Hot Desk: A Novel - 10

Ava sipped her soda water with its generous handful of maraschino cherries and a few sliced limes. Ben couldn’t in good conscience, his second week on the job, accept her dubiously doctored fake ID. Butch lolled at her feet, enjoying the attentions of Belinda and Shoney, two of the regulars. Ben had already learned which one (Belinda) took vodka in a water glass and which one (Shoney) took water in a martini glass. He had solved the mystery of the subpar TV sports when he tried switching to the NBA playoffs and a previously silent old man in the corner wearing a tweed cap had revealed a strong British accent and an enraged preference for cricket. Ben placated him with a pint and a packet of corn nuts.

“So what’s your plan again? Charm that sociopath into giving you all his daddy’s work? How do you know he has any juice at all? What about Rose Adams?” Ava was shredding paper napkins and picking at candle wax, making little piles that Ben had to sweep away.

“I’ll find out tonight.” Ben juiced lemons and kept an eye on the customers. It was still pretty early. “I mean, it’s just the two of them left, so if I can get Atticus to introduce me to Mrs. Adams or if he knows exactly what the Lion was working on before he died, that could be good information for Caro, right?”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Ava dropped a pretzel for Butch. “This plan is basically a wing and a prayer. Livin’ on a prayer, that’s you. Whoa-oh.”

“Remind me not to give you any quarters for the jukebox.”

“I don’t think that’s how jukeboxes work anymore. Like, I’m sure there’s an app.”

Ben tossed a series of squeezed lemons into the trash. “Nice follow-through,” Ava said. “But keep your elbow up.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Wanna work on a Hinge profile?”

“I do not.”

“Seriously, you need to get back out there. When’s the last time you even had dinner in a restaurant?”

“I’ll have you know I have a date with Howie this weekend,” Ben said huffily.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Ava shook her head. “Come on, it will be fun.”

“Nope. And I thought you disapproved of the heteronormative paradigm?”

“Obviously. But tragically you are hopelessly, boringly straight, and all I can do is teach you not to center your privilege.” Ava dug around in her bag and pulled out her phone. “Okay, I’m going to lead with ‘Tradwife is a big turn-on. Green flags include Milkmaid chic.’ That should pull the ladies for you.”

“ Milkmaid chic ?”

“Calico, very long braids? Relax! Don’t look so stricken—I’m kidding! Okay, here’s a brilliant Hinge prompt: ‘Facts About Me That Surprise People.’ How about: ‘I can hold two opposing ideas in my mind at the same time because I contain multitudes.’ ”

“I think you just did a mash-up of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Walt Whitman.”

“Fuck off. You’ll meet the milkmaid of your dreams if you just cooperate.” Ava scrolled through her phone. “How can you millennials stand this? But also, you need a more robust social media presence.”

“I’m actually also Gen Z, as you well know. And I thought social media was the opiate of the masses.”

“Oh, so you do listen to me!”

“So you’re single?” Shoney (water) leaned against the bar and looked Ben up and down.

“A big hunk like you?” Belinda (vodka) chimed in. “Those deep blue eyes! A gal could swim in them is what I’m saying.”

“I know! Can you believe it?” Ava put her elbows on the bar and rested her chin on her hands.

“My grandniece Martha is a paralegal,” Shoney bragged. “Smart as a whip and a real pretty girl. She lives in Jersey, but I’m going to have her come take a look at you.”

“My grandbaby Britt’s got a good government job with benefits,” Belinda chimed in. Ben nodded, impressed. He was sure Britt made more than he did, even combining both of his paychecks.

“She lives in Phoenix,” Shoney shouted. “And she’s married!”

“Sunny dry weather,” Belinda continued, unfazed. “And nobody likes Joey. Especially Britt.” She patted Ben’s biceps. “She could use a big, strong man around the house.”

“Martha can be here in forty-five minutes on the train,” Shoney threatened.

“What about my Olga?” Betty Jack interrupted. “She was an alternate for the 2014 Olympic biathlon team.”

“She lives in Belarus!” Shoney snitched.

“She can travel,” Betty Jack snapped. “And she’s divorced.”

