Nobody's Fool, page 10
The guy behind the window could only look more bored if he were unconscious. He sighs and says, “For when?”
“The current show?”
“Sold out.”
“Standing room?”
He frowns. “What part of ‘sold out’ is confusing to you?”
“Boy, you’re a turn-the-world-on-with-your-smile kind of guy,” I say. “Thank you for just brightening my day.”
He manages to hide the bleeding psychological wound made by my rapier wit. I head back outside and stand under the marquee. In the old days you might find some guy, usually in a shiny Mets jacket, scalping an extra ticket. No more. Even safe-scuzzy moments like whispering to a strange guy “Got a ticket?” have been ruined by apps and the internet.
So I wait for the show to end. Or should I say we wait.
Polly follows Gun Guy to the Yard House, where he orders a burger, fries, and a beer. Gary stays in his double-parked car by the garage. I first go to one of those crap souvenir stores and buy a pair of AirPod knockoffs. I hook them up to my Bluetooth and test them with Polly and Gary. The treble is terrible, but I can hear them fine. I spend the next couple of hours waiting for the musical to end. I try to sneak in during the intermission, but I get rebuffed. I take a few moments to think about all this. By all accounts, Victoria Belmond is a recluse. She has done no interviews since her return from kidnapping. Every once in a while, a journalist will try to track her down, but by and large, journalists have moved on to easier prey. If this happened back in the seventies or eighties, like, say, Patricia Hearst, the story would still be worth pursuing. Sure, people might still have an interest in Victoria Belmond, but it isn’t as though it would be an everyday thing. Stories no longer capture our collective attention that way. We don’t all watch a kid being rescued from falling down a well anymore, and I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or bad. Add into all this the obvious: Big money eases the way. The Belmond family has been willing to spend a great deal of capital to keep Victoria out of the spotlight. No one really knows whether she eventually remembered anything about her time in captivity or not. Is her mind still a blank—or did she process it all—or heck, has she been faking amnesia? I saw one rumor online that Victoria Belmond eventually remembered everything, and rather than have the kidnapper arrested, the wealthy Belmond family hired a mercenary group to handle the justice in their own brutal way.
I doubt that, but who knows?
Point is, it has been years, and no one is really paying much attention anymore, so trips like this into Manhattan are no longer a big security risk for her, I imagine. If anything, it is wiser to hide in plain sight. She lives her life, it seems, albeit quietly and uniquely, blending the clandestine domicile on the enormous Connecticut estate with seemingly the freedom to enjoy a Broadway show in the Big Apple.
I wonder what her life has been like. I wonder whether this is really my Anna from Spain or just a case of mistaken identity. I wonder about what really happened that awful morning in the Costa del Sol. Not to get too deep here, but part of me is still there, in that bed, waking up in the bright sunlight and screaming, screaming still, screaming so that even now, nearly a quarter century later, I still feel, more than hear, the echoes.
See what I mean about getting too deep?
After I flew home from Málaga Airport, once I listened to my panicked father and hurried to the airport and boarded the first plane out to the United States, I found sleep elusive. I don’t know about PTSD or something like that, but I kept dreaming I was waking up next to a faceless dead girl. I couldn’t move on. I would check the Spanish news for updates, but there was nothing. It was then I started to drink. Just a little. Just to help me close my eyes. I had no ambition left, so I deferred medical school for a year. Then two years. Then the little drinking became a lot of drinking. I didn’t go to med school. I forgot about all my plans, my lifelong goal of becoming a physician, all of that lost in a bottle with a dead girl I now know is very much alive.
A little more than two hours after the show began, Polly dings me. I hit answer and we are all on the same call. Polly says, “The driver paid his tab. He’s on the move, walking back toward the theater.”
That means I can’t just hang out here anymore. Gun Guy will see and probably recognize me. I head toward the ticket scanner/security guard on the other side of the marquee, the one who hasn’t already seen me try to enter. “Can I ask you a favor?” I say.
“You can ask, I guess.”
“I went to this play with my niece Pammy last Thursday.”
Note: When you lie, add specifics. Names. Dates.
“Okay.”
“Anyway, Pammy loved it and so I was hoping that I could just quickly run inside and buy her a souvenir sweatshirt.”
“I think they sell them at that shop next door.”
“They do,” I say, “but they’re pretty shoddy knockoffs. Also—and I know this is corny—but I want to get her the official sweatshirt from the theater itself. You know. As a real memento.”
The guard has heard it all before, but he’s also a human being. “You have to wait for the show to let out.”
“Of course,” I say. “I mean, I know it gets crowded so maybe the moment the show ends?”
It takes a little more haranguing, but the ticket scanner agrees. When the show lets out and the crowd begins to rise from their seats, he lets me in. I hurry over toward the souvenir vendor and feign studying the various items. The ticket scanner loses interest in me as the theatergoers stream out in a waterfall of flesh. There are side exits off the orchestra seats, I see now, and I worry Anna may depart that way. I swim upstream, against the tide of musical emigrants, so I can try to position myself to see all exits. I have my new “AirTods” in my ears, so I check in with my students.
“Polly?” I say.
