Take today, for example. Wednesday – matinee day for the Broadway musicals. All around him, idiots by the busload were milling mindlessly. In from their flyspeck towns and suburbs, clamoring to pay a hundred bucks a pop to watch even bigger idiots in Halloween costumes sing trite, sappy love songs. This was art? The best that life had to offer?
And it wasn’t just the hicks and suburbi-schmucks, by any stretch. Right around the corner on 40th, he’d passed the supposedly très hip, in-the-know New York Times reporters and photographers flocking into the paper’s new office building for another slave shift at the Ministry of Truth. Toe that Democratic party line, comrades, he felt like yelling at them. All hail, Big Brother, and even bigger liberal government.
He slowed his pace as he came to Madame Tussauds wax museum. Crowds of tourists were swarming around a life-sized Spider-Man doll in front of the building. He shook his head in disgust. He was passing through the land of the dead.
“Fifty bucks? For a Rolex?” he heard a southern voice cry out in the crowd. “Goddamn right you got yourself a deal!”
Ten feet ahead, a skinny young man with a shaved head was about to hand over his money to the West African sitting behind a folding table of fake watches.
The Teacher smiled. So many in his old unit had been from the South – good men from small towns who still believed in simple things like patriotism and manners and doing what a man had to do.
The Teacher didn’t intend to stop, but when he spotted the USMC bulldog tat on the kid’s forearm, he couldn’t help himself.
“Whoa there, buddy,” he said to the kid. “You really think you’re going to get a Rolex for fifty bucks?”
The young Marine gawked at him, half-suspicious and half-glad to be getting advice from someone who obviously knew this turf.
The Teacher slipped off his own Rolex Explorer and handed it to the kid, exchanging it for the bogus imitation.
“Feel how heavy that is?” he said. “That’s real. This one” – he flicked the fake into the con man’s chest – “is bullshit.” The heavyset African guy started to rise up angrily, but the Teacher stared him back down into his seat.
A sheepish grin split the young southerner’s face. “Lord, what an idiot I am,” he said. “Just two weeks back from a year in Iraq, you’d think I’d have learned something there.”
He handed back the Teacher’s Rolex. But instead of taking it, the Teacher just stared at it. He remembered buying it for himself when he was twenty-eight.
Screw it, he finally thought. You can’t take it with you.
“It’s yours,” the Teacher said. “Don’t worry, no strings attached.”
“Hu-uh?” the young man stammered. “Well, thanks, mister, but I couldn’t? -”
“Listen, jarhead, I was here when they knocked down the Towers. If everyone in this city wasn’t such a piece of crap, they’d celebrate you and every other soldier who lays his ass on the line in the Middle East, like the American heroes you are. Giving this dirty old town some payback is the least I can do for you.”
Look at him, he thought. Mr. Generous all of a sudden, acting like a Boy Scout.
He was tempted to upend the table of watches into the glowering con man’s lap, but now was the wrong time. Maybe he’d come back this way again, he thought as he strode on.
Chapter 31
Twenty minutes later, holding a freshly bought, hundred-seventy-five-dollar bouquet of pink and yellow roses, the Teacher entered the vast lobby of the Platinum Star Hotel on Sixth Avenue.
He almost stopped to genuflect toward the quarry loads of glowing white marble that covered the floors and the thirty-foot walls. The ceiling was graced by a Renaissance-inspired painted canvas, along with sparkling crystal chandeliers the size of tugboats. He shook his head in awe at the crown moldings that looked like they were made of gold.
Once in a while, the assholes got things right.
He hurried to the check-in desk, looking flustered, and placed the flower arrangement on the marble counter right in front of the cute brunette clerk. He could see that she was impressed.
“Please tell me I’m not too late,” he begged her with clasped hands. “They’re for Martine Broussard. She hasn’t checked out yet, has she?”
The young woman smiled at his nervous suitor act, and tapped at the keyboard in front of her.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “Ms. Broussard is still here.”
The Teacher put on a look of ecstatic relief. “Thank God.” Then he asked her earnestly, “Do you think she’ll like them? Too over the top? I don’t want to come off as desperate.”
“She’ll like them, believe me,” the clerk said. “They’re gorgeous.”
The Teacher bit at his thumbnail anxiously.
“We only met two days ago, and I know it’s crazy, but this morning I woke up certain that if I let her leave without telling her how I truly feel, I’d never forgive myself. But I want to surprise her. Where would be the best place to wait so I don’t miss her?”
The clerk’s smile widened. She was in on this with him now, happy to be part of true love in the making.
“The couches over by the elevator,” she said, pointing at them. “Good luck.”
The Teacher took a seat, with the bouquet in his lap. His hand edged inside his jacket to the small of his back, where both of his pistols were holstered inside his belt. He chose the.22 Colt and eased it around to his front.
Less than five minutes later, a musical ding signaled an arriving elevator, and one of the gleaming brass doors opened. The Teacher stood as five stewardesses stepped out, all with Air France logos on their knotted blue silk scarves. They could have been models. Or maybe actresses from the kind of movies the hotel made you pay extra for.
The sight of them made him feel like his stomach was filled with helium. He was dizzy at the thought of what he was about to pull.
Martine Broussard was in the lead. Six feet tall, aggressively beautiful, with long hair trailing behind her like blond satin as she strode, preening, out onto the marble as if it were a Victoria’s Secret runway.
The Teacher stood and rushed to meet her, thrusting the flowers forward.
“Martine! Here, I got these for your birthday!”
The statuesque blonde stopped, eyeing the bouquet in confusion.
“My birthday?” she said, pronouncing it ‘birzday.’ “What are you talking about? That is not for three months more.” Her gaze shifted to the Teacher’s face. “Do I know you, monsieur?” But a flirtatious look came into her eyes. Same as the desk clerk, she liked what she saw.
The Teacher held his breath while his hand snaked the.22, barrel-first, into the bouquet. Everything was suddenly quieter, slower, incredibly peaceful. Had he ever felt this untroubled? This free? He felt like a fetus floating weightlessly in its mother’s womb.
Flower petals exploded into the air as he squeezed the pistol’s trigger. The bullet hit her just below her left eye. She dropped to the marble floor without even a twitch, blood pouring down her face.
“Did I just say your birthday?” the Teacher growled. “I’m sorry. I meant your funeral.” He fired twice more into her exquisite bosom.
The other flight attendants stampeded away, screaming. He tossed the flowers onto Martine’s corpse, reholstered the.22, and backed toward the lobby door.
Chapter 32
The hotel doorman, at his post outside, actually held the door open as the Teacher strode through it. Obviously, he hadn’t heard the muffled shots, but now he paused and stared in at the panicked, screaming Frenchwomen.
“Call the cops quick!” the Teacher yelled at him. “Some nutcase in there has a gun.”
The doorman took off running into the building. The Teacher walked fast but smoothly, covering ground but not attracting attention. As he passed the fountain outside the hotel, he took the Treo from the pocket of his jeans and brought up his list.