Chances

  Judge Norris was every bit as mean as her reputation.

  Wednesday, July 13, 1977

  New York

  “Christ!” Lucky exclaimed. “What the hell happened?”

  Steven, jolted against the side of the pitch-black elevator, replied, “I don’t know. Must be the generator gone out.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded, suddenly suspicious. “If you pulled the switch to try and score, you are starting with the wrong person, let me tell you that up front. I am a black belt karate champion, and if I choose to move on you you’ll feel it all the way down to your balls. I’m—”

  “Excuse me, miss,” Steven snapped. “You are the one standing next to the control panel. Why don’t you try pressing the emergency button instead of making speeches?”

  “Miz.”

  “Oh, so sorry, do forgive me. Miz. Do you think you could be kind enough to press the emergency button?”

  “I can’t see the goddamn button.”

  “Don’t you have a match or a cigarette lighter?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Huh! I should have guessed!” She zipped open her shoulder bag and groped for her Dunhill lighter. “Shit!” she exclaimed, remembering that she had left her lighter on Costa’s desk. “I don’t have it.”

  “What?”

  “My lighter. Are you sure you don’t have any matches?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Everyone carries matches.”

  “You don’t.”

  “True.” She stamped her foot down sharply. “Goddammit, I hate the dark.”

  Steven put his arms out in front of him and edged across the elevator. He touched Lucky and she responded with a swift kick, catching him on the leg.

  “Ouch! Why did you do that?”

  “I told you, fella. Start anything and you are in big trouble.”

  “You really are a nut case,” he complained. “I am merely trying to find the emergency button.”

  “Good for you.” She backed into a corner and squatted down on the floor. “Hurry up, will you? I hate the dark.”

  “You said that once,” he replied coldly. His leg felt like a sledgehammer had hit it. He would probably be sporting a purple bruise any minute. He felt down the panel of buttons, pressing them all for good luck. Nothing happened.

  “You find it?” she snapped.

  “Doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Wonderful! That’s why they have emergency buttons so that when you’re in a goddamn emergency nothing FUCKING HAPPENS!”

  “No need to scream.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  There was silence while they both considered the situation.

  Lucky thought, just my luck. Trapped with some dumb jerk-off artist who doesn’t even smoke. Uptight schmuck!

  Steven thought, What a mouth! She sounds like she’s been sharing a room with the New York Yankees!

  “So,” said Lucky, forcing her voice to remain calm, “what are we going to do?”

  Good question. What were they going to do? “Sit tight,” replied Steven.

  “Sit tight!” she screamed. “Are you fucking kidding?”

  “Will you stop using that language?”

  “Oh, sorry.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I’ll never say kidding again.”

  Upstairs in his luxurious office, Costa Zennocotti fumbled in a cupboard for some candles. He lit them with Lucky’s cigarette lighter lying on his desk. Then he walked over to the window and looked out. The city was spread out before him, lit only by the moon. It was just like the time before in 1965—only then everyone had said it was a freak cut-out and couldn’t possibly happen again. Well, it had happened again, all right.

  He swore softly under his breath as he thought about the forty-eight flights of stairs he would have to climb down. Maybe not. Maybe this time it would be a short blackout.

  He sighed and returned to the cupboard where he had gotten the candles. His secretary, a pessimistic girl, kept a special shelf for just such emergencies. Apart from a stock of candles, there was a blanket, a portable battery-operated television, and six cans of orange juice. Clever girl. Tomorrow she would get a raise.

  Costa took out the television and a can of orange juice. Then he loosened his tie and made himself comfortable on the couch.

  The small set sprang into action as soon as he switched it on. Charlie’s Angels cavorted across the screen. Costa went to change channels, and as he did so it occurred to him that Lucky might be trapped in the elevator. But no, she had left a good ten minutes before the blackout.

  He switched to a news channel and settled back to hear the worst.

  “Whatcha doin’ out there, asshole?” yelled the dark-haired boy locked in Dario’s bedroom. “Pullin’ the fuse on your fuckin’ lights ain’t gonna help ya. You fuckin’ hear me, asshole?” He kicked the door again and again. Dario was thankful for the decorator, who had insisted he change the flimsy interior doors in the apartment for ones made of good solid oak.

  “What’s your problem?” he shouted in what he hoped was a firm unafraid voice. “I thought we had a good time together.”

  “You prickass!” the boy screamed. “You dirty fag!”

  Dario was genuinely puzzled. “If I’m a dirty fag what does that make you?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, brother!” The boy’s voice was verging on hysteria. “I ain’t no fag. I like stickin’ it to big juicy girls.”

  Dario felt more secure now, in spite of the power cut and being locked in his own apartment with this freak. The strong oak door was not going to give out. It was going to hold the maniac until he could call for help.

  “Did someone send you?” he asked as coldly as he could manage.

  “Aw, fuck off,” the boy replied, “an’ turn the fuckin’ lights back on. Bein’ in the dark ain’t gonna help ya.”

