Giles Blunt - No Such Creature

McKenzie was a knockout, with shapely cheekbones and wide-set eyes that made her look both innocent and wise. Everyone in her class wanted to recognize some speck of talent in such beauty, but when Phil gave her the go-ahead, she fell hard onto the couch and, in a manoeuvre straight out of World Wrestling Entertainment, pitched forward onto her knees, where she proceeded to claw at the carpet. She shrieked her lines at such volume that Owen covered his ears.

Phil clapped his hands twice, two sharp reports.

“Okay, McKenzie, thank you. Thank you,” he said, in a silky tone that betrayed nothing of the horror he must have felt. “Well, that was certainly less restrained than Jason. But you have to keep in mind, this scene occurs early in the play, and if you start at that level of intensity you’re going to have nowhere to go for later scenes. Remember, acting is never about losing control, even if your character is losing control. Okay. That’s all we have time for today. Same time, same place, Thursday.”

The students filed out of the auditorium, quieter than usual, subdued by the McKenzie Chernobyl.

“Owen, you heading to the caf?” It was Bobby Jaye who spoke. Bobby was all blond dreadlocks, an earnest Midwesterner with a skateboard under his arm.

“No, I’m gonna take a walk. I need a breather.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Bobby looked around conspiratorially. “Man, that McKenzie really goes to eleven. I thought we were gonna have to call an ambulance.”

“She may have given us a little too much.”

“Oh, really, you think?”

Owen headed up Broadway to the Acropolis, one of the last old-style diners on the Upper West Side. Tuesday at four in the afternoon, the place was full of chattering high school students. Owen sat at the counter and ordered a Coke. The TV above the glassware was tuned to NY1, sound off, the mayor gassing on about something. Owen pulled out a used paperback copy of Burn This . He turned to Pale’s opening speech, a fiendishly intricate rant that he was hoping to memorize by Thursday.

But all he could think about was Max. Here he was at Juilliard, immersed in theatre arts-it was ridiculous not to be discussing it all with Max. He pulled out his cellphone and set it on the counter beside the book, considering.

Dr. Abe Pfeffernan, a scholarly-looking man dressed in hospital scrubs, waited calmly in line with the other customers of the Chase branch at Sixty-eighth and Madison. He had a beaky nose, a slightly mournful expression, and a full head of curly salt-and-pepper hair bisected by the surgical mask he had pushed up there and forgotten.

The doctor chatted amiably with the lady behind him. They agreed that one of the problems with the prevalence of ATM machines was that when you eventually did require the services of a human teller, you faced a hideous lineup. And so slow . Invariably the person in front of you was there to refinance a mortgage or to exchange Ugandan shillings for Swiss francs; no one went to a teller for a simple withdrawal.

“Why don’t you go ahead of me?” the doctor suggested. “You don’t want to waste your entire afternoon here.”

“Oh, no, no. That’s all right.”

“Please, I insist. I’m in no rush.” He stepped aside so she could move up.

“Such a gentleman,” she said, clutching her purse. “But surely you have to get back to the hospital?”

“You’re very kind to think of it, but no. I’m only involved in research.”

“Research whereabouts?”

“Over at Rockefeller.”

“Oh, my, you must be a brilliant man. That’s very prestigious.”

“We have our victories now and again,” Dr. Pfeffernan allowed with a small smile. “Failures, unfortunately, are more common.”

“And what are you researching?”

“The old enemy, I’m afraid.”

“Cancer?”

“And we’ll conquer it,” Dr. Pfeffernan swore, raising a palm above his head. “Hand to God. Someday, I swear, we’re going to wipe it out.”

“Oh, I hope so. My husband died of colorectal seven years ago. Irv Rosen? He was a pediatrician in a family practice, I don’t suppose you ever met him.”

“I never had the pleasure. I believe in a few more years we may be able to save people like your husband.”

“Oh, you’re just like him. He was totally dedicated, never wanted to retire, and always hoped for the best, even though some of his cases were heartbreaking.”

“Pediatrics, yes. Such tsoris .” Dr. Pfeffernan placed a hand over his heart. “You see some real tragedies there.”

Mrs. Rosen unsnapped her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes. “Well, Doctor. With people like you on the job, maybe someday there’ll be a lot fewer of those tragedies.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear, Mrs. Rosen. I think the teller’s ready for you.”

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Dr. Pfeffernan, you have a good day now. And good luck on your quest!”

When Max got to the counter, he met the inquiring gaze of a young black woman on the other side of the bulletproof glass.

“I need to open my safety deposit box,” he said, handing her a piece of Pfeffernan ID. “Can’t go anywhere without a passport these days.”

“Oh, you didn’t need to wait in line for that, Doctor. You could have just got one of the managers to assist you. Wait there, I’ll be right back.”

She returned a moment later with another black woman. She wore a red dress and large gold earrings that gleamed against her skin.

“This is Miss Leary,” the teller said. “She can help you.”

“Dr. Pfeffernan, you need to open your safety deposit box?”

“That’s right. I rented it just a week or two ago.”

“Come with me.” She handed back his identification.

He followed her through a door into the back. A security guard was seated just inside.

Miss Leary showed him into the safety deposit room and inserted her key into the drawer. Max turned his key in the lock, pulled out the drawer, and set it on a table.

“There you go, Doctor. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

He pulled open the drawer and removed a snub-nosed automatic, pointing it at her.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear, but yes, I’m afraid there is.”

The coffee shop was filling up. A man sitting next to Owen was explaining to his seven-year-old daughter what same-sex marriage meant.

“Well, you see, Megan, some girls like girls, so they marry girls. And some boys like boys, so they marry boys.”

Owen picked up his cellphone from the counter and dialed home. No answer. He tried Max’s mobile, but it switched him over immediately to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message.

He was pulling out some change to pay his check when someone said, “Hey, turn the sound up. Where’s that happening?”

The TV screen showed the front of a Chase bank. The banner said LIVE: Upper East Side .

“What’s going on, Daddy?”

“Someone’s robbing a bank,” the man said.

“Why?”

“Because he wants their money.”

“Will they give it to him?”

“If they do, he’ll have to give it back. It belongs to other people.”

According to the reporter on the scene, the robbery had begun barely twenty minutes ago, but the bank was already surrounded by police. A sweep of the camera showed snipers on the corners of buildings across the street. Helicopters hovered overhead. The amazing thing, the reporter said, was that the robber was a senior citizen, apparently a doctor, who was holding a woman employee hostage.

“Hey, don’t you want your change?” the counterman called out, but Owen was gone.

Lieutenant Nat Saperstein was hoping the hostage negotiation guys would get there soon, but word was they were hung up on the FDR. In the meantime it was his show, until such time as the SWAT team should get the go-ahead to take over. He had snipers on the roofs and an offensive football team of beefy guys blocking the only other exit. There was no way this scumbag was getting away, though why a doctor in his seventies or eighties suddenly gets it into his head to rob a bank, well, you have to wonder.