Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

“That’s why you’re crying?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s... I think everything’s about to unravel.”

“What do you mean?”

Barbara raised her chin, looked into Vallins’s eyes. “I don’t know what to make of you. You work for that asshole, but there are times when you seem like maybe you’ve got an actual conscience.”

He smiled. “I don’t know about that.” He paused. “I... sometimes I have to play both sides.”

“That sounds like the shortest definition ever of ‘politics,’” Barbara said.

“Maybe.”

“My daughter got a job with the city. She did it totally on her own. Headley found out, somehow. He thinks I engineered it. That I got her in here as a spy, for fuck’s sake.” She shook her head. “It’s not true.”

Vallins inched back slightly. “I can see why he might have thought that, though.”

“He’s going to have her fired, Chris,” Barbara said. “It’s not fair.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Barbara shrugged. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”

Vallins said nothing.

“I have to go,” Barbara said. “I have to find her. I have to talk to her.”

As she started to rise from her chair Vallins gently gripped her shoulders and held her in place. “Wait,” he said. “Just...”

“What?”

Vallins swallowed, took a breath. “I like you. I mean, I’ve always liked what you’ve stood her. I’ve been reading you for a long time. And, well, yeah, I like you.”

Barbara sniffed again. “Okay. I’m guessing the mayor doesn’t know you’re a fan.”

He managed a smile as he struggled with what to say next. “Maybe sometime I’ll be able to explain. But for now, I’m sorry.”

And then he did something she was not expecting. He leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then released his grip on her shoulders and wheeled back in his chair.

Barbara stood and studied him for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said, and left the room.

I’m an idiot,” Arla said. “It should have occurred to me that you’d already thought of this.”

She and Glover had settled into a booth at Maxwell’s on Reade Street. He smiled and took a sip from the copper mug that held his Moscow Mule. Tito’s vodka, ginger beer, and lime. Arla had gone for a glass of Sancerre. Glover had offered a taste of what he was drinking, and the face she’d made when she got a little of it on her tongue had made him laugh.

Arla had told Glover she thought the mayor had to get out there, be seen by and with all those New Yorkers struggling through the elevator crisis. Climb a few flights to take dinner to a shut-in, she’d said. Deliver a prescription from Duane Reade to an apartment dweller too ill to make the trip down and back up again.

“Yeah, those are good ideas,” he said to her, sitting across the table from her.

“You’re already doing this, aren’t you?” she said.

“I’m setting up something,” he said. “But great minds do think alike.”

“I brought this up at our department meeting,” Arla said, “and everyone looked at me like, ‘Who do you think you are?’ Sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”

“Not at all,” Glover said, leaning forward so he wouldn’t have to speak loudly. “The truth is, I was happy to get out of the building. It’s pretty tense in there.”

Arla had her fingers over the base of her glass, holding it securely between sips. Inches away, Glover lay his hands flat on the table, his fingers splayed as if reaching out to Arla, waiting to make a move.

“I’ll just bet it is,” Arla said.

“Yeah. Dad’s kinda freaking out. The news conference didn’t go well. All the TV pundits are ripping him to shreds.”

“When can people start using the elevators again?”

“Once landlords and property managers have done inspections, they should be able to start up the elevators in their buildings. So, maybe tomorrow? And you can be sure that nothing, absolutely nothing, will stop the Top of the Park grand opening tomorrow night.”

“That skyscraper at the north end of Central Park?”

“Right. Rodney Coughlin’s massive steel and glass erection.”

Arla smirked.

“After the Freedom Tower, it’s the tallest building in the city. He’s one of my dad’s biggest backers. We’re going to the opening tomorrow night.”

“Yikes. I’m not sure I’d want to be in on one of those elevators.”

“No kidding,” he said. “But I’m sure everything will be safe. Who knows. They might even catch whoever’s doing it by then.”

“I wonder who it is,” she said.

“Whoever it is, you gotta admit, he’s pretty brilliant. I mean, yeah, you have to condemn the act, but it’s hard not to be impressed by the ingenuity of it all. Being able to take over control of a building’s elevators. It’s amazing.”

Arla shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t see much to admire.” She turned over her phone, which had been resting facedown on the table, to check the time. “Look, if you have to go, I’ll understand.”

“I’m in no rush,” Glover said.

He inched his fingers forward until the tips of several were touching Arla’s. She did not pull back.

“I wondered how you’d feel about, you know, getting together outside of work.”

“You mean, like right there?” Arla asked.

Glover laughed nervously. “This sort of started out as a drink about work. But maybe sometime we could—”

“Sure,” Arla said. “I’d like that.”

He smiled. “Great. Do you have a favorite resta—”

“Hey,” said a voice.

They both turned to see Barbara standing at the end of the table. While Arla struggled to hold her jaw in place, Glover appeared unfazed to see her there.

“Barbara,” he said, taking his hand away from Arla’s. “Nice to see you.”

Barbara attempted to offer Glover a smile, but her face was glass on the verge of shattering as she focused on Arla.

“Uh,” Glover said, still not sure why Barbara was standing there, since she had not yet said why, “let me introduce you. Arla, this is Barbara Matheson, who you may know from her Manhattan Today column.” He managed a smirk. “Maybe not my father’s favorite writer, but believe me, he always reads her. And Barbara, this is Arla Silbert. She’s—”

“We’ve met,” Arla said.

“Oh,” Glover said, surprised. “Where do you know each other from?”

To her daughter, Barbara said, “I need to talk to you.”

“How did you find me?” Arla asked.

“I saw you coming out of City Hall. This is about the hundredth place I’ve gone into, looking.”

Arla said, “I have a phone.”

Barbara shook her head. “I had to talk to you face-to-face.”

Glover, watching this conversation, had the look of a bewildered puppy. “I feel a bit out of the loop here,” he said.

Barbara said to him, “I went to see your father.” She paused. “It’s all about him.”

Glover shrugged. “It’s always all about him.”

“That’s not what I mean. All this shit with the elevators. It’s a message, meant specifically to get his attention.”

Glover was instantly alarmed. “What are you talking about?”

“Ask him. I’m done. I gave it my best shot. Anyway, you’re not why I’m here. I’m here to talk to my daughter.”

It was Glover’s turn to keep his jaw from dropping. Speechless, he looked at Arla, who had briefly closed her eyes, as if trying to make her mother disappear.

“Arla,” Barbara said.

She opened her eyes. “Please go.”

Barbara’s face began to crumble. “I’m so sorry. Somehow... he figured out who you were... are... to me.” A long pause, then, “Maybe even to him.”