chauffeur's cap, leather gloves.
We made eye contact, and he looked away almost instantly, lowering his head and moving to open the door. He stood beside it, holding it open and keeping his eyes down.
I looked around. There was no one else nearby. The street was silent, except for the quiet idling of the car. 2312 was closed again, the soccer mom in another universe behind the drapes.
I walked toward the car. The closer I got, the more the man seemed to lower his gaze.
What the hell, I thought. Why wouldn't I get in the car? It's not like they wanted to kill me. Although, my brain offered helpfully, most movie whackings did begin with the obligatory
Get in the car.
Was I crazy to get in? Was I crazy if I didn't? Frankly, I didn't have anywhere else to go. The interior looked nice. Tan leather seats. It appeared empty--was this all for me? One final question: would the driver karate-chop my neck as I tried to enter the car?
I slipped in. He shut the door behind me.
The windows were more than just tinted, it turned out; they were black. I couldn't see anything. Another amusing feature of this automobile was the absence of door handles on the inside of my doors. The driver sat on the other side of a closed divider. Wherever he was going, I was coming along. All I could do was fix myself a drink at the mobile bar. I sat back and enjoyed the hum of the ride.
By my watch, we stopped an hour and a half later.
The door opened, and I stepped out onto a city block, noisy and bright. A high-rise loomed above me: a gray Art Deco building with flowers and medusas carved into the stone above the first floor of sooty windows. We were in the middle of a long block,and I couldn't read a street sign in either direction. The driver stood back and nodded toward the building's doorway. He lowered his head again, and this seemed like my cue to walk like an important man.
Do you know who I am?
my stride suggested to the indifferent pedestrians passing in both directions. The occasional car enthusiast glanced at my ride.
The doorman waved me in and smiled.
"Mr. Davis?"
"Yes." He said my name like it meant something.
"Twenty-eighth floor, please. They're expecting you."
The elevator actually had an operator. He pulled the door shut and raised the lever. It was a fast ride with no stops. He decelerated to 28 and smiled pleasantly.
"Have a nice evening, sir."
"You too."
Was I supposed to tip? After the new suit, I was pretty sure I had less in my bank account than he did. I'd already decided I couldn't ask my parents for extra money to make it until the spring student loan check. It was bad enough they went into debt to help with my Ivy League tuition. I wasn't going to ask for more.
It occurred to me that I had no idea which room to go to. But at the end of the hall, I saw a door partly opened, with half of a very striking older woman, probably in her sixties, smiling at me.
Her hair was silver-white, cut midway between professional and sensual, swept back behind long ears. She reached up and pulled a few loose strands back with musician's fingers, letting the nails trace along her ear. Her face was aristocratic. She wore a white blouse under a gray suit that clung to her slender, tall figure. As I got close, she said, "Please," and stepped aside to let me in.
* * *
They led me to a plush chair in a sitting room, facing a roomful of women, all in their sixties, seventies, and eighties, all remarkable in their elegance. The woman who met me at the door sat last, in a chair directly across from me. There was a quiet power in the room, like a historical gathering of senators' wives, or the near future's assembly of retired senators. The walls were painted bright red, a shade between scarlet and rose. It was a strange, soothing color, almost pulsatile. The lower halves of the walls were paneled with white wood. I was the only man in the room.
A lady in an apron and bonnet entered, carrying teacups on a silver tray.
"Thank you,
We made eye contact, and he looked away almost instantly, lowering his head and moving to open the door. He stood beside it, holding it open and keeping his eyes down.
I looked around. There was no one else nearby. The street was silent, except for the quiet idling of the car. 2312 was closed again, the soccer mom in another universe behind the drapes.
I walked toward the car. The closer I got, the more the man seemed to lower his gaze.
What the hell, I thought. Why wouldn't I get in the car? It's not like they wanted to kill me. Although, my brain offered helpfully, most movie whackings did begin with the obligatory
Get in the car.
Was I crazy to get in? Was I crazy if I didn't? Frankly, I didn't have anywhere else to go. The interior looked nice. Tan leather seats. It appeared empty--was this all for me? One final question: would the driver karate-chop my neck as I tried to enter the car?
I slipped in. He shut the door behind me.
The windows were more than just tinted, it turned out; they were black. I couldn't see anything. Another amusing feature of this automobile was the absence of door handles on the inside of my doors. The driver sat on the other side of a closed divider. Wherever he was going, I was coming along. All I could do was fix myself a drink at the mobile bar. I sat back and enjoyed the hum of the ride.
By my watch, we stopped an hour and a half later.
The door opened, and I stepped out onto a city block, noisy and bright. A high-rise loomed above me: a gray Art Deco building with flowers and medusas carved into the stone above the first floor of sooty windows. We were in the middle of a long block,and I couldn't read a street sign in either direction. The driver stood back and nodded toward the building's doorway. He lowered his head again, and this seemed like my cue to walk like an important man.
Do you know who I am?
my stride suggested to the indifferent pedestrians passing in both directions. The occasional car enthusiast glanced at my ride.
The doorman waved me in and smiled.
"Mr. Davis?"
"Yes." He said my name like it meant something.
"Twenty-eighth floor, please. They're expecting you."
The elevator actually had an operator. He pulled the door shut and raised the lever. It was a fast ride with no stops. He decelerated to 28 and smiled pleasantly.
"Have a nice evening, sir."
"You too."
Was I supposed to tip? After the new suit, I was pretty sure I had less in my bank account than he did. I'd already decided I couldn't ask my parents for extra money to make it until the spring student loan check. It was bad enough they went into debt to help with my Ivy League tuition. I wasn't going to ask for more.
It occurred to me that I had no idea which room to go to. But at the end of the hall, I saw a door partly opened, with half of a very striking older woman, probably in her sixties, smiling at me.
Her hair was silver-white, cut midway between professional and sensual, swept back behind long ears. She reached up and pulled a few loose strands back with musician's fingers, letting the nails trace along her ear. Her face was aristocratic. She wore a white blouse under a gray suit that clung to her slender, tall figure. As I got close, she said, "Please," and stepped aside to let me in.
* * *
They led me to a plush chair in a sitting room, facing a roomful of women, all in their sixties, seventies, and eighties, all remarkable in their elegance. The woman who met me at the door sat last, in a chair directly across from me. There was a quiet power in the room, like a historical gathering of senators' wives, or the near future's assembly of retired senators. The walls were painted bright red, a shade between scarlet and rose. It was a strange, soothing color, almost pulsatile. The lower halves of the walls were paneled with white wood. I was the only man in the room.
A lady in an apron and bonnet entered, carrying teacups on a silver tray.
"Thank you,
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