James Grippando - Money to Burn

You don’t love me, Michael. You like me, but you don’t love me.

The cab stopped between Eighth and Ninth avenues, and Mallory stepped out. It was their usual meeting spot, one of the few places where she felt comfortable meeting her lover in public.

Therapy was a spacious lounge with killer decor, a friendly atmosphere, and cozy sitting areas. The food was good enough to get it a spot on Hell’s Kitchen, and its tasty drinks bore memorable names like Freudian Sip. Most important-and in keeping with Mallory’s low profile-Therapy was one of the best gay bars in the city. Of course, meeting in a gay bar didn’t take all the risk out of a heterosexual affair. While Therapy wasn’t known as one of those places where investment bankers went looking for boy toys, it drew its share of Wall Street types, and Mallory was all too aware that one of them might have some connection to Saxton Silvers. Her little joke was that at least she would hear them coming. They’d be the ones humming Fagin’s refrain from the Broadway hit Oliver: In this life one thing counts, in the bank large amounts-or something like that.

Mallory found Nathaniel waiting upstairs, where the lighting was low and the tables were arranged cabaret style. Stage shows here ranged from the whacky to the sublime, but the night was too young for live entertainment, so the booths in the back gave them relative privacy. Nathaniel had insisted on seeing her tonight, his text message saying, Urgent. She tried to smile as she approached, but her mind was busy searching for a way to tell him that she was in no mood for sex.

He rose and gave her a hug. No kiss. His smile was awkward. Right away, Mallory knew something was up.

“Are you okay?” she asked as she slid into the booth.

“Yeah, fine,” he said.

He cast his gaze downward at his hands.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Now he was looking toward the bar. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Mallory’s throat tightened. This was starting to feel like a page out of her first marriage. All of the bad signs were there.

“Look at me,” she said.

Slowly his gaze drifted back toward her. Their eyes met, and Mallory’s heart sank.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

He grimaced, as if in pain. “I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“Us,” he said. “It’s over.”

Mallory had to catch her breath. “You’re the one who gave me the strength to divorce Michael.”

“Don’t put that on me.”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “No, I’m not blaming you. Michael and I were headed for divorce, I’m sure of it. You gave me the strength to accept it.”

He withdrew his hand and wrapped it around his beer bottle.

“I’m grateful to you,” she said, trying to smile. “Let’s face it: If it had been any other man but you, I would have been caught cheating long ago.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t have what it takes to pull off something like this. You knew all the tricks to keep Michael from suspecting.” She squeezed his hand, but he pulled back.

“This isn’t going to work anymore, Mallory. Get it? I’m outta here.”

Her body stiffened. She’d never heard this tone from him before, and she was beginning to wonder if she had ever seen the real Nathaniel. After a day like today, it was making her downright angry, and she suddenly found a new kind of courage.

“An interesting thing happened in court today. Michael’s lawyer informed the judge that there was spyware attached to that ‘happy birthday’ e-mail we sent to Michael.” Her eyes narrowed, and she said, “Do you know anything about that?”

He shot her a look that cut to the bone. “This is exactly the kind of shit I’m talking about. I have no interest in getting caught in the cross fire of nasty accusations flying back between you and Michael.”

“I just asked a simple question.”

“Go to hell, Mallory. If you want to ask questions, go ask your husband why he flipped his lid and shot Chuck Bell in the head.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s what everybody is saying. Do you think I want my picture on the front page of the Post when this shit unravels?”

Mallory collected herself, then said, “You’re married, aren’t you.”

“No,” he said, scoffing. “I’m too smart for that.”

She took that as a direct shot at her second failed marriage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he said, and then he rose from the booth. “Look, we all have to make our own choices. I choose not to be part of your mess. So let’s agree to do you, me, and your divorce lawyer a big favor: Keep me out of it.”

He left a ten-dollar bill on the table for his beer and walked away. Mallory didn’t watch him go. She stared at the money on the table and half laughed, half cried.

It was the first time Nathaniel had ever paid for anything.

I WAS IN JAIL. I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. I WAS ACTUALLY BEHIND bars.

Before leaving Rockefeller Center, the arresting officers had patted me down, run a background check through their databases, and satisfied themselves that I wasn’t actually carrying a bomb. But that didn’t stop these men of the Midtown North Precinct from hauling me downtown. Technically speaking, it wasn’t jail. I was in a holding pen in the Manhattan Detention Complex, where prisoners were held for relatively short periods of time pending arraignment or some other court appearance. Not that this was a step up from jail. I was locked in the very same cell in which a seventeen-year-old boy had used his shirt to hang himself the summer before.

“Got two more bodies,” the guard announced.

The guards had a habit of calling us “bodies” when talking among themselves. It seemed kind of ghoulish, especially since the Manhattan Detention Complex was known as “the Tombs” to police, lawyers, criminals, judges, and anyone who had ever watched an episode of Law & Order. The nickname fit. Over the past two hours, I had climbed up and down several flights of stairs and in and out of three different holding pens. I had lost track of what floor I was on. I had been shackled, unshackled, and shackled again. The body search had been especially memorable, not so much for what actually had happened, but for fear of what might. On a sign on the wall, some joker had scribbled in the word “anal” between “Male” and “Search.” Fingerprinting took another hour. The state-of-the-art machine kept delivering error messages: rolling too fast, too slow, not a clear image, multiple fingers detected (odd, since my other fingers weren’t even on the screen), partial finger detected. At that point, I was willing to forgive the inaccuracy of one of my all-time favorite films, American Gangster, in which Denzel Washington’s character is shown leaving the Tombs-a temporary holding facility-after a fifteen-year stay.

This could actually take fifteen years.

The mug shot was the final indignity-a real beaut that I was sure would end up all over the Internet, if not in the tabloids. Finally, the guards brought me back to my cell and gave me dinner, though I passed on the soggy bologna-and-cheese sandwich. It smelled so awful that I was going to flush it down the toilet, which was in open view in the corner of the cell. Instead, my cell mate tore the sandwich into pieces, rolled them into balls, and one by one pitched them into the toilet from various positions behind the imaginary three-point line.

Around seven o’clock, the guard returned.

“It’s your lucky day, partner. You can go.”

He opened the cell door and led me down the hall. We passed a window that was open just a crack, and I was certain that I could smell spring rolls. We were that close to Chinatown-and I was that hungry.