firm’s junior attorneys, that Mrs. Johnson had a baby and Mr. Johnson has not been in the office since.
“And when was this?” Alex asks.
“Oh, it’s been three weeks, Mr. Twisden.”
“Three weeks? That’s a bit excessive, isn’t it? Do me a favor, please, and get him on the phone and transfer the call to my office.”
Back in his office, with its sweeping views of Midtown and Central Park, its antique Persian carpet, seventeenth-century globes, and fourteen-by-eighteen Samuel Fulton oils of bulldogs—not great art, perhaps, but somehow comforting presences to Alex—he goes over some routine papers while beneath his Sheraton desk, his well-shod foot taps nervously as he waits to speak to Jim Johnson.
Suddenly, startlingly, his phone rings. One of his assistants tells him that Betty is on the line and he instructs him to put her through.
“There’s no answer,” Varrick says. “I left a message.”
“And you tried his mobile?”
“Yes. I did.”
“And?”
There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause. “The number is no longer in use.”
“No longer in use?”
“I’m sorry.”
Alex cancels his morning appointments and takes a taxi to the Johnsons’ apartment, on Broadway and Ninety-Second Street. It is a large, drab building, five or ten years old, soaring up thirty floors between a Verizon store and a Blockbuster Video. The lobby, presided over by a mournful-looking older doorman who seems to be wearing the uniform of a much larger man, still shows the evidence of the recently passed holidays—a large menorah with electric candles, each with a chunky flame-shaped bulb; a desiccated Christmas tree as frail and bent as an old woman; and a photograph of an African American Santa Claus, extremely buff, wearing a fur vest and red shorts.
“Mr. Johnson, please,” Alex says to the doorman, brushing the snowflakes off the collar of his black cashmere topcoat.
“Which one? There are four Mr. Johnsons in this building.”
“James. Or Jim.”
“Make that three,” the doorman says. “Those Johnsons are no longer in residence here.”
“What?” Alex’s voice is sharp, as if he is going to make the doorman revise his statement.
“Moved. In fact, there’s a crew up there right now trying to get that place fixed up. You a friend?”
“Yes. Sort of. Employer, actually.”
The doorman shakes his head. “Maybe you can tell me what the hell happened to that man. He was one of the nicest people in this building. Both of them, her too. Just as considerate and friendly and generous as you please. Very generous. The most generous people.”
To doormen and waiters and all those people who serve us, we are our tips, Alex thinks. An envelope full of cash, a hand to proffer it, and the rest a blur…
“And then they just disappear,” the doorman says. He cranes his neck, peers out through the glass doors at something he sees on the street, and then returns his attention to Alex. “Three months behind in the rent, is what I heard.” He cocks his head and looks at Alex as if, as Johnson’s employer, he might bear some responsibility for Jim’s financial difficulties.
“I don’t suppose they left a forwarding address,” Alex says.
“They usually don’t when they take off in the middle of the night. They didn’t take anything with them. Just a couple of suitcases—the night doorman figured they were on their way to the airport or something. Plates and pictures and furniture and all the stuff they’d gotten for the baby, they just walked away from it—what was left of it.”
“You say there’s people working up there now?”
“If you saw the place you’d understand why.”
“Would it be all right with you if I went up and had a look around?” Alex asks, and at the same time he places two fifty-dollar bills on the faux marble of the doorman’s desk.
The doorman smooths the bills out, as if ironing them with his palm, and says, as he folds and pockets the money, “Nineteen
“And when was this?” Alex asks.
“Oh, it’s been three weeks, Mr. Twisden.”
“Three weeks? That’s a bit excessive, isn’t it? Do me a favor, please, and get him on the phone and transfer the call to my office.”
Back in his office, with its sweeping views of Midtown and Central Park, its antique Persian carpet, seventeenth-century globes, and fourteen-by-eighteen Samuel Fulton oils of bulldogs—not great art, perhaps, but somehow comforting presences to Alex—he goes over some routine papers while beneath his Sheraton desk, his well-shod foot taps nervously as he waits to speak to Jim Johnson.
Suddenly, startlingly, his phone rings. One of his assistants tells him that Betty is on the line and he instructs him to put her through.
“There’s no answer,” Varrick says. “I left a message.”
“And you tried his mobile?”
“Yes. I did.”
“And?”
There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause. “The number is no longer in use.”
“No longer in use?”
“I’m sorry.”
Alex cancels his morning appointments and takes a taxi to the Johnsons’ apartment, on Broadway and Ninety-Second Street. It is a large, drab building, five or ten years old, soaring up thirty floors between a Verizon store and a Blockbuster Video. The lobby, presided over by a mournful-looking older doorman who seems to be wearing the uniform of a much larger man, still shows the evidence of the recently passed holidays—a large menorah with electric candles, each with a chunky flame-shaped bulb; a desiccated Christmas tree as frail and bent as an old woman; and a photograph of an African American Santa Claus, extremely buff, wearing a fur vest and red shorts.
“Mr. Johnson, please,” Alex says to the doorman, brushing the snowflakes off the collar of his black cashmere topcoat.
“Which one? There are four Mr. Johnsons in this building.”
“James. Or Jim.”
“Make that three,” the doorman says. “Those Johnsons are no longer in residence here.”
“What?” Alex’s voice is sharp, as if he is going to make the doorman revise his statement.
“Moved. In fact, there’s a crew up there right now trying to get that place fixed up. You a friend?”
“Yes. Sort of. Employer, actually.”
The doorman shakes his head. “Maybe you can tell me what the hell happened to that man. He was one of the nicest people in this building. Both of them, her too. Just as considerate and friendly and generous as you please. Very generous. The most generous people.”
To doormen and waiters and all those people who serve us, we are our tips, Alex thinks. An envelope full of cash, a hand to proffer it, and the rest a blur…
“And then they just disappear,” the doorman says. He cranes his neck, peers out through the glass doors at something he sees on the street, and then returns his attention to Alex. “Three months behind in the rent, is what I heard.” He cocks his head and looks at Alex as if, as Johnson’s employer, he might bear some responsibility for Jim’s financial difficulties.
“I don’t suppose they left a forwarding address,” Alex says.
“They usually don’t when they take off in the middle of the night. They didn’t take anything with them. Just a couple of suitcases—the night doorman figured they were on their way to the airport or something. Plates and pictures and furniture and all the stuff they’d gotten for the baby, they just walked away from it—what was left of it.”
“You say there’s people working up there now?”
“If you saw the place you’d understand why.”
“Would it be all right with you if I went up and had a look around?” Alex asks, and at the same time he places two fifty-dollar bills on the faux marble of the doorman’s desk.
The doorman smooths the bills out, as if ironing them with his palm, and says, as he folds and pockets the money, “Nineteen
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