He reached across the seat to open the window — he wanted to feel the rush of air and smell the river and the summer night — but when he pushed the switch, nothing happened. He tried the window on his right, same problem.
“What’s with the windows?” he asked. “They’re not working.”
“Short circuit, I think,” the driver said.
“Can you open them from up there? I’d like some air.”
“No, sorry, they’re all on the blink.”
“Well, that’s fucked up.”
“Hey, at least the AC’s working, right?”
He thought about getting angry, but decided not to waste the energy. “Good point.”
They stopped at a red light and through the tinted glass he could see that the car on their right was also a black Lincoln Town Car, as was the car in front of them and the car behind them. He called in the order to the restaurant, checked his e-mail, and, finally, eighteen hours after he put it on and slid it tight, he loosened his tie. It was only Monday, and the week wasn’t going to get any easier, but he felt strong and in control. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Life. Was. Good.
He dozed for a bit and when he awoke they were bumper-to-bumper on the Henry Hudson, inching past the 72nd Street exit.
“Shit, driver, we need to get off here.”
“Must be an accident up ahead,” the driver said. “The traffic shouldn’t be so heavy this time of night.”
“Did you hear what I said? We have to get off here. The restaurant’s at 77th and Amsterdam, then we’re going to 82nd and West End.”
“Could be from the Yankees game, I suppose. Jersey fans heading home, fucking everything up at the bridge.”
“Hey, asshole, are you listening to me? The exit’s right there. Turn the fucking wheel and get us the fuck out of here.”
The driver eased the car past the exit and snugged it up against the thick stone wall that separated the highway from Riverside Park. As horns honked and cars squeezed past on the left, he turned to face the backseat.
“Don’t call me asshole, asshole,” the driver said.
It wasn’t possible that the driver had just called him an asshole. He knew it wasn’t possible because it just wasn’t possible. He knew that. And yet, even though it wasn’t possible that the driver had called him an asshole, the driver had in fact called him an asshole. He knew that, too. So he knew it couldn’t have happened and he also knew that it had happened. Hence, his initial confusion.
“What... did you say?”
“I said don’t call me asshole, asshole.”
Now he laughed, because it was so impossible it was actually kind of funny. And then the adrenaline hit and the confusion ended and things became perfectly clear. He loved this shit, for some reason, almost as much as he loved making money. Close encounters of the fucked-up kind. His wife called them run-ins — his confrontations with waiters, parking garage attendants, the people sitting next to them in restaurants or behind them in theaters — and she hated them. To him they were like training exercises, a way to keep his edge when he was away from the office. The world was full of people who didn’t keep their shit tight and he considered it his duty to straighten them out when the opportunity presented itself. The way he looked at it, he was a force for good, trying in his own small way to make the city a more organized, efficient, and civilized place by coming down hard on dopes like this driver, who thought they could say anything to anybody.
“You might as well drive straight to the unemployment office, motherfucker, because you just lost your job.”
He started to dial the dispatcher, but the driver reached back and snatched the BlackBerry out of his hands. Two things about this amazed him — that it happened at all, and how quick the driver moved.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he said. “Give me my phone.”
But the guy didn’t give him the phone. Instead, with the same lizard quickness, the driver grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He came off the seat awkwardly and found himself kneeling, with his arms over the front seat. The driver banged on the handcuffs and shoved him back into the corner. Then a pistol appeared.
“You’re going to sit still and keep your mouth shut,” the driver said. “Do you understand?”
The barrel of the gun was a small black hole, deep as a well, and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. What would he see if the driver pulled the trigger? Would he see the bullet? Would he see a small flame? Smoke? Anything? Was it a real gun? It looked real. The handcuffs were real, heavy and solid. What the fuck was going on?
“Are you robbing me?”
“I told you to keep your mouth shut.”
“I’ve got eight hundred in cash on me. If you take me to an ATM I can get you another thousand or so. There’s a limit on daily withdrawals.”
The driver ignored him and eased back into the traffic. Was he being kidnapped? Is that what this was? But why him? He was just another trader. Sure, there were the Caribbean accounts, but nobody knew about them. Nobody. And kidnapping never worked in the States, anyway. Ever. It was a booming business in South America, but the FBI didn’t put up with that Wild West shit. He rattled the cuffs. Maybe it was a joke. There was nothing funny about the driver, but that was the point, wasn’t it? The more he thought about it, the more it seemed right. And he had a pretty good idea whose strange sense of humor was at work here — Christensen, that lunatic fucker. He had weird friends and he was always talking about crazy stunts, like the time he sent a bunch of hookers to his brother’s wedding or the time he had one of his cop buddies pull over his ex-wife’s new boyfriend and search his car with a drug-sniffing dog. The driver was exactly the kind of thug Christensen would know. They probably went to kindergarten together. “He’s a great guy,” Christensen would always say when he introduced one of these characters. Later on, he’d casually mention that the great guy just did a year for beating up a nun, but it wasn’t really his fault because he was on acid at the time and he thought the nun was a hallucination. Real handcuffs, real gun, real criminal at the wheel — this was Christensen at his excessive best, no doubt about it. So how should he play it? He’d been pretty cool so far, and that was a good thing. There was probably one of those lipstick video cameras running. Christensen expected him to fall apart, piss his pants, maybe even cry. Then he’d e-mail the clip to everybody and they’d all have a good laugh. Well, sorry to disappoint.
“Listen, pal, I don’t know who you are or who you’re working for, but there’s no reason we can’t be civilized about this. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? There’s a joint on Broadway and 97th, McGuire’s. It’s dark and the bartender hates everybody who comes through the door. You’ll fit right in. We can sit in the back and negotiate a figure that works for both of us.”
“I told you to shut the fuck up.”
“Eat shit. I’m offering you a deal here.” This was actually pretty great, a perfect chance to show people how tough he could be. They’d send the clip around, all right, but they wouldn’t be laughing at him.
The driver left the highway at a pullout just north of 86th Street. He put the car in park and turned to face the backseat. The gun appeared again.