I found Synchek sitting on a bench in a small almost-park at the corner of 12th and Carson, right foot on left knee, reading the paper. He was wearing the same navy blue suit, and the tie around his neck may have been the same, too. No telling, really. A tie is a tie is a tie, unless Snoopy is somehow involved. And Synchek didn’t exactly seem like a Snoopy-tie kind of guy.
“Splendid.” He stood up and folded the paper under his stump. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.”
I didn’t think I’d given him any reason to think I’d bail. Of course, I was about 20 minutes late, which may have got his wheels turning.
“Well, here I am. Sorry I’m late, though.”
“Think nothing of it. The walk is a short one, and we still have plenty of time.” He gave me his dead fish handshake again. “Shall we?”
“I guess we shall.”
We’d made it about a block when his cell phone broke into Beethoven, a little concerto just for the two of us. I wonder what all these composers would think about their art being used as ringtones for annoying assholes. I guess it’s a good thing they’re all dead.
I was glad he answered it. One, I can’t handle those damned ringtones, and two, I was a little uncomfortable around this man and didn’t really want to talk to him any more than absolutely necessary. So I just followed him through the streets of the South Side, past all the townhouses and poorly parallel-parked cars, many of which with the driver’s-side mirror hanging limp from the door.
His half of the conversation could have been about just about anything: remembering to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home, selling government secrets to the Iraqis, whatever. His words were so generic (and, yes, grammatically terrifying) that it was difficult to tell if he was actually speaking at all. Whatever came out of his mouth just blended in with the whir of passing cars and the general noise of the city.
Although I was relieved about not having to talk with him, I would have liked to know exactly where we were headed. Before the accident, I was relatively unconcerned about where things would end up. It wasn’t about the destination, it was about the journey. But ever since that fucking wreck, I found it difficult to go with the flow. I needed to know what was going to happen.
We turned right on 22nd and made our way farther from the Monongahela, farther from the city. He finished his non-conversation and looked at his watch. I’m still not entirely sure how he managed to get it onto his wrist, but I imagine his teeth were somehow involved. Or maybe he was one of those people who had learned how to use his feet as well as his hands. Even the idea of him using his feet unnerved me. It’s just unnatural.
“Sorry about that,” he said without turning. “My parrot, Laszlo, just had surgery. He had some sort of infection and has been unable to defecate. That was just the vet. Everything went well.”
Seriously. What was that?
I patted him on the back. “Glad to hear it. Congrats, I guess.”
“Thanks.”
I should have known from this thing about his parrot that something was amuck with this man. At the time, though, I just thought it was really freakin’ weird.
“Well, here we are.” He fished around in his pocket for his keys.
I looked at the building, the boring, nondescript building. It was a warehouse. Just a warehouse. “Superb. Now this, this is a warehouse.”
“I know it’s not much to look at, but I’m a big believer in, ‘It’s not what’s on the outside that counts.’”
From the looks of it, the inside of this building better be trimmed with gold, its floors carpeted with some sort of fine Italian fabric, and its walls decorated with original paintings by Van Gogh and Monet. The wall, with the front door, had white paint peeling down to the ground in some places. I’d have thought it was just some abandoned warehouse, maybe a crackhead or two huddled on the floor inside.
After some serious fumbling of his keys, Synchek got the door open and let me inside. The hallway inside…well, it didn’t exactly give me high hopes about the rest of the interior. It was just a long, straight hall with florescent lighting and vinyl flooring. A small table, almost a podium, sat inside next to the door with a black register closed on top of it.
“You’re right, Walter. This looks much better than I thought it would.” I found it easy to jest him. For some reason it seemed that he didn’t quite understand sarcasm, and it’s impossible not to be sarcastic around people like that.
He didn’t respond. He just locked the door behind him and led me down the hall, past a door on the right that had too many locks to count at just a glance. I let myself wonder what could possibly be behind this door. Curiosity, as it turns out, likes to fuck with more than just cats.
But this door was not to be opened, and I was left to let my mind dwell on what was back there until we reached the door at the end of the hall. No locks on this one. Just a simple white door with a simple silver knob that would turn simply to the left and allow me simple passage to a much more difficult life than I could ever have guessed.
It’s a shame I didn’t think about it that way then, that I walked right through, as one does with an open door. What was there to be afraid of, right? It would just be a room. I’d been through many doors, and up to this point, none of them has fucked up my perception of life.
