Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

As the three of them got closer, Arla tried to catch Glover’s eye. But he was walking directly alongside his father, glancing down at his phone, presumably looking for updates he could pass along to the mayor. When they reached the tape line, close to where Arla was standing, she worked her way through the crowd, reached out, and tapped Glover on the arm.

He glanced her way, reacting with mild surprise, as though it had slipped his mind that she was going to find her own way here.

“Hey,” he said, blinking. Then, it all came back. He glanced at Headley, who was several steps ahead, having already ducked under the tape line.

“Right,” Glover said, seizing the opportunity and lifting the tape for Arla. “Come on.”

She slipped under it. The closest NYPD officer, having seen she was with the mayor’s party, made no attempt to stop her. Arla stuck close to Glover. He was her hall pass. If she got separated from him, the police might boot her ass out of there.

Arla felt her pulse quickening as she headed for the entrance. Here she was, on her very first day, walking alongside one of the mayor’s key advisers, strolling right past the police barricades, a dozen steps behind the mayor himself (and hoping he would not see her and ask who the hell she was), getting an up-close look at a tragedy that would be all over that evening’s news.

Did it get any better than this?

They went into the building’s large atrium-style lobby. The bank of four elevators was along the back wall, and the doors to one were wide open. Standing outside, peering in, were two men and one woman in firefighter garb, and what Arla guessed were a fire department captain — in dress blues, the FDNY patches on his shoulders — and a woman Arla recognized as the city’s new chief of police. Bringing out the big guns, she thought. Sure, an elevator accident was a tragedy if someone got killed, but it wasn’t exactly John Lennon getting shot out front of the Dakota, was it?

As if he could read her mind, Glover sidled up to her and whispered, “She was a big deal.”

“Who was a big deal?” she asked, leaning her head toward his.

“The woman who got killed. Some scientist from Russia.”

“What happened to her? Where’s—”

Arla stopped herself. She’d spotted what everyone was looking at. On the floor of the elevator was a bloody, pulpy mass, about the size and shape of a cabbage. Next to it, what appeared to be an arm in a blue sleeve. The elevator floor was a blood-covered mess.

When Arla suddenly turned away she found herself up against Glover Headley’s chest.

“Oh, God,” she said.

But she quickly pulled away before he could place a comforting hand on her back. Her sense of horror and revulsion was displaced almost immediately by the feeling that she needed to be professional. She was not going to be that horror movie heroine who clung to the male lead for comfort. So she spun about and looked back in the general direction of the elevator without focusing on the head and the arm and the blood.

I will not throw up.

Mayor Headley joined the bigwigs huddled in conversation.

“What’s happening?” Arla asked Glover.

“Getting up to speed,” he said. “Stay here. I gotta go.”

Arla did as she was told as he went to this father’s side. There was more discussion; at one point, the chief of police whispered something to the mayor while she pointed to the far end of the lobby.

Arla looked that way. A man in his mid- to late thirties was sitting on a lobby couch with his arm around a young boy. A father and son, Arla guessed.

The mayor nodded and broke away from the crowd. He headed for the father and son and said a few words to them. The man’s head went up and down once, at which point the mayor perched his butt on the oversized coffee table in front of the couch, which put him only inches away from the boy.

Arla desperately wanted to know what this was about.

She slipped around the outer perimeter of the lobby, coming at the couch from the other side. There was a large pillar behind it, and she took a position along one side where she was unlikely to be seen. As cover, she took out her phone and pretended to be checking something.

Although the pillar blocked her view, she could make out the conversation reasonably clearly.

“Your name’s Colin?” the mayor asked.

“Yes,” the boy said softly.

“You know who I am?”

“You’re the mayor?”

“That’s right.”

“My dad told me when you walked in. You’re like the mayor of all of New York?”

“I am.”

“I thought you’d be bigger.”

Headley chuckled at that. “It’s like with movie stars. When you see them in person you wonder why they aren’t twenty feet tall. The police were telling me what a brave young man you are.”

“Oh?”

“You went through something pretty horrible. But here you are, with your dad here, and you’re holding up okay, aren’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Missing school.”

“Yeah,” said Colin. “My dad phoned and told them I’d be late.”

“Well, you ask me, I think you should get the whole day off. What do you think, Dad?”

Arla heard the father speak for the first time. “Yeah. I’m thinking we might go to the movies, or maybe the Museum of Natural History.”

“I like the whale,” Colin said.

“Oh, yeah, the whale is something,” Headley said. “You wonder, how can it float up there, right? The police and the fire department folks say that not only were you brave, you were very helpful to them, explaining what happened.”

“Her head came right off,” the boy said, keeping his voice steady. “The rest of her is still upstairs in the hall. They should tell people so they don’t come out of their apartments and see her there.”

“I think that’s been done, Colin, but that’s a good idea, and nice of you to be thinking of other people’s feelings. Anyway, I want to talk about you for a minute. I’m gonna give you my card here, and one for your dad, and what we’re going to do is have you for dinner at Gracie Mansion.”

“At what?”

“That’s where the mayor — that’s where I live. I get to stay there while I’m serving the people. If I get voted out in the next election, then they kick me out.”

“You could live with us,” Colin offered. “Could he live with us, Dad? We have the spare room.”

“I would imagine the mayor has a backup plan,” the father said.

“I do,” Headley said. “But I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

“Why do they call it Gracie Mansion?” Colin asked.

“Good question,” the mayor said. “It was built, way back in 1799, by a man named Archibald Gracie.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll show you all around when you come.”

“I’ve never been in a mansion,” the boy said.

“Anyway, you, and your dad, and your mom will be most welcome.”

“She lives in Omaha,” the boy said. “I see her at Christmas.”

“Okay then. You and your dad will be my dinner guests.”

“What will we be having?” the boy asked.

“Colin,” the father said, gently reproachful, “you don’t—”

“It’s okay,” Headley said. “What would you like?”

“Hot dogs.”

“I think my chef can handle that.”

Arla moved toward the edge of the pillar, hoping to get a peek. Headley extended a hand for Colin to shake, but instead the boy slipped off the couch and threw his arms around the mayor’s neck. Headley wrapped his arms around the boy and held him for several seconds.

When they let go, Headley said, “You call me anytime.”

The mayor stood, shook the father’s hand, and went back to rejoin the other emergency officials.