should say, and on the occasion when play stopped at the end of the court near him, when Sally Cowles stood just thirty feet or so from him, her face sweaty and eyes alert, knees bent and waiting for the referee to whistle play to begin, Jay Rainey lowered his binoculars and stared at her.
I glanced from one to the other, trying to understand their connection, but then someone behind me was calling my name. I turned fearfully, and there was Dan Tuthill five bleacher rows up, good old Dan Tuthill, looking a little grayer, and a lot heavier, firing me a big wave. He said something to his wife next to him, then began stepping down the bleachers, his enormous stomach tented in a green sport short.
'Jeez, Bill, you look great!' he said when he reached me, breathing like the wealthy fat man he was. 'I told Mindy, I think that's got to be Bill Wyeth, can't believe it, just great to see you.'
We shook hands with the old conspiratorial intimacy. 'You here to see your daughter?' I asked.
'Yeah, she made a layup in the second quarter. Total luck it went in. You?'
'I'm here, well, to meet a client.'
He nodded, perhaps impressed. 'Anyone I know?'
'Probably not.'
He knew I wouldn't tell him.
'How's it going at the firm?' I asked him.
'Ah, don't ask.' His face sagged in pain. I'd always liked this about Dan; his emotions were right there for you to see, up or down. 'I mean, I'll tell you, but Christ! Nobody knows where the power is anymore. All the young guys are pissed off at the old guys for sucking up all the bonus money. I qualify as an old guy now. The really old guys are nervous. They fired two lawyers last week and two more quit. It's a fucking nightmare, Bill. The executive committee is a snake pit.'
'I thought you were on that committee now,' I said, glancing to see that Jay was still in his seat.
'I used to be.' He shrugged at the unstoppable flow of time. 'Listen, it's good to see you, Bill. See that you're out there, in circulation.' He gave me a little affectionate slug in the arm. 'You look good, you look trim. Been working out?'
I laughed. 'I eat mostly steak.'
'I've heard about that diet, I should try it. All protein or something… You know, Bill, I'm still sorry about- all that stuff that happened…'
'Yeah,' I said.
'Did you land anywhere, pardon the expression?'
'I landed hard, Dan. Let's put it that way.'
'But it looks like you've got a little work?' he asked gently.
'I could always use more.'
He stared at me, wheels clicking in his head. I remembered the look. Dan liked deals, he liked speed, he liked action. 'We should have lunch.' His voice was thoughtful. 'We could talk about some things, you know?'
'Name the time, guy.'
He pulled an electronic device out of his pocket. 'I always say I better not drop this thing…' He pushed a button, studied the tiny screen. 'Day after tomorrow? One? Harvard Club?'
'You got it.'
'I'm really glad to see you. Frankly, there's a lot going on- I can't discuss it here, but we'll kick it around, okay?' He shook my hand as if it was he who needed me, and returned to his wife. I didn't know what to make of the interaction except that it had been surprisingly pleasant and confirmed that you should always keep a decent suit around. I could still fit in. In fact, the parents around me didn't give me a second look at all; I was just another fortyish guy in a tie. It felt good, it felt possible.
Then I turned back to look for Jay. He was gone.
But perhaps I could follow him. I bounced down the bleacher steps, making my apologies, and hurried out to the street, hoping to see his large frame ahead of me. I took a chance and walked east toward Lexington Avenue, past the lighted windows of other people's lives.
That was when I felt a hand slide into my armpit.
A hoarse voice: 'Easy.'
Two tall, well-dressed white guys walked on either side of me.
'Take the wallet,' I said. 'Just leave me the ID, okay?'
'Relax.'
'I don't care about the credit cards, just-'
'Hey, re- lax.'
They were hustling me toward a double-parked limo. A third man jumped out and opened the back doors.
'Look, I talked with Marceno earlier! I have the lawsuit in my pocket right here, I understand the situation, I know he's serious.'
One of the men shrugged at the other. 'Not a clue.'
A taxi went by, not stopping. They hustled me inside the limo, sat on either side of me. The seat was soft and I sank backward comfortably. Both men sank down next to me as well.
The one on my right said, 'Let's go,' and the car started to move.
'H.J. said he'd call when.'
We were cruising downtown. 'Who is H.J.?' I asked.
'He's the gentleman who keeps us in his admirable employ.'
The accent was Irish, I guessed. 'Hey guys, come on.'
'Just taking orders.'
'I think you got the wrong man.'
The man on my right whispered something under his breath, and instead of shooting me in the head, right there in the car, a mess for someone to clean up, he leaned forward and turned on the television in the console in front of us. It was CNN and we watched a terse summary of the situation in the Middle East.
'They got it wrong, Denny,' announced the man on my left. 'They left out the part about who really owns the bloody oil.'
'My cousin from over here was in the second Gulf War, you know.'
'Guys, come on,' I tried again. 'This is the wrong-'
'He kill anybody? Any wee action with the ragheads?'
'He killed forty-one, by his count,' said the one named Denny. 'Also he shot at some Iraqi trucks, blew them to shite with a grenade launcher.'
'Look, you guys aren't looking for me, you're probably looking for-'
'There's a fellow in Queens who sells those things.'
'Get out.'
'Swear to it. Eight thousand dollars.'
Colin Harrison
The Havana Room
The man on my left nodded. 'We could go there now, after we deal with Andrew Wyeth here.'
'Bill Wyeth, not Andrew Wyeth.'
'He's the great painter, the artist, right?'
'Yes, American archetypes, Maine, all that. Bit of the stony coast and the sea.'
'But a great American nonetheless.'
'In a manner of speaking, I suppose.'
'Hello Billy, are you a great American as well?'
Thugs living a thuggish dream. Yet they seemed to bear me no particular ill will, so I remained quiet. The car cut west on Twenty-third Street, nosed onto the West Side Highway going south, where they turned off the television, and rode it down the tip of Manhattan, around Battery Park, then north up the east side of the island on the FDR, slow in the traffic, then around the top of the island on the Harlem River Drive, then south down the West Side.
'How long are we to do this?' Denny asked.
'However long H.J. says.'