“This,” he said, holding the door open for me with his foot, extending his arm to present me with the room, “is where we meet.” He seemed to enjoy gesturing with that arm. I think maybe he was trying to make up for the fact that he no longer had his left arm. Can’t really hold it against him, I guess.
“Wow. This is quite a room.” And it was. The walls were papered with a majestic deep maroon and trimmed with what appeared to be oak. At the back there was a bar, which, it appeared, was stocked solely with bottles of red wine. Eight tables, with six seats each, were set for dinner with fine silverware and china and wicked gorgeous centerpieces of lilies and some other flower. Closer to the door, to us, a table was set up with coffee dripping into a pot and stacks of simple and elegant mugs. The front of the room boasted a sizeable podium facing rows of black, cushioned folding chairs, lined up like a battalion ready to take orders from whichever general happened to be speaking. There was even a gigantic chandelier hanging form the ceiling. “Seriously, Walter. This is impressive. I almost forgot I was standing inside a dingy old warehouse.”
He looked pleased. “Thank you, Travis. I’m quite proud of it.”
“It’s a bit empty, though, isn’t it? When’s everyone else supposed to get here?” I was under the impression that we were cutting it pretty close.
“Oh, they should be arriving shortly.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll begin in roughly half-an-hour.”
Hearing the words “half-an-hour” brought out my nerves, the mere mention of an actual time-frame waking them like an alarm clock. I suddenly realized I had no idea how this was going to work. “What exactly will I be doing, here?”
He put his hand on my shoulder. It was a little too paternal to be comforting to me. “You’ve no need to be nervous, my young friend. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. I’ll get up to the podium, welcome everyone, and then introduce you.”
This thing — the thing with him never really answering any of my questions — was getting frustrating. “And what, exactly, will you be introducing me to do?”
“To tell your story, Travis. That’s all. To tell your story and,” he scratched the tip of his nose, “if you’re comfortable taking a few questions, I’m sure everyone would be grateful.”
I really wasn’t in the mood for questions, but hell, I’d been answering so many questions already that I was beginning to feel like a fucking oracle, only without the whole soothsayer vibe. It seemed people were lined up for miles, wanting to know. Everyone wanted to know. I could handle a few more questions, sure. Especially for $500. “Yeah. I could answer a few questions.”
“Excellent.” He looked, again, at his watch. “I have a few things to attend to before everyone arrives. Feel free to fix yourself a cup of coffee or a glass of wine from the bar. I’ll return shortly.” And off he went, through a set of double doors across the room from the bar.
I mad-dashed it to the bar, got open a bottle of wine. Merlot, since there was no other choice; there had to be 50 bottles of the stuff. I was still a little unsure about what I’d gotten myself into, but I figured a glass of wine, or maybe two, would calm me. I downed my first glass in one gulp and poured myself another. It was good, this wine, and I made a mental note to ask Walter what it was. Actually, I felt a little ashamed of myself for taking it down so quickly. I’m sure there are those who would have been appalled at my behavior. I should have been sipping slowly, getting a good sense of its nose and whatever else you’re supposed to do when tasting wine. But when you’re scared, no matter of what, it seems you have no time for anything at all.
This time I happened to be correct. I heard the door and looked up to see a group coming in, and coming in, and coming in. They must have rented a bus. Or, from the look of these people, maybe it was a super-sized limo, the length of a city block. Most of the crowd were men, all dressed up in suits that were probably worth more than any car I’ve ever owned. Their hair was slicked, and not one of them had any facial hair. I could feel the power coming off of these men, like they were radioactive or something. About a third of the group were women, also dolled up, covered in diamond bracelets and necklaces and earrings, their faces obviously lifted at some point. Or maybe Botoxed. I could smell the perfume all the way across the room. And it was easy to guess what they were wearing: MONEY. They absolutely stunk of money. Most of these people looked to be in their 30s and 40s, although at least a handful were pushing 60 and 70.
I suddenly felt underdressed in my khakis and blue button-down shirt, both purchased in discount stores. I found myself finishing my second glass of wine and pouring my third. I found myself sweating a little, shaking a little. What the fuck was going on? I wasn’t expecting to be speaking to people like this. I didn’t even know people like these existed in Pittsburgh.
But apparently they do. And as I was standing there, behind the bar, staring at this rich mess and pouring another glass of wine, a few of the gentlemen managed to make their way to the front of the bar.
“Two glasses,” ordered the tallest of the three, resting an elbow on the bar and turning to face the other two.
