Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

“You’d call him a techie?” Bourque asked.

“Oh, yes,” Valerie said. “There’s not a program or gadget in the world Glover can’t figure out.”

Anyone would have been forgiven for thinking the Academy Awards had been moved from Hollywood to New York.

The official opening of the Top of the Park had all the earmarks of Oscar night. Huge spotlights set up across the street in Central Park cast dancing, crisscrossing beams of light into the night sky.

Central Park North was closed off between Fifth Avenue and Central Park West. Being allowed through were dozens of limousines bearing celebrities and politicians and the city’s major power brokers. Judging by the presence of TV crews from CNN, as well as Access Hollywood and Extra , this was an entertainment event as much as it was a news story.

As each vehicle rolled to a stop at the end of the red carpet that led into the cavernous atrium of Top of the Park, tuxedoed attendants rushed forward to open doors. Photographers and TV crews waited to see who might emerge. If it turned out to be a prominent actor or actress, glammed-up TV hosts would stop them as they passed for a few words of architectural insight.

“It sure is tall!” one actress said.

“I’d have gotten pretty dizzy working on that!” quipped an Oscar-nominated actor.

When New Yorkers far more powerful or influential, but whose faces did not appear on a twenty-foot-high screen at one of the city’s multiplexes, stepped out of a limo — the head of the New York Stock Exchange, the presidents of the Whitney Museum of American Art and Columbia University, to name just three — the TV types lowered their cameras and microphones until the next beautiful person came along.

Regular New Yorkers not important enough to get an invitation still came out in droves to catch a glimpse of those who’d made the cut. Smartphones flashed incessantly. Fans begged for selfies. The occasional celeb even obliged.

Barbara and Arla were not among those who arrived by limo. The closest they could get, by car, was Fifth and Central Park North.

“Shit,” Barbara said upon seeing the barricades that kept them from getting dropped off out front of Top of the Park. “If I’d known we’ve got to walk this far I’d have worn flats.”

If the 110th Street station, which was only a few steps from the brand-new skyscraper, hadn’t been closed for security reasons, they could have taken the train and saved themselves a few steps. But Barbara had had to agree with Arla: When you’re all dressed up, did you really want to trek down into the subway?

That morning, they’d opted not to order in, and instead went out for a proper hangover breakfast. Scrambled eggs, extra crispy bacon, home fries, and more coffee. Then they’d gone back to Barbara’s place to go through her closet and see if she had anything glitzy enough for the Top of the Park affair.

Going through her mother’s closet, Arla asked, “Just how many pairs of jeans do you have?” She found one black, off-the-shoulder dress tucked in the far corner and pulled it out. Holding out the dress at arm’s length, she said, “What do you think?”

Barbara said, “How many other dresses did you find in there?”

“None.”

“It’s got sleeves, so no one will see my black and blue elbow. I like it.”

“With the right accessories, it’ll work.”

“Accessories?” Barbara said.

Arla returned to her own apartment at that point, but invited her mother to come by two hours before the event, by which time she would have picked out a few necklaces and bracelets and sets of earrings for her mother to choose from.

“Maybe this is a mistake,” Arla said as they made their way from the cab to the entrance to Top of the Park. “I mean, an event like this is not exactly the best place to tell someone you’re his daughter.”

Barbara nodded. “Let’s hold back, see if he makes the first move. If he recognized your name when I said it, he might do something. If he does nothing, then we know he doesn’t remember anything about that night, including my surname. And who knows? The moment Richard sees me walking into that party, he may have my ass kicked to the curb.”

“It’d be a long way down,” Arla said. “And besides, it’s not his party.”

Barbara smiled as they reached the red carpet. “No, it isn’t.”

The two of them stopped before approaching the front doors and looked up. They had to crane their necks back as far as they could, and even then weren’t sure they could see the top of the building.

At the entrance, Barbara reached into her evening clutch and produced her invitation, which was closely scrutinized by a blond woman in a dazzling red, floor-length gown, accessorized rather incongruously by an earpiece and wires. “Have a wonderful time,” she said.

And then they were inside.

“Fuck me,” said Arla.

The lobby was a breathtaking amalgam of swooping steel and glittering glass and lights that seemed to float, untethered, in the air above them. There were a couple of hundred people milling about, taking glasses of champagne from the trays of wandering servers.

“Oh my God,” Arla whispered, nudging her mother and getting her to look to one side. “Isn’t that what’s-his-name? From that movie?”

Barbara nodded. “Yeah. But don’t get excited. He’s gay.”

“No,” Arla said.

“That’s the word.”

“Oh, and at eleven o’clock. That’s—”

“Yeah. They say she’s going to run for president. She keeps saying she isn’t, which tells me she probably is. Oh, look.”

Coming through the crowd was the mayor, dressed in black tie. He had a broad smile pasted on his face that looked, at least to Barbara, more artificial than usual. Politicians were masters at appearing delighted to see you when they really didn’t give a shit, and Headley was one of the best, but Barbara thought his bonhomie seemed particularly strained. Something about the creases coming out of the front corners of his mouth. Fault lines ready to give way.

Trailing him were Chris Vallins, also in a tux, and running shoes, a backpack hanging discreetly from his hand at his side; Valerie Langdon, in a powder blue, floor-length dress; and Glover, also in a tux, the bow tie awkwardly askew. He was engaged in what seemed to be an agitated conversation with Valerie.

“They’re going to walk right past us,” Arla said.

“Don’t worry,” Barbara said.

Arla moved so that her body was mostly shielded by her mother. “I don’t want Glover to see me. I’m not ready to talk to him about... anything.”

As Valerie and Glover walked past, the procession slowed, and Barbara heard snippets of their discussion.

“I told him,” Glover said. “I didn’t sign out that car... don’t care what the cops say. I don’t... anything about it.”

“I don’t know what... believe,” Valerie said. “He told me about... mouse. What... you thinking?”

Mouse?

“... amazed he let you... tonight,” Valerie said.

“... feels guilty, I guess. A first... gone soon.”

The crowed opened up, allowing them to move on and out of range for Barbara to hear anything else. As Vallins passed by, Barbara reached out and touched his arm. He glanced her way, startled.

“Love the shoes,” she said, looking down at his runners.

He gave the backpack a slight swing. “Got the Florsheims in here,” he said, grinning. “Hey, I sent you an email.”

“Okay,” Barbara said as Vallins moved on.

“You know that guy?” Arla asked.

“A little,” Barbara said.

“He’s kinda hot.”

“A little.”

She took out her phone and checked her email inbox. There was nothing there from Vallins. She looked in Junk, but there was no message there, either.