“I’m here,” she says.
“Where is the driver now?”
“He’s pacing out front. Under the marquee.”
Okay, good. That means Anna will most likely be exiting out the front. My eyes scan the crowd while I’m also trying to blend in. I don’t want Anna to see me first and bolt again. That part still confuses me, by the way. Anna or Victoria or Whoever came to my class. Not the other way around. That couldn’t be a coincidence. My class is in the old public bathhouse down on the Lower East Side—that’s not a place you happen by or casually stroll through.
She had come to see me. She had sought me out.
The crowd surged and then began to thin out. Still no sign of Anna. I wondered whether I had missed her. As I said before, there are plenty of exits. I can’t keep my eyes on all of them. I move closer to the standing-room area and look down at the stage.
That’s when I spot her.
She is still in her seat, facing the stage, her back to me. She seems to be still watching the show. Or something. I don’t know what. The dark maroon curtain is closed now. I can’t see her face, but I wonder what the deal is, why she remains in the seat. Does she not want to deal with the crowds? Was she emotionally overwhelmed by the musical? Does she just want to spend a few moments to soak in the grandeur of the ornate art nouveau interior? Does she want to prolong the time she has alone in this quiet theater before Gun Guy bustles her back to her prison-mansion?
I have no idea. But I see no reason to wait.
I start down the aisle toward her. Her seat is primo, center orchestra, eight or ten rows back. Three, four hundred dollars at minimum. There are a few stragglers, maybe twenty or thirty people left, but there is no one near Anna.
I whisper “Going on mute” into the AirTod microphone and hit the mute button.
Polly says, “Driver is checking his watch, starting to look impatient.”
I keep moving until I reach her row. Anna’s seat is third from the end. I slide in quickly and take the chair next to hers. When I land, she startles and looks at me.
“Anna,” I say.
“Stay away from me.”
She starts to rise. I gently but firmly put my hand on her forearm, trying to figure a way to keep her in place but not wanting to use force. This isn’t easy and I realize I’m probably crossing a line here.
I try again. “Anna—”
“Why do you keep calling me that? That’s not my name.”
I meet her eyes now. In my mind, there is no doubt it’s Anna from Fuengirola, but I also recognize the very human capability of deluding ourselves via our own wants and narratives. So I work to stay neutral.
“Would you prefer,” I say, “that I call you Victoria?”
Her eyes flare and settle. I hit a nerve.
“How did you find me?” she whispers.
“I followed you from my class,” I say. “Didn’t your security guards tell you they threw me off your estate?”
Confusion crosses her face. “What are you talking about?”
“Your house in Connecticut. I tried cutting through the woods, but your driver came at me with a Doberman and a gun.”
Anna shakes her head. “I don’t know you,” she insists, but I hear doubt in her voice. She starts to rise again. When I tighten my grip, she glares at it and then at me. No choice. I have to let her go. She stands. I do the same. I follow her down the row of seats toward the opposite aisle.
“We met in Spain,” I say.
“I’ve never been to Spain.”
“Fuengirola, to be precise. On the Costa del Sol. We met there twenty-two years ago.”
She continues to move, shaking her head almost as though she’s trying to convince herself.
“You’re mistaken.”
“It was you,” I say. “I thought you were dead.”
She shakes her head harder.
“You went by the name Anna. We met on the dance floor of the Discoteca Palmeras. You had an apartment nearby.”
I see her hesitate now.
“I checked the dates,” I say. “It would have been about three years after you first”—I can’t find the right word so I settle for—“disappeared.”
In my earphones I hear Polly say, “Driver is talking to ticket taker. Looks like he’s heading inside.”
Shit.
Anna says to me, “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Then why did you come to my class?”
“I can’t stay,” she says. “He’ll be worried.”
“Who?” But there’s no point. I have a business card in my hand, which only has my name and phone number on it. “Take this.”
“What? No.”
“Call me,” I say.
She shakes her head, but she also takes the card. Then she looks at me and says, “You’re not lying? You really knew me?”
Before I can say yes, I hear Polly in my earphone: “The driver is inside now.”
“Your driver,” I say to her. “He’s in the theater.”
“Duck down!” she says in a panic. I do. I drop down to my knees and stay low as I hear that same Gun Guy voice call out, “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Anna says quickly. “I just… I’m sorry. This theater is just so beautiful, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. Then: “We better go.”
Anna nods. Then, before she disappears up the aisle, she looks down at me and whispers, “Don’t tell anyone you saw me. Please.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Polly calls off the surveillance on the estate in Connecticut. What would be the point? She grabs a downtown C train to her town house in the Village. Marty calls and tells me he has some info from the FBI on the Victoria Belmond kidnapping.
“For one thing,” he says, “it’s never been solved.”
“You have the file?”
“A lot of it.”
“Where is it?”
“My place.”
He gives me the address. I tell him I’m on my way. Golfer Gary offers me a ride uptown, and I accept. Gary drives a high-end Range Rover.