  Dario thought about whom he could call for help. The list was limited, he didn’t have many friends.

  “Turn the lights on, asshole,” screamed the boy, “or I’ll bust right outa here an’ smash your fuckin’ head in.”

  As the lights went out, Carrie froze. She did not finish the sentence she was in the middle of. She stood stupidly by the checkout desk in the supermarket in Harlem, her mouth still open.

  “What’s goin’ on ’round here?” the girl behind the desk shrieked. Her words were almost drowned out by the whoops and hollers of the customers as they realized lights, security, everything was gone.

  “Outasight!” shrieked a woman’s excited voice. “Let’s sure ’nuff help ourselves, sisters!”

  Before Carrie’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, the two boys who had been behind her when she entered the supermarket were now on either side of her, hustling and shoving.

  “Hey, lady, what’s a foxy puff like y’all doin’ up thissaway?”

  “C’mon. Baby, baby, baby…. You cool, baby? You carryin’ coffee cream ’tween your long legs, baby?”

  And as they crooned and hustled and shoved her back and forth they robbed her. Ripping the diamonds from her ears so that the lobes bled. Sliding the diamond ring from her finger. Snatching the diamond clips from her hair. And all the time carrying on a dialogue in husky tones that was almost like the start of a Teddy Pendergrass record.

  Carrie was frozen with fear. It brought back every bad memory of her past life. It was all so long ago… and yet it could have happened yesterday. “Leave me alone,” she started to scream, “leave me alone!”

  The boys gave her a final shove, grabbed her purse, and ran.

  Gino didn’t say a word to the woman sitting beside him, her long fingernails digging into the palm of his hand. He saw every light in New York vanish and he didn’t so much as cough.

  It came as no surprise to him when the plane, already on a descent pattern, changed course and started to climb.

  A buzz of conversation shot through the cabin. Gino was not the only one to
have observed the total blackout.

  The lady beside him sat upright in her seat. “What’s happening?” she asked. “Oh my God! Isn’t that noise the landing gear coming up again?”

  “Don’t panic,” he said softly. “I think there’s some kind of problem in New York.”

  Her voice rose an octave. “A problem?” She let go of his hand long enough to swig from her flask. Then she clutched his arm, her face ashen. “I don’t feel well,” she moaned.

  “So lay off the booze.”

  She shot him a dirty look. Just like a woman, he thought. If there’s one thing they hate it’s criticism.

  “I’m hot,” Lucky complained. “How long have we been here now?”

  Steven peered at his watch. “About two hours.”

  “Two hours! Christ! At this rate we’ll be here till morning.”

  “Probably.”

  “Is that all you can say—probably? I mean, there must be some way out of here.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Shit! You really are a pain in the ass.”

  They lapsed into silence.

  Lucky could not stand the silence. It was bad enough being stuck in some pitch-black box suspended who knew how many levels above ground. But why oh why did it have to be with some idiot?

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Steven Berkely.”

  “Mine’s Lucky.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “I mean my name is Lucky. L - U - C - K - Y. Get it?”

  He wished she would shut up and then maybe he could fall asleep and not wake up until morning and certain rescue.

  “Oh, God! I can’t stand this!” She stood up and hammered with her fists on the side of the elevator. “Help!” she screamed. “Help! Hello, out there! We’re trapped in the elevator! Help!”

  “It won’t do you any good,” Steven drawled laconically. “There’s no one up here to hear you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s late. No one around.”

  “Bullshit! How can you possibly make a statement like that? You’re here, aren’t you? I’m here. The building could be full of people.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t.”

  The heat was becoming oppressive. Steven had already taken off his jacket and loosened his tie, but the sweat was pouring off him. He wondered if Aileen was worried. But why should she be worried? They didn’t have a date, did they?

  “Is anyone expecting you?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you have a date tonight? Will anyone be concerned when you don’t turn up?”

  Now that was a good question. Hmmm…. How to answer…, No date, just a prowl around a few singles bars. No one to care whether she turned up or not. “What makes you think I’m not married?”

  “You don’t sound married.”

  “Oh? And what does married sound like?”

  “Not like you.”

  “Very enigmatic. And you? Are you married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Ha! Couldn’t cut it, huh?”

  He swallowed a rude reply. This woman was getting on his nerves.

  “Well?” she taunted.

  “I’m going to try and sleep,” he said tightly. “I suggest you do the same.”

  “Sleep! In this sweat box? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious.”

  She decided to turn him on, anything to pass the time. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t we fuck?”

  Her question hung in the air. He didn’t reply.

  “Well?” she questioned boldly.

  “I thought,” he said slowly, “when this elevator first stopped, that your main concern in life was keeping me away from you.”

  “Sure. I didn’t know you then. Now we’re old friends.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “So believe me. I’m twenty-seven years old, not bad looking, good body. C’mon, Steven whoever-you-are, it’ll be great, I promise you that.”

  “Are you a hooker?”

