Blinded (2 page)

It is not a safe look. Nothing about it is safe. It’s dangerous.

“You have a pen and a business card?” she asks.

You find them and give them to her, surprised, wanting to know where this will lead.

She quickly writes down something and gives you back the card and the pen.

“Perhaps we can share another glass of wine later. If you’re not too busy.”

She stands, and of course you can’t help but look at her. She doesn’t even say good-bye and maybe that’s the whole point. She’s left you with a name and a phone number and now she’s turned and walking away and she’s leaving you with a great view. You briefly lose yourself in watching.

What just happened, and how did it happen to me?

You’re not the kind of guy who gets a “Jasmine” to write out her number for you.

And you’re not the guy who calls that number, for whatever reason. Whether it’s to sample a serious vintage or to get yourself in serious trouble.

You’re not that sort of man, despite the fact that your plane leaves in sixteen hours and you have nothing else to do and you have
a lot
of time to kill.

Because if you
were
that sort of man, there would have to be some serious reasons why, right? And you’re a good guy. With a good family. And a good life.

You’re not going to do anything with that number.

But you slide it into your shirt pocket anyway.

T
HERE
’
S ANONYMITY IN
N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
.

Even God can’t keep track of everyone in this city, you think. There’s so much compressed into such a small space.

You are used to Chicago, living in the suburbs and working in the city. Chicago has character; New York has crowds. Something about the faces passing you by makes you feel small and insignificant. One of the millions. Still wearing a suit you were going to wear to dinner tonight. Still wearing the new tie Lisa bought you.

There is a never-ending soundtrack of traffic and voices and life playing out around you. A myriad of colors shifting and waving. The smell of the hot dog vendor’s wares almost makes you stop but you see a disaster waiting to happen
smeared all over your coat. You think back to the blonde, the long legs, the phone number.

No way
.

Of course you think this. Of course you won’t dial it. There’s some sort of catch and you’re not taking it.

Maybe she’s just like you. Alone in a city looking for company
.

And she wants you to think this. Just like the guys you pass who want you to spend twenty-five dollars on a wallet that cost them fifty cents to make. It’s part of the scenery, part of the street, part of New York.

If you’re not too busy
.

And you wonder how you’re going to spend the night. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to see.

A man could get lost in a city like this and nobody would know. Nobody would care.

God himself might not even care.

Y
OU
’
VE REPLAYED THE CONVERSATION
in your head a dozen times, trying to see if you could have said something else or managed the situation any better.

“We’ve decided the markets are too volatile to go ahead with the merger at this time.”

The pasty-faced guy sitting across from you wears a suit too expensive for somebody who looks as disheveled as he does and wears too much authority for someone as clueless as he acts.

“We’ve spoken about this for six months, Geoffrey,” you say, not only stating the truth but reminding him why you’re here.

You’ve spent six months on this project.

An entire company depends on your actions right here and now.

“I’m sorry, Mike. I mean, man, it sucks. I know. I was talking to the board yesterday. Sorry—I could’ve saved you a trip to the city, you know. It just—it’s not going to work out.”

“So what am I supposed to tell the guys back home?”

“These things aren’t fail proof, Mike. They happen. It’s big business. We’re not a small firm like you guys. We buy and sell every day.”

Three other suits, two men and a woman, stare at you with uncompromising, uncaring glances as Geoffrey talks.

“We have to be able to figure this out.”

“It’s not our decision to figure out. Not when there is so much money on the table.”

$250,000,000 to be exact.

“I can refigure the figures. We can do that right now.”

“There’s no refiguring anything.”

You want to take Geoffrey’s chubby cheeks in your hands and rub his face in the contract. The contract you spent a couple weeks working on.

“Okay, let’s just go over the final tabs one more time. Just one more time.”

“I understand your anxiety, Mike,” he says with a smug look that says he surely
doesn’t
understand. “I know there are lots of jobs on the line here. There is a company you’re looking after, and I admire that. But DB Solutions will find another buyer. We’re confident of that.”

You’re not. You’re so desperate you resort to clichés.

“Then how about if we think outside the box?”

That statement seems to annoy Geoffrey, as if people before in his life have told him the very same thing.

When someone is in a position of power like Geoffrey is, you don’t talk down to him.

“Here’s something outside the box. Liam spends every day of his life thinking outside the box. And he’ll wake up going on his gut and his instincts. And the other day, his gut told him not to move ahead with this deal. And despite anything we do or however far we can think
outside the box
, there is no changing Liam’s call. This is his deal, and if he says no, he means no.”