“I’d love to meet her one day,” Ben promised. Who wouldn’t want to date a Belarian (Belarusian?) biathloner (biathlete?) instead of a milkmaid? Although he would clearly have to get his terms straight before he could impress Olga. Betty Jack nodded, placated, and the other two accepted defeat for now, but Ben knew he hadn’t heard the last of Martha and Britt. Ava was right. He should get out there. He felt a warm, anticipatory thrill. Why? Then he remembered the gorgeous woman he had seen on Zoom at work. He had stored the image away; it wouldn’t be too hard to track her down.

“Who did you say you shared a desk with?” Ava asked suddenly, still scrolling through her phone. “Rebecca Blume, right? You share custody of a cactus?”

“It’s her cactus. Why?”

“There’s a Rebecca Blume tagged in all these posts on an account I follow, salute! ? Very cool supper club; I get on the waitlist every month but it’s impossible to get a reservation. Stella Marino-Miller? Let me guess, you haven’t heard of her.”

“Let me see.” Ben took Ava’s phone and examined a series of photos that managed to be both casual and artsy, not trying too hard but giving a good sense of the food—the strawberry shortcake looked amazing—and the people lit by candles and surrounded by half-empty plates and wineglasses. There was a flurry of tags that Ava had investigated, including “rebeccablume.” Ben tapped on her name to see what clues he could find on her account. It was private and the profile photo was half of a face in large sunglasses mostly hidden by a cone piled high with soft ice cream. Ben peered closer, but it was hopeless. He did a quick search of who she followed and saw enough author and publisher names among the restaurants and chefs that it had to be her. How many Rebecca Blumes could there be following Avenue Publishing? All he could say with confidence was that she was much younger than he had thought, and the whole thing reminded him that he was hungry and needed more protein in preparation for when Atticus showed up. If Atticus showed up. “It’s private. I can’t see anything.”

“Okay, request to follow,” Ava suggested.

“No! She’s the worst, honestly. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction.”

“ ‘The worst’?” Ava cocked her head at Ben, who regretted his overreaction. It was never a good idea to allow Ava to get a whiff of any strong feelings on his part or he would spend the next year fielding questions from her. “Let’s google her!”

“Absolutely not. Forget it.” Ben made himself busy opening beers and mixing gin and tonics. He had no interest in pursuing anything to do with Rebecca Blume. The last thing he needed was Ava getting involved. Luckily, she was distracted by a man with mirrored sunglasses perched on top of his head who was trying to hit on her. Ben kept one eye on them, but he had full confidence that Ava could handle herself; soon enough, the man had put on his sunglasses and slunk away. The bar was starting to fill up.

“Okay, it’s getting too crowded for Butch,” Ava called to Ben. “And I’m meeting some people at a gallery opening in Greenpoint.”

Ben gave her a quick thumbs-up and looked over the bar to tell Butch he was a good boy. He didn’t stop moving for a few hours, but the rhythm was second nature to him, and the tips were good. After a while, the crowds dispersed, and Betty Jack’s returned to the small, already familiar group of regulars still in their spots. It was past 10 p.m., and Ben was setting glasses to air dry and wiping down taps when Atticus showed up.

“Benjamin, my man!” He was dressed the same way Ben remembered from last time, in a fitted gray suit, a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, black dress boots, and a signet ring on his pinkie. Everything about Atticus was good-looking and understated, and Ben understood (as it had been explained to him by Ava) that the simpler the outfit, the more it cost. Atticus’s skin was shiny and a little puffy up close, but maybe as a result of IV therapy? Whatever that was. He reached across the bar and Atticus gave him a bone-crushing handshake. Firm was good, but Ben was always wary of guys who tried to bring him to his knees like some kind of annoying uncle.

“Thanks for coming down here.” Ben pulled out two shot glasses. “What can I get you? I’m almost finished up.”

“Woodford Reserve?”

“Nope.”

“Rittenhouse?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, I’m guessing you don’t serve Pappy Van Winkle? Just hit me with whatever you’ve got.” Atticus pushed his hair back and took out a money clip monogrammed with a lion’s head.

