”

I told this information to Jim.

“Ask her if the picture is real.”

I handed the phone to Jim. “You ask her,” I said.

Jim dropped the receiver and jumped back.

“I can't talk to her,” he whispered. “Please, just ask her.”

I picked up the phone. “Hello, are you there?”

“Yes,” said the woman, sounding a little put out.

“Is this Lena, from the ad?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said again.

“The one in the picture?”

“Yes, it is,” she said.

“Tell her I'm an executive,” whispered Jim. “Very clean-cut.”

“He's an executive,” I said.

“Call me back when you're through dicking around,” said Lena. And then she hung up.

I explained the conversation to Jim and he stood there wide-eyed and amazed. He shuffled back into his office, scooped up the newspaper, and held the picture up to me.

“Is that who you just talked to?” he asked.

“She said it was her.”

“Wow,” said Jim.

There was a noise out in the hallway as someone walked by and bumped into something.

“Jesus Christ,” said Jim. “We need to get out of here.” He began flapping his arms up and down to clear the air.

“We're going to get busted!” he said.

He threw on his coat and stepped quickly into his leather shoes.

“Let's go!” he said, stumbling out the door.

My shift at the library was done, but I had to go back up there to get my stuff. “I'll meet you downstairs,” I said.

“Don't ditch me,” said Jim, rubbing frantically at the red spot on his cheek. “Don't leave me alone like this.”

“I won't,” I told him.

I retrieved my belongings and then met Jim down in the cavernous lobby of the firm. It was a giant room full of shiny marble and polished brass fixtures. Jim was in the corner talking loudly to the security guard, saying something about the cleaning staff smoking while on the job. When he saw me he stopped talking and motioned for me to join him outside. A black town car with a driver stood waiting at the curb.

“Hop in,” said Jim. “I'll give you a ride.”

“I live in Brooklyn,” I told him.

“Just hop in,” said Jim.

He told the driver to take us uptown, to the Carlyle Hotel.

“It's late, Jim,” I said. “I'd like to go home.”

“I called Lena back,” he said. He seemed proud that he had mustered the courage. “She's coming to the Carlyle in forty-five minutes. She said the picture was real.”

“Then I should go home.”

“No! No. I need you to take Boots out when she arrives. Boots won't know what to do if things get frisky between me and this woman.”

“She's not going to look like that picture,” I told him.

“She assured me she would,” said Jim.

We arrived at the Carlyle shortly after 4:00 a.m. The doorman was asleep in a chair. Jim told him we'd be expecting company and to send her right up when she arrived.

“Certainly, Mr. Tewilliger,” said the doorman.

Upon entering the room, Jim was immediately pounced upon by the colossal panting beast known as Boots. She was the biggest, most absurd example of a dog I'd ever seen. She threw her massive paws on Jim's chest and pinned him to the wall, all the while licking his face with her pancake-sized tongue.

“Oh, Bootsy!” said Jim, “How is my little girl?”

This went on for a while until Boots noticed I was there too and turned her attention to me. She let out a deep
woof!
and then lunged at my face with that giant slobbering tongue. Jim grabbed her collar and pulled her back.

“Easy, Boots. He's okay.”

Jim's room was actually a suite, and I believed he meant it when he said it was costing him a fortune. The place was appointed with long elegant windows and ornate, impressive furniture. Jim had taken to sleeping on the couch though. Boots had the entire king-sized bed to herself and she'd ripped the plush bedspread to bits.

“Yes, I know, I'm going to have to pay for that,” remarked Jim.

He poured us each a glass of scotch and we sat down to await the arrival of Lena. I managed to stomach this glass of scotch better than the one I'd had before and Jim quickly poured me another.