Chapter 52 - The Best City for Business

And on a rainy Tuesday morning, after working out at Xclusive,I stop by Paul Owen's apartment on the Upper East Side. Onehundred and sixty-one days have passed since I spent the night init with the two escort girls. There has been no word of bodiesdiscovered in any of the city's four newspapers or on the localnews; no hints of even a rumor ɻoating around. I've gone so faras to ask people—dates, business acquaintances—over dinners, inthe halls of Pierce & Pierce, if anyone has heard about twomutilated prostitutes found in Paul Owen's apartment. But like insome movie, no one has heard anything, has any idea of what I'mtalking about. There are other things to worry over: the shockingamount of laxative and speed that the cocaine in Manhattan isnow being cut with, Asia in the 1990s, the virtual impossibility oflanding an eight o'clock reservation at PR, the new TonyMcManus restaurant on Liberty Island, crack. So what I'massuming is that, essentially, like, no bodies have been found. Forall I know, Kimball has moved to London too.The building looks diʃerent to me as I step out of the taxi,though I can't ɹgure out why. I still have the keys I stole fromOwen the night I killed him and I take them out, now, to openthe lobby door but they don't work, won't ɹt properly. Instead, auniformed doorman who wasn't here six months ago opens it forme, excusing himself for taking so long. I stand there in the rain,confused, until he ushers me in, merrily asking, with a thick Irishaccent, "Well, are you coming in or staying out—you're gettingsoaked." I move into the lobby, my umbrella held under one arm,tucking the surgical mask I brought with me to deal with thesmell back into my pocket. I'm holding a Walkman, debatingwhat to say, how to phrase it."Well, now what can I do for you sir?" he asks.I stall—a long, awkward pause—before saying, simply,"Fourteen-A."He looks me over carefully before checking his book, thenbeams, marking something down. "Ah, of course. Mrs. Wolfe isup there right now.""Mrs. ... Wolfe?" Weakly, I smile."Yes. She's the real estate agent," he says, looking up at me."You do have an appointment, don't you?"The elevator operator, also a new addition, stares at the ɻooras the two of us rise up into the building. I'm trying to retrace mysteps on that night, during that whole week, uselessly knowing Ihave never been back to this apartment after murdering the twogirls. How much is Owen's apartment worth? is a question thatkeeps forcing its way into my mind until ɹnally it just rests there,throbbing. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about peoplewith half their brains removed. My chest feels like ice.The elevator doors open. I step out, cautiously, watchingbehind me as they close, then I'm moving down the hallwaytoward Owen's apartment. I can hear voices inside. I lean againstthe wall, sighing, keys in my hand, knowing already the lockshave been changed. As I wonder what I should do, trembling,staring at my loafers, which are black and by A. Testoni, the doorto the apartment opens, startling me out of a momentary ɻash ofself-pity. A middle-aged real estate broker walks out, oʃers asmile, asks, checking her book, "Are you my eleven o'clock?""No," I say.She says "Excuse me" and, making her way down the hall,looks back at me, once, with a strange expression on her face,before disappearing around the corner. I'm staring into theapartment. A couple in their late twenties stand, conferring witheach other, in the middle of the living room. She's wearing awool jacket, a silk blouse, wool ɻannel slacks, Armani, vermeilearrings, gloves, holding a bottle of Evian water. He has on atweed sport jacket, cashmere sweater vest, cotton chambray shirt,tie, Paul Stuart, Agnes B. cotton trench coat draped over arm.Behind them, the apartment looks spotless. New Venetian blinds,the cowhide paneling is gone; however, the furniture, the mural,the glass coʃee table, Thonet chairs, black leather couch, all seemintact; the large-screen television set has been moved into theliving room and it's been turned on, the volume low, acommercial where a stain walks oʃ a jacket and addresses thecamera is on now, but it doesn't make me forget what I did toChristie's breasts, to one of the girls' heads, the nose missing,both ears bitten oʃ, how you could see her teeth through where Ihad ripped the ɻesh from her jaws and both cheeks, the torrentsof gore and the blood that washed over the apartment, the stenchof the dead, my own confused warning that I had drawn in—"Can I help you?" the real estate agent, Mrs. Wolfe I'mguessing, intrudes. She has a very angular thin face, the nose islarge, distressingly real-looking, heavily lipsticked mouth, whiteblue eyes. She's wearing a wool bouclé jacket, washed-silk blouse,shoes, earrings, a bracelet, from where? I don't know. Maybeshe's younger than forty.I'm still leaning against the wall, staring at the couple, whomove back into the bedroom, leaving the main room empty. I'mjust noticing that bouquets in glass vases, dozens of them, ɹll theapartment everywhere, and I can smell them from where I'mstanding in the hall. Mrs. Wolfe glances behind her to see whatI'm staring at, then back to me. "I'm looking for ... Doesn't PaulOwen live here?"A long pause before she answers. "No. He doesn't."Another long pause. "Are you, like ... sure?" I ask, beforefeebly adding, "I don't ... understand."She realizes something that causes the muscles in her face totighten. Her eyes narrow but don't close. She's noticed thesurgical mask I'm gripping in a damp ɹst and she breathes in,sharply, refusing to look away. I am deɹnitely not feeling rightabout any of this. On the TV, in a commercial, a man holds up apiece of toast and tells his wife, "Hey, you're right ... thismargarine really does taste better than shit." The wife smiles."You saw the ad in the Times?" she asks."No ... I mean yes. Yes, I did. In the Times," I falter, gathering apocket of strength, the smell from the roses thick, maskingsomething revolting. "But ... doesn't Paul Owen ... still own this?"I ask, as forcibly as possible.There's a long pause before she admits, "There was no ad in theTimes."We stare at each other endlessly. I'm convinced she senses I'mabout to say something. I've seen this look on someone's facebefore. Was it in a club? A victim's expression? Had it appearedon a movie screen recently? Or had I seen it in the mirror? Ittakes what seems like an hour before I can speak again. "Butthat's ... his"—I stop, my heart skips, resumes beating—"furniture." I drop my umbrella, then lean down quickly toretrieve it."I think you should go," she says."I think ... I want to know what happened." I feel sick, mychest and back covered with sweat, drenched, it seems,instantaneously."Don't make any trouble," she says.All frontiers, if there had ever been any, seem suddenlydetachable and have been removed, a feeling that others arecreating my fate will not leave me for the rest of the day. This ...is ... not ... a ... game, I want to shout, but I can't catch mybreath though I don't think she can tell. I turn my face away. Ineed rest. I don't know what to say. Confused, I reach out for amoment to touch Mrs. Wolfe's arm, to steady myself, but I stop itin midair, move it to my chest instead, but I can't feel it, not evenwhen I loosen my tie; it rests there, trembling, and I can't make itstop. I'm blushing, speechless."I suggest you go," she says.We stand there in the hallway facing each other."Don't make any trouble," she says again, quietly.I stand there a few seconds longer before ɹnally backing away,holding up my hands, a gesture of assurance."Don't come back," she says."I won't," I say. "Don't worry."The couple appears in the doorway. Mrs. Wolfe watches meuntil I'm at the elevator door, pressing the button for theattendant. In the elevator, the smell of the roses is overpowering.