Ben poured two shots of the house bourbon. “It’s on me.” He pushed the glass to Atticus, who lifted it and clinked Ben’s glass. “To the Lion,” Ben said.

“To the Lion.” Atticus downed his shot and motioned for another.

Ben threw back his second quickly, pretended not to notice Atticus’s signal to go again, put away the bottle, wiped down the bar, and tried to avoid Betty Jack’s aggressive mopping. “I was thinking we could go somewhere and talk. Maybe get something to eat?”

“Absolutely, absolutely. Just need to stop at a place nearby where a friend is working, then a quick appearance at a little get-together, and if we can make it to the Octopus Lounge, they don’t stop serving until four a.m. Their crudo is flown in from Sicily every morning.”

Fuck coffee. Ben was going to need a Red Bull or a Celsius. Maybe both? And a few bagels to line his stomach. He said goodbye to Betty Jack, helped Shoney and Belinda off their stools and out the door, ran into the deli for supplies, then followed Atticus into the back of a black car that had been idling outside the bar.

Their first stop was a burlesque club on Rivington, where the bass player turned out to be the friend who “had something” for Atticus, so they sat through the show, which wasn’t the same as being at a strip club, was it? Ben hoped not. He could bide his time until he raised the matter of the estate with Atticus. All was going pretty well until a dancer almost strangled him with her feather boa and let loose a handful of glitter in his face. It had been too loud and sparkly to talk much in the burlesque club, so Ben grabbed the precious minutes of quiet in the black car after they left but before Atticus could consume whatever he now had in his pocket, courtesy of the bass player.

“Do you know what your dad was working on? Are there unpublished stories?” Ben accepted a swig of something smooth and delicious from a silver flask Atticus offered him and politely refused a bump of the powder Atticus had scooped out of a small vial with a key.

“Yeah, man.” Atticus sniffed with the skill of a habitual user, then put his head back on the leather seat. “Good stuff. Good stuff.”

Ben wasn’t sure if he meant the stories or the drugs. “Have you read anything? Did he talk about it with you?”

“Listen,” Atticus said. “This is why I wanted to see you.” If Atticus had wanted to see him, he had a pretty funny way of showing it. Ben had been chasing him for a week. Atticus continued, “There’s a book. A whole fucking book. Rose has no idea I know about it. I just happened to be looking around, you know, after they read us the will. I have my lawyers on it now. The will, the estate. Rose hasn’t said anything to me about the book. Not one fucking word.”

A book! An entire unpublished manuscript by the Lion. “Seriously? That’s incredible! What do you mean about the will? Do you not get along with her?” Ben’s emails to the Lion were written into the void, care of PK Publishing. He hadn’t known if the Lion was reading them, but one day he got an email from Atticus about the Lion’s health, his writing, and what seemed to be direct responses from the Lion. Atticus was more like a disreputable uncle or prodigal older brother than a friend, honestly. But if Atticus was feuding with Rose, that was going to make it hard for Ben to be of any use to Caro and Hawk Mills. He hadn’t heard anything from anyone about an actual book, though, so he was pretty sure they didn’t have that information.

Atticus looked out the dark tinted windows of the car, but all Ben could see were muted lights. The car rolled along silently, flattening the city’s din. It was like being in one of those modern LA homes high above the city, Ben thought. Not that he had ever been in one.

“We’re not that close, no.” Atticus kept his face turned to the window. “I never saw her much before my mother died. And then they shipped me off to boarding school in eighth grade. We coexist when she’s in town. She’s disappointed in me.” He let out a bitter laugh and did another key bump. “I mean, get in line, right? I guess we were doing all right until all this bullshit with the will. Apparently, I have to jump through hoops before I get my share. And Rose not telling me about the novel she found. You’d think she’d be thrilled, right? She’s the executor of the estate—thanks, Dad —but anything that makes money goes into my pocket too. And anything by the Lion should be out in the world. I know you agree with me on that point, Benjamin, my man.”

Why was Rose separating the book from the rest of the estate? Ben knew that someone at Avenue had already met with her. Did Avenue know about the book? He needed Atticus to introduce him to Rose too. “Do you know how many publishers she’s met with so far? I mean, for the estate? Has she met with any agents?”

