When you’re seated and the waiter asks, “Will there be anyone else?” simply say, “No.” Try not to flinch. Not even when he takes away the extra set of silverware.
Order a drink. Arealdrink. Not one of those fancy fruity things. Something like a martini, but add gutsy qualifiers: Tanqueray. Dirty. Extra dry. Straight up.
Sip your drink slooooowly. Don’t even pick up the menu until you’ve had several sips.
When you’re ready, order anything you want. Including another martini. And an appetizer. And dessert.
Eat sloooooowly.
Stay in the moment. Savor it. Enjoy every bite.
Whatever you do,do notpull out a book.
Leave the waiter a generous tip. But not anoverly generous one. You have nothing to apologize for.
Walk home.
Set your alarm for six a.m. so you can be back at the Harrisons’ in time to feed the dogs.
Then make sure you sleep in the nude. And smile as you realize this has been the best date you’ve had in years.
CHAPTER 61
METCALF PULLS INTO THE very dark, very empty parking lot, even darker than the last time he was here. And how long ago was that, exactly? He’s trying to remember. It was warmer then. Must have been early October. At the time, this was one of many construction projects on the farthest west side of Manhattan, a massive mess of steel girders and concrete blocks with a handful of grungy porta-potties that looked especially dangerous and foreboding at night.
But now he wonders if he’s in the wrong place. What was once a giant construction site with barely any asphalt is now a looming tower overlooking the Hudson with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and terraces with a view ofthe river all the way down to the Statue of Liberty. Could it be?
He knows there’s been a rush of new construction in the city. But a whole new residential skyscraper in just a month? How is that possible? He tries to remember their last meeting and braces himself for tonight’s—all the shit he knows he’ll be taking when good old Mr. Blue Coat chews him out for falling down on the job.
Speak of the devil: There he is, pulling into the lot. The guy is driving a different car, something bigger and darker, black or navy blue. The perfect color to set the tone for what’s to come.
Many weeks and nothing to show for it. Weeks of waiting, nail biting, pressure… and Metcalf knows he’s going to be blamed.
He knows exactly how this will go down. He’ll be scorned and ridiculed. Threatened? Yes. Fired? Probably not. He’s in too deep.
In his mind, he tries to spin it. He tells himself he hasn’t failed—he just hasn’t succeeded yet.
Metcalf is sure he’ll be able to make this work. But it’ll take time. And time is the one thing that could trip them up.
Sure enough, when Mr. Blue Coat gets out of the car, he’s not smiling. Easy to tell he’s angry, even in the dark. Slamming the car door much too hard. Walking unnecessarily fast to cover the small distance between them, his pigskin-leather-gloved hands balled into fists. As the man passes under a streetlight, Metcalf sees his face. It looks grim. Like he just heard bad news. Or is about to deliver some.
Before Mr. Blue Coat can open his mouth, Metcalf speaks. “It hasn’t happened yet,” he tells him.
“Ha. Tell me something Idon’tknow.”
“But it will. We’re—she’s—working on it.”
“Not good enough,” the man says. “Maybe it’s time to run out the clock.”
It’s a dark, windy night. In his nervous state, Metcalf doesn’t quite hear what the man said. He flinches. “The Glock?” Is this guy telling him to kill her?
The man starts to laugh, then catches himself. “I saidclock,moron.Clock,like in time. We can’t wait much longer.”
Yet they have to. They both know that. What they need depends on many variables falling into place. And no one can predict how long that will take.
Now the man opens one balled-up hand and begins punching it with the other. Metcalf takes a small step back. For a split second he wonders if the man is going to punch him right then and there. Deck him and leave him for dead with only the rats scurrying around as witnesses.
But no.