You look at Geoffrey and know that he’s being brutally honest.

“I’ve worked with him long enough to know,” he says with a finality that stings.

You are speechless and want to say something or do something but you can’t. You know it’s over. You have to go back and tell a company of over 250 employees that the deal went south and they might not have a job in a few weeks.

“I’m sorry, Mike,” Geoffrey says.

Yeah, I am too
.

Four hours later, you look at the contract and the proposal sitting on the desk in your room at the Marriott. If you looked outside your window, you could see Times Square
below. But all you want to do now is tear up these pieces of paper that are now meaningless and crawl under the sheets and try to wipe out this day and this memory from your mind.

Nothing’s going to do that, however. Nothing.

Perhaps we can share another glass of wine later. If you’re not too busy
.

The blonde’s words whisper in your ear.

Maybe they can take the agony of this defeating day away.

Y
OU
’
RE WAITING FOR SOMEONE
to pick up at home as you sit on the edge of the made bed, the room service tray right in front of you. A wet stain from the ketchup you spilled and tried to clean up looks like it’s never going to dry. ESPN is talking about baseball, which doesn’t really interest you. Baseball seasons take so long. Football seasons feel too short.

You hear your voice on the other end and decide to leave a message.

“Hey, Lisa—just wanted to call. Sorry I missed you earlier. You’re probably at your parents’—I’ll try back in a little while. Love you.”

You feel a tinge of guilt.

I didn’t go up to that woman. I was sitting there minding my business when she came up to me
.

But you didn’t answer your cell phone.

I didn’t feel it vibrating
.

The room feels silent and lonely.

You look at the coins and pen and key card on the desk. Next to them sits the name and the number that seem to glow in the dark.

Jasmine.

Is that even a real name?

Your cell phone sits on the bed. Ready. Waiting.

For a minute you just stare at the name, the handwriting.

A minute turns to ten, maybe twenty. You’re not sure. You don’t really know what you’re thinking. You can blink and see the woman’s face, her eyes on yours, her smile.

A beautiful woman is God’s gift to man. She knows it and he knows it and there is nothing a man can do but admit it. He’s weak and under her control.

You memorize the numbers. They’re just numbers. It’s just a name. A stranger crossing your path, never to see you again.

Ten numbers. It could be an apartment or a condo or a hotel or a cell phone.

A ring jerks you from your trance. You pick up the hotel phone.

“Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“I was expecting voice mail,” says your associate.

“I’m live in the flesh,” you say.

“What are you doing in your hotel room?”

“Finishing off a really bad burger.”

“Sad.”

Barry’s voice sounds too amiable.

“Where are you?” you ask.

“Just got back to O’Hare.”

“Why didn’t you take me with you?”

“Just got your message. Are you serious?”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

He curses. “That totally sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to tell Connelly?”

“The truth. What else can I say?”

“It’s officially off?”

“I tried everything. They’re done.”

“Do you know why?”

“Maybe you should have stuck around. Bailed me out of this.”

“Yeah, right,” Barry says. “I probably would have freaked out on them.”

“It’s numbers. It’s all about numbers. Too many people on their end, not enough profit on ours.”

You want to say more but can’t. A sick feeling is forming in your gut.

“You couldn’t get a flight out?”

“Didn’t even try.”

“Look—you’re in Manhattan. It’s a Friday night. And you’re what? Watching
Law and Order?”

“ESPN.”

“Harsh. They’ll be showing the same stuff in eight hours. Go out. Do something. Anything.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’d take you out if I was there. If you were a going-out sort of guy.”

“I go out. I just don’t black out like you.”

“Funny. Come on. You deserve a few drinks after a day like today.”

“Who said I didn’t already have a few?”

“Okay, then have a few more. Take your mind off things.”

“Don’t ever go into counseling,” you say with a laugh.

“Yeah, well, I might have to after today. You know? Hey—I gotta get my luggage. Call me when you get back to Chicago.”

“Sure.”

“And Mike. Man—don’t dwell on it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Who said it was?”

“Connelly will.”

“Yeah, right.”

He laughs.

You hear the phone click and you just hold it in your hands. You’d like to throw it or at least bash it over someone’s head. Maybe your own.

The line goes dead and you hang up.

And the numbers draw you in.

You look back at the handwritten note. Very pretty handwriting.

You pick up your cell phone.

Without thought, you punch each number.

One. After another. After another.

And then you hear the ring.

You don’t really want to do this
.