“Fuck no. The Lion never wanted to give up that 15 percent commission to anyone.”

“I know there are a lot of people really interested in making money off the Lion. Like, I know there’s a lot of money there, and I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t motivation for Hawk Mills too.” Ben took another sip from the flask. “But I promise you that I’m not in it for that. Your father and his work shaped my life. You know that. He really means something to me.”

“It’s not just about the money. I’ve got plenty of money,” Atticus said. “It’s about legacy. To legacy.” He raised the key and toasted Ben, took a quick snort, shook his head wildly, then put Ben in a headlock. “Just bullshitting you! Fuck yeah, I care about the money! I’ve got expensive habits!” Ben patiently allowed Atticus to rough up his hair, then extricated himself. “Don’t be sad,” Atticus said. “It’s also about legacy. But can legacy foot my bills? I think it can. And that’s where you come in. I need someone who’s got my back.”

“Can you set up a meeting for me with Rose?” Ben asked.

“Are you running the place over there at Eagle Eye yet?”

“Hawk Mills. And not exactly,” Ben admitted. “But I have the go-ahead to take a meeting about the estate.”

“Look, whatever stick Rose has up her ass about this book, I trust you can help me convince her that it’s worth its weight in Colombian blow. I don’t need to read it to know that. I’ll see what I can do about a meeting. Enough business now, capisce ?” He rapped on the closed window shielding the driver. “Central Park Tower, Leon.” He turned up the music. “Whaddaya think of this?”

Ben thought the pounding EDM was just short of unlistenable. “It’s loud? What is it?”

“Just some brostep I’ve been working on with Skrillex. Yeah, I got in the studio with him, and I’m looking to get a gig in Ibiza.” Atticus went hard on the Spanish pronunciation: I-bee-tha . “I’m taking some time off from the bank to follow my passion.”

“DJing is your passion?” Ben had to raise his voice over the throbbing music. Wasn’t Atticus too old for this shit?

“I don’t fucking know,” Atticus said, locating a bottle of tequila that had been rolling around on the floor. “Say hola to my dear friend Don Julio.”

By the time they left the rooftop party on the Upper West Side, where Ben was treated to a sprawling view of Central Park, dark and calm, surrounded by the grid of apartment building lights, and the sight of twelve coked-up finance bros (at least two in suits and one in a tux) and five seemingly naked women in a ten-person hot tub, Ben was, he had to admit, a little drunk and a little high. The entire scene was being recorded by a trio of influencers in vinyl jumpsuits whose phone flashes were blinding and who were trying to convince everyone to try detox tea. Then it was a long ride down to the lobby in a mirrored elevator with Atticus attempting to persuade a bored woman to join them for dinner. (Someone had whispered to Ben that she was starring in a scandalous HBO show, but Ben had not retained any of the pertinent information.) It was 2 a.m.

“They fly the crudo in from Sicily every morning,” Atticus was saying, and if Ben was not mistaken, he was sliding very slowly down the mirrored wall as the floors ticked by. The woman yawned.

“I like your tiny bag.” Why had Ben said that out loud? It was, in truth, the tiniest bag he had ever seen. It could hold, max, one container of Tic Tacs.

The woman looked at her bag and then at Ben. Atticus was definitely sliding lower. “I like your glitter,” she said. “Brave for a normie like you.” Ben looked past her at his reflection. Apparently he had partied all night with glitter stuck in his eyebrows and all over his stubble. “Do you have a ciggie?” she asked.

“No.”

“I do!” Atticus, perched in a kind of wall squat, halted his downward progression and began pulling things out of his inner suit pocket. ChapStick. Money clip. A receipt for more tequila and a pizza. Matches from the burlesque club. An empty vial. A hundred-dollar bill. Two stray cigarettes, slightly bent, and a fat joint. “Lookie, lookie!” he crowed, still balancing in a crouch. More quad strength than Ben would have guessed.

“Cheers.” She plucked both cigarettes from Atticus, tucked one behind her ear, and put the other one in her lipsticked mouth. The elevator dinged as the doors slid open to reveal the enormous lobby. The woman clicked on high heels all the way across a sea of gray-and-white marble and disappeared with her tiny bag through the door held open by a uniformed guard.

