fucking Mick in the Boston PD to get me out of here,’ Trish said.
‘Please do not force my hand,’ the duty manager said.
I stood up and threw a considerable amount of money on the table.
‘We’re going,’ I told him.
‘No, we are fucking not,’ Trish said.
‘I’m getting you home.’
‘You are not my cunt of a maiden aunt.’
‘That’s it,’ the duty manager said and stormed off.
Trish sank deeper into the armchair and smiled.
‘See, I won.’
‘If he calls the cops you’ll be arrested. And if you’re arrested—’
‘I’ll give the arresting cop a hummer on the way to the station – and I’ll be let go with a thank-you.’
I could tell that every eye in the Four Seasons bar was now upon us. Just as I also knew that I had to act fast. So I hoisted Trish up by the scruff of her jacket and before she had a chance to protest too much, I yanked her left arm behind her in half-nelson style.
‘You say a word,’ I hissed in her ear, ‘and I’ll break your fucking arm.’
I frogmarched her out of the bar and into one of the cabs lined up in front of the Four Seasons, the duty manager acknowledging my avoidance of a police incident with a curt nod as we walked out. Trish once tried to struggle against my grip – letting out a torrent of invective until I yanked her arm up higher, to the point where I knew she was in real pain. She shut up then – and said nothing until we were inside the taxi.
‘Give the man your address,’ I told her.
She did so. The cab pulled away from the hotel. Falling to one side of the seat, she suddenly began to weep. But this was no ordinary booze-fuelled crying jag. Rather, this was a full-scale lament – loud, primal, agonized. Up front the driver – a Sikh – kept glancing at us in his rear-view mirror, his eyes widening. Like me, he was thrown by the desperate sorrow that was emerging from some point deep within her psyche. When I tried to reach out and steady her, she batted me away. So I simply sat there, watching helplessly as this woman fell apart.
Trish lived in that corner of the city, near South Station, which had been gentrified into a quarter for the monied classes. The cab pulled up in front of a renovated warehouse. As soon as she saw the front door, she brought herself under momentary control.
‘Do you want me to come up with you?’ I asked.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ she said, then threw open the door and staggered inside.
There was a moment of shocked silence in the cab – the driver and myself trying to absorb all that had happened here over the past ten minutes.
‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea,’ I said and then gave him my address in Somerville.
When I awoke early the next morning, I was pretty damn sure that, as soon as I walked into Freedom Mutual, I’d be told to vamoose – as Trish would have to get me fired to hide the events of the previous night.
Another thought also hit me: I’d left all my assorted shopping bags at the Four Seasons and no doubt the duty manager had ordered them to be thrown out, as payback for creating a scene in the bar.
But when I entered the office that morning, all the shopping bags were piled behind the reception desk. I grabbed them and entered the trading room – where Trish and eight of her colleagues were shouting into phones – and dumped them on my desk. There was an envelope on my chair, with my name written on the front. I opened it. Inside were two $100 bills and a note:
To cover the damages. Trish.
I put the money back in a new envelope and grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote:
I was happy to pick up the tab. Jane.
Then I walked over and dropped the envelope on Trish’s desk. She didn’t even look up to acknowledge me. I returned to my desk, picked up several of the shopping bags, disappeared into the ladies for a few minutes and changed. When I turned to face myself in the mirror, the individual staring back surprised me. You put on a simple
‘Please do not force my hand,’ the duty manager said.
I stood up and threw a considerable amount of money on the table.
‘We’re going,’ I told him.
‘No, we are fucking not,’ Trish said.
‘I’m getting you home.’
‘You are not my cunt of a maiden aunt.’
‘That’s it,’ the duty manager said and stormed off.
Trish sank deeper into the armchair and smiled.
‘See, I won.’
‘If he calls the cops you’ll be arrested. And if you’re arrested—’
‘I’ll give the arresting cop a hummer on the way to the station – and I’ll be let go with a thank-you.’
I could tell that every eye in the Four Seasons bar was now upon us. Just as I also knew that I had to act fast. So I hoisted Trish up by the scruff of her jacket and before she had a chance to protest too much, I yanked her left arm behind her in half-nelson style.
‘You say a word,’ I hissed in her ear, ‘and I’ll break your fucking arm.’
I frogmarched her out of the bar and into one of the cabs lined up in front of the Four Seasons, the duty manager acknowledging my avoidance of a police incident with a curt nod as we walked out. Trish once tried to struggle against my grip – letting out a torrent of invective until I yanked her arm up higher, to the point where I knew she was in real pain. She shut up then – and said nothing until we were inside the taxi.
‘Give the man your address,’ I told her.
She did so. The cab pulled away from the hotel. Falling to one side of the seat, she suddenly began to weep. But this was no ordinary booze-fuelled crying jag. Rather, this was a full-scale lament – loud, primal, agonized. Up front the driver – a Sikh – kept glancing at us in his rear-view mirror, his eyes widening. Like me, he was thrown by the desperate sorrow that was emerging from some point deep within her psyche. When I tried to reach out and steady her, she batted me away. So I simply sat there, watching helplessly as this woman fell apart.
Trish lived in that corner of the city, near South Station, which had been gentrified into a quarter for the monied classes. The cab pulled up in front of a renovated warehouse. As soon as she saw the front door, she brought herself under momentary control.
‘Do you want me to come up with you?’ I asked.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ she said, then threw open the door and staggered inside.
There was a moment of shocked silence in the cab – the driver and myself trying to absorb all that had happened here over the past ten minutes.
‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea,’ I said and then gave him my address in Somerville.
When I awoke early the next morning, I was pretty damn sure that, as soon as I walked into Freedom Mutual, I’d be told to vamoose – as Trish would have to get me fired to hide the events of the previous night.
Another thought also hit me: I’d left all my assorted shopping bags at the Four Seasons and no doubt the duty manager had ordered them to be thrown out, as payback for creating a scene in the bar.
But when I entered the office that morning, all the shopping bags were piled behind the reception desk. I grabbed them and entered the trading room – where Trish and eight of her colleagues were shouting into phones – and dumped them on my desk. There was an envelope on my chair, with my name written on the front. I opened it. Inside were two $100 bills and a note:
To cover the damages. Trish.
I put the money back in a new envelope and grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote:
I was happy to pick up the tab. Jane.
Then I walked over and dropped the envelope on Trish’s desk. She didn’t even look up to acknowledge me. I returned to my desk, picked up several of the shopping bags, disappeared into the ladies for a few minutes and changed. When I turned to face myself in the mirror, the individual staring back surprised me. You put on a simple
Similar Books
