Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

Barbara was about to move on from the Manhattan Today website when one other comment caught her eye.

“Hope you are feeling better.”

It was from GoingDown.

Barbara felt, along with the persistent, dull pain in her elbow, a chill run down her spine.

“Hope you are feeling better.”

Barbara thought back to when Chris Vallins had tackled her in the middle of the street. All this time, she’d thought he was the only one keeping an eye on her. Was it possible someone else was, too? Whoever this GoingDownperson was, had he — or she — seen that van nearly hit her? When she screamed in pain about her elbow, had this person heard her?

Barbara tried to think back to the scene. There was the old lady who got her phone. That postal worker. The woman with the shopping cart. Was it one of them?

GoingDownhad been the one, in a response to her last article, to express condolences about Paula Chatsworth.

Okay, that’s what GoingDown is referring to. Not my fall today.

Barbara touched her hand to her chest. Her heart had, briefly, raced at the thought that she was being watched. She was getting paranoid. Thinking about mysterious men in black SUVs had prompted her mind to go places it shouldn’t.

“Chill out, girl,” she said under her breath.

That was when she moved off the Manhattan Today site and started surfing all the other news outlets.

The so-called experts said screens should be avoided an hour before bedtime. Artificial light from phones and tablets and laptops messed up sleeping patterns, they argued. Bullshit, Barbara thought. This was what she did every night. Even if she had someone over. If some man wanted to roll over and go to sleep after a fuck, that was fine with her. But don’t expect her to ignore what was going on in the world. Frankly, this was one of the reasons why she didn’t like having men spend the night. Not only did they want you to put the laptop away, they expected you to make them breakfast.

Fuck that.

Barbara closed the laptop, killed the lights, and put her head on the pillow. She was about to close her eyes when she noticed her phone, sitting screen-side up on the covers next to her, light up with a text. Barbara glanced over.

It was Arla.

There really hadn’t been a moment all day when Arla wasn’t in her thoughts. Even when Barbara had been with the Chatsworths, or talking to Stuart Bland’s mother, Arla was on her mind. Barbara had been unable to stop thinking about Arla’s new job and what had motivated her to go after it. Had she done it to drive her mother nuts, or was it really a position she wanted, that she believed would challenge her?

Barbara, in one moment, would think her reaction to Arla’s news at breakfast had been perfectly justified. And in the next, she would feel she’d totally blown it. She replayed the conversation in her head countless times.

I should have said... and I shouldn’t have said...

Barbara picked up the phone and read the message.

You up?

Barbara typed YES in return.

Is it too late to call?

Barbara quickly tapped NO.

She only had to wait ten seconds for the phone to ring with its distinctive typing chime.

“Hey,” Barbara said.

“Hey,” Arla said. “I know it’s late and all but—”

“No, it’s okay. I’m still up. Everything all right?”

“Yeah, sure, things are good.”

Barbara hesitated before asking, “How was the first day?”

“It was... interesting.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, I mean, it really was interesting. I hadn’t even started and I ended up going to that second elevator accident.”

Arla filled her in.

“God,” Barbara said. “You saw what happened?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“I guess. Although I’m sure I’ll have nightmares or something. When I saw it, I thought, don’t be a wuss. Don’t freak out. Believe me, it wasn’t easy.”

Barbara hesitated before asking, “Did you meet him?”

“You mean the mayor?”

“Yes.”

“No. And Glover didn’t introduce me, either. I’m too low level.”

“Glover? You met his son?”

“Yeah. He oversees the department that hired me. So he showed me around because everyone else was off at a seminar.”

“Glover’s your boss?”

“I’ll have several. There’s my immediate supervisor, then Glover, and then, I guess, well, ultimately we’re all working for the mayor, right?” Arla paused. “Look, Mom, about this morning—”

“Yeah, it’s okay. I—”

“No, I said some things and I’m sorry. I’ve been working through a lot of stuff. I’m trying to sort them out. I didn’t take this job to be all in your face. I mean, maybe a little, but this is something I could—”

“It’s okay,” Barbara said again, her voice soft, reflective. “It’s your life.”

“The mayor’s hard to get a handle on. I saw him do something really nice today, when no one was watching, with this kid who’d been in the elevator where this woman got killed. But with Glover, for example, he’s a shit.”

“Well.”

“He was telling me tonight — we grabbed a bite — about how complicated his relationship with his father is. But listen, that’s not why I called. It’s kind of tricky to talk about and I probably shouldn’t say anything, but Glover said—”

“Getting this close to the mayor’s son, you need to be careful about that.”

“What?”

Barbara thought a moment before offering a reason. “If they find out who your mother is, they’ll question your motives.”

“I told you. This job has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m just saying, watch your step with him.”

“I don’t need your advice,” Arla said, an edge in her voice.

“I don’t — I’m just trying to—”

“You know what?” Arla said. “You’re right. I was going to tell you something, but now I realize that’s not a good idea.”

“Tell me what?”

Arla didn’t answer.

“Arla?”

It took Barbara a moment to realize her daughter had ended the call.

“Shit,” she said and tossed the phone onto the floor.

She flopped back on the bed, her head crushing the pillow. A minute later, she turned out her light, and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

I’m going to say something to him,” the boy says. “I am. I don’t care if he gets mad.”

His mother shakes her head angrily. “No, you’re not. I’ve known him longer than you have. There’s no talking to him.”

“He’s so mean. You should—”

But the boy stops himself. What he wants to tell his mother is that she should stand up for herself. That she shouldn’t take any more shit from this man. But he can’t bring himself to do that because he knows that everything she does, she does for him. She does not deserve his scorn or criticism.

And yet.

“If something isn’t done,” he says, and it is at this point that his voice starts to break, “you could, you know...”

“Don’t be silly,” she says. “Nothing is going to happen to me.” She smiles. “I’m made of tough stuff. Don’t you worry about me.”

“But last night,” the boy says, “you said your heart felt like—”

“Enough,” she says sternly. “Go do your homework.”

I will never come to this hotel again.

Elliot Cantor pressed the Down button for what had to be the tenth time. No, not pressed. He stabbed the button. He was angry at the button. Elliot wanted to kick this button’s ass. He wanted to put this button in a blender and slice and dice it to death.