was still flowing as he banged through the gears and bumped up out of the tunnel and into bright light, feeling nothing at first except dumb relief. But: leather seat soaked, suit pants soaked, executive-length socks soaked, piss in his shoes, cooling fast. The noise in his head grew louder.
Three: outside Everest and Co., 3:07. Every meter taken, the nearest lot three blocks away. Gil swung the car in a U-turn and braked hard beside a hydrant on the other side of the street. Then he grabbed his sample case and ran: across the street, up the steps, through the door, into the lobby. Elevators all in use. He charged up the stairs, piss-soaked pants clinging to his cold skin, beery tie waving like a flag over his shoulder. Three flights. Down the carpeted, softly lit hall and into the outer office of the purchasing VP, the door banging open against the wall.
“Chuck here?”
“Excuse me?”
“Chuck. Two-thirty.” Gil sucked in a lungful of air. “Couldn’t be helped.”
“Excuse me?”
“Being late. The traffic…”
The secretary had a little turned-up nose. Not Angie, Chuck’s usual secretary, Gil realized, and let his words trail off. She sniffed the air. “You’re?”
“Gil Renard. R. G. Renard Fine Knives. Chuckie and I had a two-thirty meeting, should be there on your schedule, but like I said-”
She held up her hand, a stubby hand with bitten nails. “He’s not here.”
“Shit.”
“Begging your pardon?”
“He’s gone already?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What flight’s he on?” Gil said, a backup plan forming in his mind.
“Flight?”
“To Chicago. Unless he’s not going anymore?”
“He’s going,” the secretary said. “But not till tonight.”
Gil went closer to her desk, his backup plan already revising itself. “Then maybe I could catch him somewhere before he heads for the airport.”
“I don’t think so,” the secretary said. “He’s going straight there from the ball game.”
“From where?” He was leaning over her desk now, plan forgotten. His damp socks slipped down around his ankles. “From where did you say?”
She rolled her chair back a little. “The ball game. But he left you this note,” she said, holding up a sealed envelope.
He snatched it from her hand, tore it open.
Gil-
A supplier laid a couple of Sox tickets on me this morning. Not a big fan, but it is Opening Day, and why not be a hero to my kid? Tried to get hold of you. Sorry.
But this is probably as good a time as any to inform you that, due to the current economic climate, management has opted for a reconfiguration of our purchasing strategy. One upshot is that we won’t be renewing the Renard contract at this time.
Always interested in new product, of course, so keep in touch. Been good doing business with you.
Chuck
Gil read the note twice. The first time the noise in his head made him miss some of the details. Then he balled it in his hand and squeezed hard. The secretary was watching him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “He didn’t draw a smiley face, did he?”
“What?”
“The previous assistant got him in the habit of putting a smiley face instead of sincerely. I keep telling him it’s not always appropriate.”
Gil tried to think of something stinging to say, but couldn’t. All he could think of were targets for the tight paper ball in his hand: Chuck’s window, the photograph of Chuck and his family on the wall, Chuck’s secretary’s hard little face. He dropped it on the carpet instead, like dog shit, and walked out.
Out. The irony had already hit him, but it hit him again. It hit him on the elevator, and in the lobby. And again when he got to the street: he’s going straight there from the ball game. Gil knew about irony; he went to the movies. He almost laughed out loud, might have done so if he hadn’t suddenly thought of something, a strange quote that he couldn’t place or understand: They kill us for their sport. Didn’t understand: but knew that only an idiot would laugh.
They kill us for their sport: he could fax that to Garrity, by way of explanation. Gil, standing on the sidewalk outside Everest and Co., was just beginning to think of how he would handle Garrity, when he noticed the tow truck on the other side of the street. It had already hooked a car, and, as he watched, it lifted the front end off the pavement with a jerk. A 325i, just like his. That was Gil’s first thought.
Then he was racing across the street, tearing off his tie.
“That’s my car,” he shouted at the tow-truck driver, through the rolled-up window of the cab. The driver, wearing headphones, didn’t hear. Gil banged hard on his door. The driver turned, startled, yanked off the headphones.
“That’s my car.”
The driver snapped down the door lock with his elbow. The window slid open a couple of inches. “You can pick it up at the pound,” he said, closing the window and putting the headphones back on.
“Fuck that.” Gil grabbed the handle of the driver’s door, struggled with it. The tow truck began rolling. Gil hung on, running alongside, screaming unbidden words through the driver’s window until the bumper of a parked car caught his left knee. He went down, lost his grip, looked up in time to see the 325i go by on two wheels, like a hobbled prisoner, and hear his phone buzzing inside.
Gil got to his feet. Suit pants ripped at the knee, blood seeping through the polyblend fabric. There was blood in his mouth too. He spat it out, and maybe a tooth as well. Cars went by. No one seemed to notice him. No one gave a shit. Well, he knew that already, right? A taxi approached. Gil stuck up his hand and it pulled over, proving he wasn’t invisible.
“Where to?”
“The pound.”
“Dog pound?”
“Car pound, for Christ’s sake.” As the cab pulled away, Gil saw his lucky tie curled up in the gutter. He opened the window and spat out more blood.
A twelve-dollar ride. At the car pound, he paid $50 for parking by a hydrant, $90 for the tow, and $25 for one day’s storage, even though the car hadn’t been there for twenty minutes.
Gil unlocked it, got in. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The nice smell of leather and wax was gone. The car smelled of piss.
Gil saw his face in the mirror, scratched and hard. He grinned. One of his lower teeth was chipped. He ran his tongue along the roughened edge, and thought of serrated blades pounding deep. Was he looking and sounding successful? Taking the offensive? Ignoring rejection? He ran the rules of the successful commission salesman through his mind, searching for some clue. No clues; he just knew he wanted a shower. First a shower, then a drink.
“What’re you waiting for, bud?”
Gil turned the key. His gaze fell on the dashboard clock: 4:27.
4:27. At that moment, he remembered Richie.
He snapped on JOC-Radio. A voice said: “We’ll be right back with the wrap-up and all the scores from around the league.”
Gil stomped on the gas. He shot through the gate of the car pound, fishtailed around a corner, clipping something, he didn’t know what; only to brake half a block later into a long line of rush-hour traffic. The phone buzzed. He grabbed it.
“Richie?”
