Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

“Did you reach the super?” the short one said into the small radio attached to a strap just below his chin. “We need a working elevator.”

His radio crackled. “On his way,” a voice said through static.

“Yes!” said Zachary under his breath. They’d have to get the elevators operational if there was a medical emergency somewhere in the upper reaches of the building.

Seconds later, the superintendent, a heavyset, olive-skinned man, came into the lobby from a nearby stairwell door.

“You got to get one of these going,” the paramedic said.

“Yeah, yeah,” the super said. “I just got the middle one back on. It’s Mr. Gilbert, in 15C.”

A stir of excitement from the residents. What a break, that Mr. Gilbert was having another one of his heart attacks.

The super hit the Up button and the center elevator doors opened. But Mrs. Attick had already positioned herself close to them, and when they parted, she wheeled herself in like someone trying out for the Paralympic Games.

“Lady!” the tall paramedic shouted. “Get out of the way!”

“My cat!” she cried.

She hadn’t yet turned around, so the shorter paramedic was able to grab the handles on the back of her chair. But as he attempted to pull the wheelchair back out, Mrs. Attick grabbed the railing on the elevator wall. That only slowed the paramedic for half a second, who yanked harder.

Everyone heard a snap.

Mrs. Attick screamed.

“My wrist! Oh God, my wrist!”

At which point, Zachary wondered if they would treat her first, right here in the lobby, which would allow him to use the elevator to get to his apartment and put his yogurt into the fridge.

It did not work out that way.

They got Mrs. Attick out of the elevator, tipped the gurney up on one end, hit “15” on the pad, and up they went.

They were too late.

Mr. Gilbert was dead, and had been for the better part of half an hour.

As was Zachary Carrick, who had decided, what the hell, he would make the climb. He was rounding the stairwell by the door to the fifth floor when his heart exploded.

The good news was, a sixth-floor tenant, Grant Rydell, twenty-three, an unemployed Broadway actor who was heading down to the lobby to check the mail — he was hoping his mother, back home in Saginaw, had sent him a check to cover that month’s rent — discovered Zachary in the stairwell and, before calling 911 on his cell phone, helped himself to his Zabar’s purchases.

Turned out that he and Zachary both loved strawberry yogurt.

“Terrorist!”

Ettan Khatri turned around when he heard someone shout the word. Not because he thought anyone was shouting at him, but because when anyone shouts “Terrorist!” you want to look around and see what’s happening.

Was somebody waving around a machine gun? Had some nut wandered into the lobby of this office tower on East Fifty-Seventh Street with dynamite strapped to his waist?

But when Ettan turned around, he saw a man pointing straight at him.

Of course, this kind of thing had happened before over the years. His parents were from India, and he was born and raised in the United States. Nevertheless, if your skin happened to be a little bit darker, and your hair was jet-black, there was always some asshole who thought you were an Islamic extremist. You could tell them you were Hindu, but they’d just look at you and say something like, “Same difference!”

Ettan, twenty-eight, was in the building for a job interview at a gallery that specialized in rare posters. Ettan had an art degree from Boston College, but he’d spent the last three years working behind the counter at the McDonald’s on Third just north of Fiftieth. When he saw the online posting for an assistant sales position at the gallery, he applied immediately.

So here he was, and given that the gallery was on the fifth floor, getting there by stairs was not going to be a hardship. He’d already checked in with security and was told he would find the stairwell door just beyond the bank of elevators.

It was as he was walking past the elevators, each decorated with a strip of yellow tape reminiscent of the kind used at crime scenes, that he heard the man yell.

He was a big man. Three hundred pounds, easy. Wearing khakis and a checked shirt and a ball cap with no logo on the front.

“Did you sabotage these ?” the man asked, pointing a thumb at the elevators as he closed the distance between them.

“What?” Ettan said, at which he raised his palms in a defensive gesture, but not quite quickly enough.

The man drove a fist into Ettan’s mouth.

The world went black.

It started in the Spring Lounge when, sitting across from him at their table, Faith Berkley slipped off one shoe and ran her foot up the inside of Andre Banville’s leg.

Supposedly, this meeting had been to discuss purchasing one of Andre’s French landscapes. The bar was just around the corner from his gallery, but also just happened to be very close to Faith’s new, twentieth-floor luxury condo on Broome Street.

“Maybe,” Faith said, “if you saw our place, and our color palette, and how the light filters through the blinds, you’d have a better idea of our needs.” She put a little spin on the last word.

“Excellent idea,” Andre said. “Will Anthony be there to offer some suggestions?”

“As it turns out,” Faith said, “my husband won’t be home until later. We’ll have to manage.”

“Why don’t you finish that drink and we’ll do just that.”

They were on each other the second after the elevator door closed and Faith had tapped the button for her floor. Andre pushed her up against the back wall, put his mouth hungrily on hers, slipped his tongue between her teeth. He untucked her blouse and ran his hands over the lacy bra she’d bought the day before from Agent Provocateur, while she reached down to stroke him through his jeans.

“Jesus,” she gasped, “you could cut glass with this thing.”

A button popped off her blouse as Andre explored beneath it with his hands. “When we get to your room,” he whispered, “I’m going to pull down your panties and I’m—”

The elevator stopped. They were at the twelfth floor.

“Shit!” Faith whispered, pushing Andre away and frantically tucking in her blouse. “It’s not supposed to stop! It’s supposed to go directly to our floor.”

But the doors did not open. And the elevator did not move.

“What’s going on?” Faith asked.

She pushed the button for her floor again. Nothing. Then, a static crackle. A male voice emanated from a speaker next to the buttons.

“Is there someone in there?”

Faith said, “Elmont?”

Andre looked at her, eyebrows raised. She whispered, “Doorman.”

“Ms. Berkley? Yes, Elmont. We’re bringing all the elevators back down to the first floor and taking them out of service.”

“Why on earth are—”

“Some kind of emergency, ma’am. Happening all over the city. They say—”

“Faith?”

Another man’s voice.

Her husband.

“Anthony?” she said.

“I’m here with Elmont, honey. Raced home from the office soon as I heard what was going on. Wanted to be sure you were—”

“I’m fine!” she said, glancing at Andre. “It’s okay! Go back to—”

“Not a chance,” Anthony said. “I’ll be right here when the doors open.”

At the Empire State Building, hundreds of people who had bought their tickets and lined up to be taken to the 102nd-floor observation deck were told that they wouldn’t be heading to the top of the city’s most famous building after all. There was grumbling and confusion as tourists formed new lines to get their ticket money refunded.