Enclosed you will find our standard recording contract, already executed by our senior vice president, and, as an advance, a check in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. A limousine will be calling for you....
Not able to wait until she got inside, she ripped the envelopes open with her teeth, all of them at once. The torn-off tops lay curled like flat yellow worms on the worn carpet behind her as she read the form rejection letters which were a far cry from the one that her imagination had just composed.
The one that said the most about the music business, she decided, began with the salutation "Dear Submitter."
Shit.
Taylor stepped out of the elevator and tossed the letters into the sand-filled ashtray next to the call button.
Inside her apartment, she saw a blinking light on her answering machine, and pushed the replay button as she stripped off her coat and kicked her shoes in an arc toward the closet.
Her machine had a number of messages:
Ralph Dudley, giving her the address of his club again.
Sebastian, confirming dinner tomorrow.
Reece, confirming dinner on Saturday.
Danny Stuart, Linda Davidoff's roommate, apologizing for not getting back to her but suggesting they meet for lunch in the Village tomorrow.
Three dinners and a lunch. Damn, how do spies manage to stay trim?
One more message remained. She hit play.
"Hello, counselor. Got some news. I'll be in town in a week or so and I'm going to take my little legal eagle out to dinner. Call me and we'll make plans."
Taylor instantly looked around her room to see how straightened up it was--as if the phone contained a video camera beaming the images directly to her father's law office.
She sat down slowly on the arm of the couch, Samuel Lockwood's call reviving a question Mitchell Reece had asked yesterday.
So how'd you end up in New York?
Taylor recalled perfectly sitting in front of her father two years ago, the man of medium build, jowly and pale--by rights, he should have broadcast an anemic image, but he filled the living room of their house in Chevy Chase, Maryland, with his powerful image.
She tried to gaze back at him.
But couldn't, of course.
Finally, the sound of spring lawn mowing from outside was broken by his asking, "You can simply try it, Taylor."
"I have other priorities, Dad."
" 'Priorities,' " the lawyer said quickly, pouncing. "See, that very word suggests that there are several directions you'd want to go in." A smile. "In the back of your mind you're already entertaining the possibility that you'd like to be a lawyer."
"I mean--"
What had she meant? She was too flustered to remember.
"My talent--"
"And you are talented, darling. I've always recognized that. Your grades ... Honey, A's in every government, politics, philosophy course you've ever taken."
And in music composition, music theory, improvisation and performance.
"Music too," he added, with perfect timing, diffusing her anger. Then he laughed, "But there's no way in Satan's backyard that anyone would ever make any kind of serious money playing music in bars."
"I don't do it for the money, Dad. You know that."
"Look, you should pursue everything. Lord knows I do."
And he had. Law, business, golf, tennis, skydiving, sailing, teaching.
"It's just that it's easier to get your law degree now. Going back after you're older ... it limits your opportunities."
Reduced to a child before him, Taylor could think of no logical retorts. Well, the best legal minds in the country had engaged in forensic battle with Samuel Lockwood and lost. She said weakly, "I just feel alive when I play music, Dad. That's all there is to it."
"And what a feeling that must be," he said. "But remember that we go through stages in life. What excites us now isn't necessarily what sustains us all forever. I pitched a dozen no-hitters in college. And I never felt higher than being on the pitcher's mound. What a thrill that was! But making that my life? A pro ball player? No, I had other things to do. And I found getting up in court gave me exactly the same thrill. Even better, in fact, because I was in harmony with my nature."
"Music isn't a sport to me, Dad." She believed she was whining and hated herself for it.
"Of course not. I know it's an important part of your life." He then tactically reminded, "I was at every single one of your recitals." A pause. "I'm only saying that it would be better to excel in a profession--doesn't have to be the law, not by any means."
Oh, right ...
"And work at the music part-time. That way if the ... you call them gigs, right? If they don't happen, well, you'd still have something. Or you could do both. Your music could come first and law could be second."