  She began to laugh. “A hooker? Oh, boy!”

  “You sure sound like one.”

  “Oh, I see. Any female who wants to fuck is a hooker. You’re one of the old school, huh? A nice old-fashioned gent who likes his ladies real conventional.”

  “I think you need help.”

  “Ha! You’re the one with the hang-ups.” She paused, grinning to herself in the dark. “So you don’t want to fuck then?”

  “No. I certainly don’t.”

  “Are you gay?”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Then you’re unusual. Most guys offered a free piece would jump at the opportunity.”

  “I’m not most guys. Besides, I think you should know that I’m black.”

  She laughed derisively. “What difference does that make?”

  “Well, lady”—his voice was uptight—“I wouldn’t like you to get a big shock when the lights go up. Not that I’m about to oblige you,” he added quickly.

  “Did you tell me that you’re black hoping it would put me off?” she taunted.

  “Nope. I told you because I wanted to get you off my back. Sex with a stranger is not my idea of fun.”

  “Shame! You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. And anyway, I don’t sleep with white women.”

  She snorted. “God! You’re so self-righteous. And why, may I ask, don’t you sleep with white women?”

  “Because they fall into two categories.”

  “And what are they?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

  “O.K. They’re either looking for the myth of the giant black penis, or they are being so damn liberal it’s sickening. You know: ‘Look at me, I’m sleeping with a black man, aren’t I daring?’”

  Lucky laughed. “I know the type. But I can assure you I don’t fall into either of those two categories.”

  “I bet you don’t.”

  They were both silent for a few minutes.

  Steven wondered why he was revealing so much of himself to her. He was telling her more than enough. He would be sorry when the lights went up and they were both jarred back to reality.

  “I divide men into two categories.” Lucky broke the silence. “I meet a guy and I know immediately which one he falls into.”

  “What categories do you have?”

  “The guy I screw right off. And the guy I want to get to know first. Men in the second category are far and few between.”

  Steven laughed mirthlessly. “You sound like you have your problems. Next you’ll be telling me you were badly treated as a child.”

  “My father wasn’t exactly the average guy in the street. In fact I had to keep him a big dark secret or I wouldn’t have had any action at all.”

  “Why? What was he, a policeman?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She stood up and stamped her booted foot. “Shit! When are we going to get out of here?”

  “Sit down and keep calm. Getting excited isn’t going to help.”

  “Listen, I couldn’t get you excited, so why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because. We’ve got a long hot night ahead of us. Conserve your energy.”

  “You’re right.” She slumped back into the corner and unzipped her boots. Then she wriggled out of her jeans. “Whew! That’s better!”

  “What is?”

  “Take your clothes off. I have.”

  “We had that conversation—”

  “Not for sex, stupid. It’s just a lot cooler.”

  He contemplated her suggestion. But how would it look when they were discovered if he was practically naked?

  “I bet I know what you’re thinking,” she teased.

  “What?”

  “You’re thinking, If I take my clothes off will she attack me? Will she leap on
my virgin flesh and—”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “You are mad.”

  “Oh, sure I am. Bin mad all my life, it gets me through the day. Take your clothes off. I promise I won’t lay a finger on you.”

  He wondered what she looked like. He couldn’t even make out her shadow, the blackness was so dense. He imagined she was blond, slightly buxom, with protruding teeth and a nice smile.

  She wondered what he looked like. Studious, probably wore glasses. An Alex Haley, certainly not an O. J. Simpson.

  “You didn’t think I really meant it when I said let’s fuck, did you?” she asked curiously.

  He hesitated before replying. He was sure that she had meant it. “Of course not.”

  She laughed wickedly. “Well, I did. Nothing like a good fuck to take one’s mind off things!”

  Costa was dozing on the couch in his office when the phone rang. He groped for the instrument and sent a table lamp crashing to the floor. Then he remembered that he was still in his office and stumbled up, still half asleep, and made his way over to the desk. He lifted the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Costa?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Dario. I thought I’d never find you. I called your club, then your home, then I thought maybe you were still at the office…. God! Am I glad I reached you!”

  Dario. Costa frowned. The only time he ever heard from him was when he needed something.

  As if on cue, Dario continued, “Costa. You’ve got to help me. I’m in trouble. I want somebody… gotten rid of.”

  “Don’t talk on the phone,” Costa snapped.

  “Not iced,” Dario explained, “just out of my apartment, that’s all.”

  “Will you shut up?” Costa hissed, thinking of how this conversation would sound if there was a tap on his phone. Every week he had his office checked over by an expert… but it was not inconceivable.

  Dario’s voice started to shake. “Costa. I need help now. There’s a maniac in my apartment who is trying to kill me. Right now he’s locked in the bedroom but—”

  “Get out of there immediately,” Costa commanded. “Check into a hotel and contact me tomorrow, I’ll see the situation is… dealt with.”

  “You don’t understand.” Dario’s voice was rising hysterically, “I can’t get out of here. He has my keys. I’m locked in.”