We head north toward the park. I’m sitting in the front passenger seat next to him. I watch his profile. I’m guessing Gary is in his early fifties. He’s got a classic dad-bod beer belly, skinny arms, hunched shoulders. When I was twelve years old, my father taught me a lesson I try to live with every day. We were walking through Washington Square Park on an early-summer Saturday. If you’ve been there, you know that the park is a microcosm of the entire globe jammed into fewer than ten acres. You will see every variety of human in just a few short minutes.
“Hopes and dreams,” my father said with a wide smile, spreading his hands like he was preparing for a hug.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He bent down so he could look me in the eye. “Good rule of thumb: Whenever you see a person—rich, poor, young, old, tall, short, whatever—remember one thing: That person has hopes and dreams.”
My father didn’t elaborate any further. I think that was intentional on his part because it is still something that provides endless curiosity. I still do it every time I look at someone. I think my father wanted to teach me about empathy. You pass a man on the street. Maybe he’s angry and seems mean and he’s lashing out. Or someone is ugly or stupid or whatever. Somewhere, my father wanted me to remember, underneath all that excess, there is a human being with hopes and dreams. It’s a simple thought. Hopes and dreams. And maybe this person with the unremarkable exterior has had their hopes and dreams crushed along the way. Doesn’t matter. Hopes and dreams never fully die. They remain somewhere, dormant perhaps, but never totally gone.
Honor that.
“Gary?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s your deal?” I ask.
“Deal?”
Everyone has hopes and dreams, I thought, which also means that everyone has a backstory. Every human you meet is a novel different from every other.
“Where do you live?” I ask. “What do you do? What led you to take my class?”
“Do you always take a personal interest in your students?”
“Sure,” I say. “Especially the ones driving me in a high-end Range Rover and wearing golf shirts from fancy golf courses.”
He smiles, steering now with his wrists. “Do you play golf?”
“Never.”
“So how do you know the logos on my shirts are from fancy courses?”
“Google.”
He nods.
“I assume you play, Gary?”
His grip on the wheel tightens. “Used to.”
“Not anymore?”
“Not anymore,” he repeats.
“Look,” I say, “if you don’t want to say anything—”
“No, I get it,” he says. “It’s weird—me taking your class. I don’t fit the profile, though judging by some of your other students, there isn’t much of a profile for this class, is there?”
“It’s an eclectic bunch,” I agree.
“Can I ask you something?”
I spread my hands. “I’m an open book.”
“Are you married?”
“I am.”
“Kids?”
“A son. He’s a year old.”
“Nice,” Gary says.
“Yeah.”
“I googled you before I joined the class.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You mentioned that before.”
“They say you were fired for breaking rules. You endangered a witness by chasing him onto a rooftop—”
“PJ Dawson.”
“—and you also acted in an illegal manner that led to a death.”
“There a question coming here, Gary?” I ask. “Never mind. Let me save you the trouble. Yes, it’s true.”
“Many believe you should have been prosecuted.”
“They might be right,” I say. “In the end, I cut a deal. Resign. Lose my entire pension. In exchange I don’t get prosecuted.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I messed up big-time,” I say. And when I do, he adjusts himself in his seat, eyes fixed on the road. I decide to try a gentle push. “So what’s your deal, Gary? Wife, kids, any of that?”
“Divorced,” Gary says, and again I see something cross his face. “Two daughters. Ellie is nineteen. She’s a freshman at Clemson. Tanya is a senior in high school.”
“Do you see them a lot?”
Gary shrugs. “Not as often as I’d like. They live with their mother in Short Hills. You know it?”
Short Hills is a tony enclave in New Jersey. Big-money town. “I do.”
“Wendy and I raised our girls there. They went to the Pingry School.”
“Expensive,” I say.
“I had my own hedge fund back then. We had a five-bedroom house on Dorset Lane. Wendy and I were married twenty-four years.” He glances at me, then back on the road. “Does your wife love you?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I don’t think Wendy ever did. But maybe I’m being unfair. I destroyed her life. That’s the truth of it. I thought we could get past it. But she couldn’t. That’s why I’m alone now. No job. Wendy is dating an old friend of mine. The girls are embarrassed to be seen with me. Well, Tanya is. Ellie is better about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiles. “I messed up big-time.”
“Want to tell me how?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
“I’m a pretty good listener,” I say. “Nonjudgmental too.”
“You don’t golf though.”
I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “Don’t hold that against me. And to be fair, it is a dumb sport that takes up too much real estate and time.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he says. “Ever heard of Vine Ridge?”
I think about it. “It isn’t completely unfamiliar.”
“It’s an exclusive golf club. It’s also hosted several PGA tournaments, including the US Open twelve years ago.”
“Okay, yeah, I think I watched that on TV.”
“Vine Ridge is up there with Augusta or Pine Valley or Merion or Winged Foot.”
“Okay,” I say again, though these words mean nothing to me.
“Wendy and I were both longtime members. In Wendy’s case, third-generation members. Well, sort of. Women can’t join. Her grandfather and father were members. So it’s the same thing, really. Me, I was a really good amateur golfer. Was on the team at Amherst College. That’s how Wendy and I met. So when we got married and joined as junior members, I was technically the member. Because only men can be members. You know what I’m saying?”