“You win some, you lose some,” Atticus was saying. “Nice ass, though. Am I right?” Ben, annoyed, hauled him roughly to standing. “At least she left us this.” He waggled the joint obliviously at Ben.

Atticus was becoming more of a jackass as the night progressed. At least he hadn’t said anything offensive in front of the woman. But it was close, and Ben didn’t feel like standing around waiting for Atticus to be a real dick. He had new and very valuable information that the Lion had left a book behind, and he had confirmation that Atticus could set up a meeting for him with Rose Adams. He was in the running. Other elevators were lighting up and coming down, and who knew how many wet models would be disembarking. If they left now, he could avoid any confrontation if/when Atticus got out of hand. “Let’s go.” Ben straightened Atticus up and marched him out the door. “I’m going to head home. I can grab the subway at Columbus Circle. We can follow up tomorrow.”

“My man! The night is young! The Octopus Lounge is open till four a.m.! They fly crudo in from Sicily every morning.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said.” Much as Ben loved raw fish, he knew it would never fill him up, and though Atticus had generously paid for drinks and pizza earlier, Ben didn’t want to assume he would keep paying. And even with his pockets stuffed with tips, he knew that crudo flown in from Sicily would cost more than his monthly paycheck. “I’m going to pass, though. I have to get up in a few hours.”

Atticus fumbled to light the joint and examined the line of black cars in front of the building. “Which one?” he muttered, dropping matches. He finally, impressively, got the joint fired up and passed it to Ben, who took a hit. “You need to chill, Benjamin. Look, let me treat you to a fat steak at Cafe Lulubell. They close soon, but I know the owners. And they make Belgian fries—you know, the ones that get fried twice. Twice , Benjamin. Two times the frying. That’s the secret.”

As tempted as he was by Belgian fries, he needed to get home. “Next time. I’ve got my dog to deal with.” That was technically true, though Butch was fast asleep and would be fine until morning. But he served as a decent excuse when Ben wanted to get to bed.

“Listen, just listen.” Atticus’s shirt had come undone a few more buttons and his handsome face was even puffier and shinier. “Look. Forget those fries. Those crispy fucking fries. How about we go back to the town house and get a drink there? And I can show you the book.”

Better than the mythical crudo; better than the Belgian fries; better than anything Ben had dared hope for tonight, this offer almost knocked the breath out of him. “Let’s do it.” He maneuvered Atticus toward the black car and Leon. “You’re sure you can get your hands on it?”

“Hunnred percent,” Atticus slurred. Ben felt a rush of affection for him, fueled by what he had ingested this evening, Atticus’s touching need to keep hanging out, and, most of all, by the very real chance he had to read the Lion’s unpublished book.

Thirty minutes later, Atticus handed Ben a manuscript of yellow legal paper bound with a rubber band and left him on a window seat overlooking the East River while he went to “rustle up” some food. He had sloppily poured overfull glasses of what he assured Ben was a glorious natural wine with a barnyard funk and left them on the pool table hulking in the middle of the room. The lights in the big room were off, but the lights from the river and outside cast enough of a glow for Ben to read the Lion’s handwriting. “ Making the Sun Run by Edward David Adams.” Ben traced the Lion’s words. He couldn’t help himself. With the exaggerated precision of someone who had been drinking and smoking weed all night, Ben slid the rubber band down. He wanted to take his time. Even Atticus hadn’t read any of it yet. Had Rose Adams? Was it possible he would be the first person to read it? His hands were shaking a little, and he took a deep breath. Out the window, Ben saw a barge floating serenely by, its wake white in the dark water.

Suddenly, the lights in the room snapped on, and Ben could see his reflection, clear as in a mirror, blinking back at him. Behind him, in the window, he saw a woman wearing a white bathrobe, looking like a beautiful ghost. He turned around and carefully laid the manuscript down next to him, raising his hands in the air to signal he meant no harm and also please don’t call the cops. “I’m here with Atticus,” he said. “My good friend Atticus.” Where the hell was Atticus?