I poured the wine and set the glasses in front of him. “You know, it’s customary to say ‘please.’”
He whipped his head around and glared at me, obviously insulted. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, most bartenders would appreciate a little courtesy, even from you rich folk. Of course, since I’m not the bartender, I don’t really give a shit.”
There’s a nerve, somewhere deep inside of me, that has always enjoyed pushing the buttons of the over-privileged.
There is also a nerve, somewhere not so deep inside the over-privileged, that detests the pushing of those buttons.
“And who are you to lecture me on etiquette?”
I took a sip of my wine, looking him square in the eye. “Nobody special, I suppose.”
“And why are you here, behind the fucking bar, if you’re not the bartender?” He crossed his arms and straightened up, trying to intimidate, I imagine.
“Oh. My name is Travis. I’m behind the bar because I have no problem pouring my own drinks when I get thirsty. And yours, if you haven’t noticed. And I’m assuming you haven’t, since you’ve yet to thank me.” Ah, alcohol. The quickest route to candor.
The guys behind him, both a little shorter and a lot more Italian (although I’m willing to bet they had the same $60 boxers and solid-gold business-card holders), exchanged a look of recognition. One of them tapped the asshole on the shoulder. “He’s the young man who had the accident, Jim. He’s speaking for us this evening, remember?”
He paused for a moment. “Oh. Is that so? In that case, I’m terribly sorry, sir. I had no idea.” He extended a hand, dropping the snobby rich guy routine. “I’m Jim Stearns. This is Tony Conicella and Michael Cansellini.”
Each of them nodded, in turn, at the mention of their names.
Tony said, “We’re all very excited to hear you speak.”
Michael said, “Yes. Very excited.”
“And you are right,” Jim held his glass in the air, “I behaved rudely. I am truly sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me.” Asshole or not, he sounded sincere enough.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, touching my glass to his. “We all have those moments.”
He smiled and nodded. “These two are right. People here are very excited about your little visit.”
After this point, the conversation gets a little fuzzy. All three of them were in sales — inside, outside, who knows? All three were married, and so each had a glass of wine for himself and one for his wife.
It’s difficult to say about much else. I hadn’t really been paying attention. My thoughts were pretty content sitting on their bench of afraid to speak to these people, and who are these people, anyway? These three suits weren’t enough to get my brain to budge, and all the wine wasn’t making it any easier, either.
I’d been nodding my head and offering those little nuggets of sound that pass for conversation when the conversation is one-sided. And this was definitely a one-sider. Some people just don’t have it in them to stop talking. I think those people feel like they have to justify their very existence every time they open their mouths. It must be exhausting.
This exhaustion must have been why they were all quiet and staring at me like I had something they wanted. Maybe some insider trading tip or something.
Conicella shifted his weight to his left leg and said, “Well, what do you think about it, Mr. Eliot?”
It seems that one of them, or maybe all three of them, had asked me a question. “Oh. Sorry, guys. I sort of zoned out for a second there. What do I think about what now?” Sometimes, you just have to be honest about not paying attention. Most people don’t really think you’re listening anyway.
“About tonight’s menu?” Stearns was all wide-eyed excitement about it.
I, however, was unaware of any menu. I suppose I could have guessed food was to be a part of the evening’s festivities, what with all the tables and place settings and centerpieces.
The three of them eagerly awaited my opinion. The food at these things must have been great.
“Sounds great to me.” I know I should have asked what was being served, but I really didn’t care. I was getting bored with these guys and hated the thought of having to hear them say anything more. “I don’t think I’ll be staying for dinner, though. Places to see, people to do, you know?”
They laughed. Stupid bastards.
Cansellini, he thought I should know what it was I was missing. “That’s too bad. The chef is head chef at a wonderful little place downtown. The man is an absolute genius in the kitchen.” He looked like he just remembered something, spun around to look at the crowd, and then turned back to me. “I should really get this wine to my wife. She’s probably waiting.”
The other two nodded.
Stearns. “Yes. Alana isn’t exactly a patient woman, either. I should get back over there.” He shook my hand again. “It’s a shame you can’t stay for the food. I’ll remind Synchek to pack a doggie bag for you.”
I was amused at the sound of such a rich, snobby fucker saying the words ‘doggie bag,’ and I laughed aloud. They all gave me kind of a sideways look, but I was fairly certain they didn’t know what I was laughing about. They walked away with their wine. With their wives’ wine. They walked away in single file, back to the pow-wow near the coffee machine.
