“Then it’s a good thing he isn’t here,” she said smugly.
“Is there a chance he’ll come?”
“Not much.He was here last week.Twice in a month and I might think he was serious.He wouldn’t let that happen.”
So Cutter stayed.There was a certain gratification in encroaching on John’s turf.He knew that Hillary felt it too.It created a subtle bond between them.
He slept for most of the first few days.His back hurt, and he hadn’t fully regained his strength.He didn’t tell Hillary about the beating; the trouncing he’d taken embarrassed him.He couldn’t hide his overall anger, though, since it was largely what kept him going.It also kept her aware that she was cavorting with the enemy.He wanted her to remember that.
Still she took him under her wing.She took him to the bank to deposit his savings, took him to Bloomingdale’s to buy job-hunting clothes, took him to an employment agency run by a friend to look for a job.There was nothing, of course—at least nothing that he wanted to take.He didn’t want to be a janitor or a short-order cook or a salesman.
“I think you should consider the chauffeur job,” Hillary told him as they walked back to her place.
“And wear a uniform and a cap?”
“Head too big for it?”
“Yeah.It is.I’ve got pride.”
“You also have no skill, no training, no job.If you took this one, you’d be working for the president of a large brokerage firm.You’d be listening to high-power conversations involving some of the most successful businessmen around.You’d be in a position to make contacts.The exposure would be incredible.”
“I’d be a chauffeur.”
“Play your cards right, and you’d be someone’s discovery.You’re a bright guy.Ask the right questions of the right people, and you could find yourself in a super entry-level job that you wouldn’t have been able to get without that personal contact.”
But Cutter doubted that things happened that way in real life.Besides, New York traffic unsettled him.He figured he could afford to wait around, looking, for a week or two before taking something just for the sake of the money.
The waiting depressed him.He slept late every day, then just hung around Hillary’s, hoping the phone would ring.When the silence had him climbing the walls, he went out for long walks.He immersed himself in the crowds.He timed his stride to match the businesslike gait of those around him.He did his best to be part of the city’s hustle.
Deep down inside, though, he felt like an impostor.Hewasn’t thinking New York thoughts as he walked those streets.He was thinking Boston thoughts.Pam thoughts.
He wondered how she was, what she was doing, if she was thinking of him.
He stared at every phone booth he passed, then walked on by.Hearing her voice would hurt too much.He would want to see her.But he couldn’t.It was too dangerous.As soon as he knew who he was and where he was going, he would call.As soon as he had some hope of battling John and winning, he would be back in her life.She was his.If she loved him as much as she said, she’d wait.
The problem was that he didn’t know how long the wait would be.He wanted her next week, next month.But that was asking for a miracle.He was at rock bottom—no job, no prospects, no training.He had so far to go to gain a foothold on John.
His mood darkened progressively as the days passed.Hillary tried to cheer him with one success story or another, but he wasn’t interested in anyone else’s luck.She tried to lure him to parties, but one raucous, strobe-lit encounter was enough to show him how alien he was.Then, on a dark and rainy night, out of sheer desperation, he was sure, she dragged him to a lower Manhattan bar.He went along with the sole intention of getting drunk.Barely two beers into the process, he saw something that annoyed him.
“What’s their problem,” he growled under his breath.
“Whose problem?”
“Those two guys at that back table.They’re staring.Do I look funny or something?”
Hillary was on her second scotch and feelingmellow.She tossed an easy glance over her shoulder toward the men in question.“You’re imagining it.They’re not staring.”
His eyes didn’t leave the men.“They’re staring.Like I’ve got horns.”
“If they’re staring, it’s because you’re a gorgeous hunk.You really are, Cutter.”She grinned and raised her glass to her lips.“Maybe you turn them on.”She took a drink.
“Shit, here they come.I’m leaving.”He started to get up, but Hillary’s hand was suddenly like lead on his arm.
“Sit.We were here first.I refuse to be chased away by two ignominious creeps.If they cause trouble, I’ll hail the bartender.He’ll toss them out.”She grinned.“Create a little excitement.Might do us good.”
The men reached their table.One was taller, darker, leaner than the other.Both wore business suits with the jackets off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened.They looked clean-cut, if hassled, and they continued to stare at Cutter.
“I wonder,” said the shorter of the two, “if we could talk with you for a minute.”