He seemed to have forgotten that he'd absolved her from the practice of law just a moment earlier.
Continuing, Samuel Lockwood said, "There's a whole different approach to practicing nowadays. There are part-time arrangements. A lot of women have other 'priorities'--families and so on. Firms are flexible."
"I'm supporting myself playing, Dad. Not a lot of people are." Not that the eighteen thousand a year she'd made in clubs and playing weddings and a few corporate shows last year could be considered supporting herself.
"And what a feather in your cap that is," he said. Then frowned. "I've got a thought. How about a compromise? What if you got a job as a paralegal at one of the firms in Washington, one of our affiliated firms. I'll get you in. You can try out law firm life, see if you like it. I'll put aside some funds for school."
She'd said no at first but Samuel Lockwood was relentless and she'd finally given in.
"But I'll get a job on my own, Dad. I'll support myself. If I like it I'll apply to law school. But I'll play music at nights. Nothing's going to interfere with that."
"Taylor ..." He frowned.
"It's the best I can do. And not in D.C. I'll go to New York."
He took a breath and then nodded his concession to her victory over him. "You've got backbone, counselor."
And he gave her a smile that chilled her soul--because it unwittingly revealed that this "spontaneous" thought of his had been born some time ago and nurtured over many nights as he lay in his twin bed, three feet from his wife's, trying to figure out exactly how to manipulate her.
Taylor was furious with herself for letting her guard down. He'd never intended that she work in Washington, wouldn't have presumed to link her with him by getting her a job and would never have threatened her music directly--out of fear that he'd push her away completely.
In the end, even though she'd defiantly resisted him, it turned out that Taylor had played right into his hand.
"You understand I'm doing this because I love you and care for you," he said.
No, she thought, I understand you're doing this because the thought of being unable to control the slightest aspect of your life is abhorrent to you.
She'd said, "I know, Dad."
But, as it turned out, the paralegal life was not as bad as she'd anticipated. Smart, tireless, unintimidated by the culture of Wall Street money and Manhattan society, Taylor had made a reputation for herself at the firm, quickly becoming one of the most popular paralegals, always in demand. She found that she enjoyed the work and had considerable aptitude for it.
So when a cycle came around for applying to law schools and Samuel Lockwood asked her which schools she'd decided to apply to (not if she intended to apply), she said what the hell and plunged forward with a yes and basked in the sunlight of her father's approval.
Taylor, lost in this complex answer to Reece's simple question, now realized that she was still frozen in place, perched on a sofa arm, her hand floating above her answering machine.
Why exactly was her father coming here? Where could they eat? Would the place she picked please him? Would he want to come see her perform? They sure couldn't eat at Miracles or one of the
other clubs she played at; he'd make a fuss about the menu. Want to know what kind of oil they cooked with, send food back if it wasn't prepared just right.
The electronic woman in the answering machine told her, "To save this message, press two. To erase this message, press three."
She hit two and walked into the bedroom to dress for her Mata Hari date.
This is a Midtown club? she thought.
Taylor had expected that it would be more, well, spiffy. More of a power, platinum-card corporate watering hole and less of a tawdry college lounge. Well, maybe old money was allowed a little shabbiness. In any case, Taylor Lockwood looked at the fiercely bright lighting, the dusty moose head sprouting from the wall, the threadbare school banners and uncarpeted floor, and asked herself again, This is a club?
But Ralph Dudley was excited about the Knickerbocker Businessmen's Club. He was at home here and buoyant at showing off his nest to a stranger.
"Come along now," the partner said. And he ushered her into the club's dining room. He walked to what must've been his regular table and, amusing her beyond words, actually held the chair out for her and bowed after she'd sat.
"Have the steak, Miss Lockwood. They have chicken, too, but order the steak. Rare, like mine." The old partner's excitement was infectious, his eyes gleaming as if he were back in the arms of his alma mater.