“Atticus is sleeping on the kitchen floor,” said the woman, who must, Ben thought dazedly, be Rose Adams.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Ben knew he should get up, apologize some more, and leave. He stayed rooted to the spot, where he hoped he was less intimidating than if he stood. “I’m so sorry we woke you. I didn’t know anyone else was here.” He made an effort to enunciate.

“I assume Atticus gave you the manuscript.” Mrs. Adams was leaning against the doorway, hands in her bathrobe pockets. Was she going to shoot him? “And that you didn’t pluck it from inside the desk on your own. Are you an agent?”

“No!” Ben put his hand over his heart as if to pledge allegiance. He was not an agent! “I’m not. I didn’t! And I’m not just somebody. I mean, not just anyone. Wait. What I mean is that I love your husband. I love his writing. I’m a fan. But not a stalker fan! I’m an editor. I work at Hawk Mills. I… I can show you if you want?” Ben thought better of reaching for his phone in case Mrs. Adams felt threatened and pulled out a handgun. “I’m reading out of love.” “Reading out of love”? Pull yourself together, man , he chastised himself.

Mrs. Adams looked amused. At least Ben hoped she looked amused. His hand was still pressed to his heart, so he slowly put it back in the air. “But you’re also reading it as an editor, is that correct?” she asked, her head cocked.

“Well, yes, but first and foremost as a lover of the Lion. Not a literal lover! A lover of the work!” Jesus, Ben, just zip it , he implored himself. “My name is Ben Heath. I wrote a lot to the Lion, and then Atticus and I were in contact, and now we’re friends, and I was writing my thesis on him, on the Lion, and then when he died…” Ben paused. “I’m so sorry for your loss. The world’s loss! My loss. But of course,” he added hastily, “mostly your loss.”

“Ben Heath.” Mrs. Adams took her hands out of her pockets. “You can return the manuscript to me now. Atticus had no right to give it to you. I’m very sorry that he got his hands on it in the first place. It hasn’t been transcribed, and this is the only copy. I’m going to ask that you not mention its existence to anyone. I’m going to have to trust you. Do you understand?”

Ben picked up the manuscript, the precious only copy, and slowly rose to his full height. “Okay,” he said solemnly. “I’m walking over to you.” He took a few steps, steadied himself, and handed it to Mrs. Adams.

“I’ll go now,” he said. “And I’m so sorry.” He looked in the direction where Atticus had disappeared, but it was just dark room and hallway and more dark rooms. “Do you need any help? Do you want me to get him into bed?”

“Oh, he usually prefers to sleep it off without my involvement.” She looked at the manuscript. “Did you read any of it?”

“Not a word,” Ben promised. “But if you ever saw fit, I mean, I know it’s three in the morning and I’m in your living room and it’s true that I’m a little bit drunk and that we woke you up, and none of that is very good. I know. But maybe if I could just read it? Sometime? Not even as an editor. Though, honestly, I think I would be a really good editor for it. But, no, I mean just as a person. A person who cares.”

“You understand what I’m asking you?” Mrs. Adams said. “Not to say anything about it? I know it’s my mistake that Atticus found it, and I’m going to have to deal with the consequences. But you’re in the business.”

“I understand,” Ben assured her. “Do you mind my asking, though: Are there stories?”

“There are stories,” Mrs. Adams confirmed. If Ben couldn’t say anything about a book yet, he could at least offer Caro the promise of unpublished stories. “It’s late. I’ll show you out.” Ben followed her white figure down the wide, curving staircase, past the statues, the flowers, and to the front door. The light from the streetlamps pooled on the floor and lit Mrs. Adam’s face. “I know who you are,” she said unexpectedly. “I recognize your name from the emails. He appreciated them. He did get a lot of mail. Atticus and I helped him with all of it in the past years. Many young men, especially. But yours did mean something to him. You should know that.”

Ben’s voice caught in his throat. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Adams opened the heavy door and stood aside. “Good night, Ben Heath,” she said, and closed the door firmly after him. Ben stood for a minute listening to the locks turning and the alarm setting. Exhausted but exhilarated, he rubbed his eyes, then reached out and touched the lion door knocker. When he pulled his hand away, the brass was streaked with glitter.