Fake I.D.

“It’s a gym bag,” I said, “but don’t worry—it’s been laying around my closet forever. Toss it out when you get home—I don’t need it.”

“I don’t mean the gym bag,” Alan said. “I mean what’s inside it?”

“The ten grand,” I said, wondering what the big problem was.

“You brought cash?” Alan said.

“Yeah,” I said. “You told me to, didn’t you?”

Alan smiled.

“This is a joke, right?” he said.

“No, what kind of joke would this be? You told me to bring you the money, I brought you the money.”

“I thought you’d bring a check.”

“I don’t write checks,” I said.

“Then a money order, whatever. I can’t accept your money in cash.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t.”

“It’s real money,” I said. I unzipped the bag and took out some wads of bills. “See?”

“What did you do,” Rob said, “rob a bank?”

“What do you mean?” I said, wondering what everybody’s big problem was.

“That’s a lot of cash to be walking around town with,” Pete said.

“I took it out of the bank this morning,” I said. “Alan told me on the phone to bring the money.”

“We just had a little misunderstanding,” Alan said. “It’s no big deal. We know you’re serious now and that you’re good for the money. I don’t think anyone will object if you get me a check later in the week.”

Now I knew what was going on—Alan was just trying to bust my chops, pulling a power trip. Maybe my first impression of him was right after all. If I’d brought my checkbook he probably would’ve said, “Sorry, I only take cash.” Uppity bastard. Well, there was no way I was going to screw around with checks or money orders. I wasn’t stupid. I knew if I went to the bank or post office with hot money, started filling out slips, it couldn’t lead to anything good.

“Money is money,” I said. “Why don’t you just take it the way I brought it, and that’ll be the end of it?”

“Because this is a business transaction,” Alan said. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was getting louder. “I need a check for accounting purposes. I’m not going to go to the bank and deposit ten thousand dollars in cash.”

“Look,” I said, “let’s not make a big deal about this, all right? Just take the money.”

“I can’t accept cash,” Alan said.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. Weren’t you listening to me? Are you some kind of idiot?”

I was about to jump over the table and bust Alan’s head open.

“Hey, cool down guys, Jesus,” Pete said. “So there was a little misunderstanding—what’s the big deal? I know what we’ll do—I’ll take the money. I’ll deposit it in my account and write Alan a check directly. Then, Alan, you can write Tommy out a receipt for your records. How’s that sound?”

“I guess that’s all right with me,” Alan said. “If you feel like doing that.”

“How does that sound to you, Tommy?”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Anybody else have an objection?”

Steve and Rob shook their heads.

“Good, then the issue’s resolved,” Alan said. “See, that wasn’t too hard, was it? Christ, maybe the MSG from this food is going to all your heads.”

Steve or Rob, I forget who, laughed. I was still looking at Alan, trying to figure out why he was being such a dick.

While we finished our desserts, Alan just talked like Mr. Know-It-All about “finances” and “insurance.” I knew he was just trying to show everybody up, talking about what he knew. I could’ve done the same thing if I started talking about acting or working in a bar. I wanted to see him read a line from a script or try to explain how to make a Long Island Iced Tea. Finally, Alan said he’d be calling everybody in a couple of days to tell us what was going on with Bill Tucker. There was a chance Bill might want to claim a horse later this week or early next week and Alan said that if that happened we’d all meet down at the racetrack to watch the horse run. The check came and we split it evenly. Usually, I didn’t have a problem splitting checks, but Alan’s part of the bill was five bucks more than everybody else’s and you’d think a big-shot Wall Street guy, probably with more money than he knew what to do with, could pay his own way.

Pete left the restaurant with me.

“Don’t worry about Alan,” he said when we were on the sidewalk. “He’s a really great guy once you get to know him—hell of a stockbroker too. That’s how I met him. He got me into Microsoft at thirty bucks a share.” Pete laughed. “Anyway, you wait—you’ll see what a great guy he is too. When I first met him we didn’t really hit it off. He likes to do things his way and that’s it. So—besides Alan—what do you think of the syndicate?”

“It all looks cool to me,” I said. “I guess I owe you one.”

“Ah, forget about it,” Pete said. A strong wind blew down John Street. It seemed colder than before.

“Well, I better take off to the bank,” Pete said. “This bag of money’s getting heavy.”

“Take it easy,” I said.

Pete walked toward his car and I went the other way, toward the Broadway-Fulton Street subway station. For a while, I was still pissed off at Alan, but then I started to forget about him. I was officially part of a horse syndicate now, and I really didn’t care about anything else.

Eleven

When I got off the subway at the Sixty-eighth Street station, instead of walking downtown toward my apartment, I headed in the opposite direction.

I knew Frank wasn’t going to be home this afternoon. He’d told me last night that he was going to be busy all day today, meeting with distributors at the bar. I didn’t feel like going home and sitting on the couch alone all afternoon, so I decided to celebrate my new career as a horse owner by visiting Debbie O’Reilley.

I’d never been to Frank’s building before, but I passed it all the time. It was one of those classy, old doorman buildings on Seventy-second Street near Third Avenue. The doorman didn’t seem very surprised to see a strange guy asking for Debbie O’Reilley in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe this was the time that most of her boyfriends came to visit. The doorman had to ring twice, then he said, “Tommy is here to see you,” and he hung up the receiver and said to me, “Go right up—apartment 19B.”

The inside of the building was even nicer than I thought it would be. The lobby had a big gold chandelier and there was red carpeting in the elevator. I got out on the nineteenth floor and walked along the wide hallway. I didn’t even have to look for apartment 19B because Debbie was sticking her head out of the doorway, smiling at me.

The first thing I said to myself when I saw her was, What the hell am I doing here? Without makeup and with her hair wrapped up in a towel she looked like she could be my grandmother. But it wasn’t her looks that bothered me as much as her. I remembered how I’d always hated her, how I thought she was just a nasty drunk who treated her husband, a great guy, like a piece of dog shit. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Frank more than I already had, but there I was, about to fuck his wife.

She let me into the apartment. She was wearing a white terry cloth bathrobe and looked like she just came out of the shower.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” she said, looking at me the way she always looked at me at the bar, like I was a fresh piece of meat on the slab. From a few feet away I could smell the Scotch on her breath, so she’d already had at least one drink today. “And all dressed up too. Well, come inside. Make yourself at home.”

We went into a big living room with black leather furniture. There were tall windows with a view down- town—in the distance, I could see part of the Empire State Building. Debbie sat down on the couch and I sat next to