They ordered. Dudley took instantly to his task as mentor and launched into a series of stories about his law school. It seemed an endless tumble of hard work, harmless collegiate pranks, chorale singers, respectable young gentlemen in suits and ties and tearfully inspiring professors.
All forty years out of date, if it wasn't complete fiction.
She nodded, smiled till she felt jowls and said "Uh-huh" or "No kidding" or "How 'bout that" every so often. She got good mileage out of "That's very helpful, just what I was wondering."
The waiter brought the steaks, charred and fatty, and although she wasn't particularly hungry, she found hers tasted very good. Dudley made sure she was looked after. He was a natural host. They ate in silence for a few minutes as Taylor took in the young men at the tables around them--recent grads, she assumed. In white shirts and striped ties and suspenders, they were just beginning the journeys that, in four decades, would take them to the destinations at which Donald Burdick and Ralph Dudley and Bill Stanley had arrived.
She looked at her watch. "You said you had some plans tonight. I don't want to interfere with them. I hope you're not working late?"
He gave her a charming smile. "Just meeting some friends."
The mysterious W.S.
Taylor took a sip of the heavy wine he'd ordered. "I'd rather work late than on weekends."
"Weekends?" He shook his head. "Never."
"Really?" she asked casually. "I was in on Saturday night. I thought I saw you. Actually I think it was early Sunday morning."
He hesitated a moment but there was nothing evasive about his demeanor when he answered. "Not I. Maybe it was Donald Burdick. Yes, that was probably it. I'm told we look alike. No, I haven't worked on a weekend since, let's see, '79 or '80. That was a case involving the seizure of foreign assets. Iranian, I think. Yes, it was. Let me tell you about it. Fascinating case."
Which it may very well have been. But Taylor wasn't paying any attention. She was trying to decide if he'd been lying or not.
Well, looking at his frayed cuffs and overwashed shirt, she observed a motive for stealing the note: money. Dudley was a charming old man but he wasn't a player in Wall Street law and probably never had been. His savings dwindling, his partnership share decreasing as he made less and less money for the firm, he would have been an easy target when somebody from Hanover approached and asked him to let a man inside the firm--an industrial spy, they'd probably said.
Dudley finished his story and glanced at his watch.
It was nine-thirty and he was meeting W.S. in a half hour, she recalled.
He signed the bill and they wandered out of the club into the cold, damp ozone of a New York evening on the shag end of November.
Taylor hoped the cool air would wake her but it had no effect. The narcotics of red wine and heavy food numbed her mind. She groggily followed the partner down the front steps, half-wishing she partook in Thom Sebastian's magic wake-up powder.
She thanked Dudley for his insights and for dinner and said that his school had slipped into the front-runner spot.
This seemed to genuinely please him.
He said, "You all right, Taylor?"
"Fine, just a little tired."
"Tired?" Dudley said, as if he had never heard of the word. "I'll walk you to the subway." He started down the sidewalk in long, enthusiastic but gentlemanly strides.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Wait."
Sean Lillick's voice was sufficiently urgent that Wendall Clayton stopped, frozen in the back entrance of the Knickerbocker Club.
"What is it?" the partner asked.
"There, didn't you see them? It was Ralph Dudley and Taylor Lockwood. They were going out the front."
Clayton frowned. It was a constant source of irritation that a has-been like Dudley belonged to the same club that he did. He resumed his aristocratic stride. "So?"
"What are they doing here?" Lillick wondered uneasily.
"Fucking?" Clayton suggested. He glanced toward the stairway, which led to the club's private bedrooms.
"No, they came out of the dining room, it looked like."
"Maybe he bought her dinner and now he's going to fuck her. I wonder if he can still get it up."
"I don't want them to see us," Lillick said.
"Why not?"
"I just don't."
Clayton shrugged. He looked at his watch. "Randy's late. What's going on?"
Lillick said, "I've got to leave about midnight, Wendall. If it's okay." His suit didn't fit well and he looked like a college boy out to dinner with Dad.
"Midnight?"
"It's important."
"What's up?" Clayton smiled. "Do you have a date?" He dragged the last word out teasingly.
"Just seeing some friends."
"I don't think it's 'okay.' Not tonight."
Lillick said nothing for a moment. Then: "It's pretty important. I've really got to."
Clayton examined the young man. Like most denizens of the East Village, he seemed damp and unclean. "One of your performances?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah," the partner mocked.
"Yes," Lillick corrected himself instantly though in a tone that approached rebellious.
"We've got so much to do...."
"I mentioned it a week ago."
"And what a busy week it's been, don't you agree?"
"It'll just be a few hours. I'll still be at the office at six if you want."
Clayton had let him dangle enough. He said, "This once, I suppose, it's all right." He had plans of his own tonight and didn't give a rat's rosy ass what Lillick did after they were finished here.
"Thanks--"
Clayton waved him off and gave a reserved smile to Randy Simms, who now walked through the revolving door of the club.
Ignoring Lillick, as he always did, Simms said, "I saw Ralph Dudley outside. With a woman."
Piqued again by the reference to the old partner, Clayton snapped, "Appreciate the weather report, Randy."
Simms was six feet three, thin and solid. Ralph Lauren might have designed a line of Connecticut sportswear around him. A mother and her teenage daughter entered the lobby. They eyed the young lawyer with similar degrees of desire.
"How'd they get the lowdown on our witness?" Clayton was referring to the evisceration of Dr. Morse on the witness stand in the St. Agnes Hospital case.
"Reece used some private eye in San Diego."
"Fuck, that was good," Clayton said with admiration. He didn't know Reece well but he'd make sure the associate was guaranteed a partnership slot next year or the year after.
"When's our guest arrivin
g?" Clayton asked him.
"Any minute now."
"Give me the details."
"His name's Harry Rothstein. Senior partner in the general partnership that owns the firm's building. He's got full authority to go forward or pull the plug. He and Burdick are planning to sign the new lease on Monday. Rothstein doesn't seem to have any mistresses but I found some accounts in the Caymans. Son's got two drug convictions."
"What kind?"
"Cocaine."
"I mean what kind of convictions?"
"Felony. One sale, one possession."
"Is he a good friend of Burdick's?"
Simms's face eased into a faint smile.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Clayton snapped again.
"How can he be a friend of Donald's?" Simms asked. "Rothstein's a Jew."
A tall, bald man walked through the door and looked around.
"That's him," Simms said.
Clayton's face broke into a huge smile as he strode forward. "Mr. Rothstein. I'm Wendall Clayton," he called. "Come join us, my friend."
At the corner of Madison Avenue and Forty-fourth Street Taylor and Ralph Dudley paused and shook hands.
He inclined his head toward her in a Victorian way she found quaint and said, "Which train're you taking?"
"I'll walk."
"I'll cab it, I suppose. Good luck to you. Let me know how you fare with Yale." He turned and walked away.
Taylor had thought she'd have to do a private-eye number: Hey, follow that cab; there's a fiver in it for you. But no: Dudley didn't flag down a taxi at all. He was on foot, going to meet the mysterious W.S., whom he had visited the night the note was stolen.
When he was a half block away, Taylor followed. They moved west through the eerie illumination of a city at night--the glossy wetness of the streets and storefront windows lit for security. Still plenty of traffic, some theaters letting out now, people leaving restaurants en route to clubs and bars. Taylor felt infused with the luminous energy of New York; she found that she'd sped up to keep pace with it and had nearly overtaken Dudley. She slowed and let him regain a long lead.
Out of the brilliant, cold, fake daylight of Times Square. Only now did Taylor feel the first lump of fear as she crossed an invisible barrier, into pimp city. The public relations firms hired by New York developers called this area Clinton; almost everyone else knew it by its historical name--the more picturesque Hell's Kitchen.