Worst Fears Realized

26

HOWARD MENZIES LEFT HIS APARTMENT building at the stroke of 9:00 A.M., dressed in his most conservative suit, unconsciously fingering his rather recently grown Van Dyke beard.

The doorman greeted him warmly, “And how are you and Mrs. Menzies today?” he asked.

“I’m very well, Jeff, but I’m afraid Mrs. Menzies was taken ill last night while visiting a friend, and she spent the night over there. I’m just on my way to see her now.”

“I hope she’s better,” Jeff said. “Would you like a taxi?”

“No, I think I’ll walk,” Menzies replied. “Oh, by the way, some men will deliver some boxes this morning and will be doing some installations. Please let them into my apartment.”

“Of course, sir.”

He strolled over to Fifth Avenue and walked briskly down the west side of the street, taking in Central Park. At Fifty-ninth Street, he walked into the Plaza Hotel, was given a table by the window in the Edwardian Room, and ate an enormous breakfast. Thus fortified, he crossed Fifth Avenue and entered the Bergdorf Goodman Men’s Store, just as it opened, marveling at the handsome new shops, which had not existed when he had last been in the city. He stopped in the Charvet shop and bought a dozen shirts and neckties, taking one of each with him and sending the others. He took the elevator upstairs and after touring the clothing shops, walked into the Oxxford shop and bought four suits, noting with pleasure that a size thirty-eight still fit him perfectly. Only the trouser lengths needed altering. He requested that one suit be made ready to wear immediately, then walked around the store for half an hour while the work was done, making other purchases. When he returned to the Oxxford shop, he went into a changing room and got into his new suit, shirt, tie, and shoes, instructing that his old clothing be discarded. Finally, he bought a new hat and, on the way out, his eye was caught by an antique ebony walking stick with a silver handle.

Swinging his new stick, he crossed Fifth Avenue and, feeling quite the boulevardier, strolled west on Fifty-seventh Street until he came to the address his researches on the internet had provided. He took the elevator to the top floor and emerged into a comfortable, if anonymous waiting room. He gave his name to the receptionist and was conducted to another room, where he was seated in a barber’s chair.

Two hours later he emerged, having been fitted with a small, very becoming hairpiece – one that matched his gray hair perfectly and cleverly showed a lot of forehead, making it seem all the more real. Now fully equipped, he found a photography shop and had two passport photos taken. Finally, he visited a service that specialized in the quick obtaining of visas and passports and left them with his photos, his completed passport application, his name-change documents, and a fee. He was promised his new passport the following day.

He walked back to Fifth Avenue, then downtown, and entered the Cartier store, where, after a careful viewing of their merchandise, he bought a gold Tank Francais wristwatch with the matching bracelet. Wearing his new jewelry, he continued his jaunt, shopping as he went. He bought new luggage at T. Anthony on Park Avenue and pajamas at Sulka; he bought soap and toiletries at Caswell-Massey on Lexington and ordered stationery and calling cards from Dempsey & Carroll. He finished up at the Mercedes-Benz dealership on Park Avenue.

He stood for a moment and gazed at a silver S600 sedan, revolving slowly on a turntable.

“May I help you, sir?” a salesman asked, covertly noting the customer’s fine clothing.

“I believe,” Menzies said, pointing with his stick, “that is the car with the V-12 engine, is it not?”

“It is, indeed, sir. The world’s finest automobile, in fact.”

“And how much is it?”

The salesman quoted the price. “Plus sales tax, gas-guzzler tax, and luxury tax,” he said.

“I’ll take it,” Menzies said.

The salesman tried not to hyperventilate. This was his second truly breathtaking sale inside of a week; his Christmas bonus was growing quickly.

“Please have a seat at my desk, sir,” the salesman said, “and we’ll complete the paperwork and registration.”

Menzies sat down, answered the man’s questions, and wrote him a check.

Later, on his way back to the Park Avenue apartment, he allowed the joy of freedom and wealth to wash over him. Certainly, years before, he had not planned to commit an act that would send him to prison, but, having lost control of himself on that fateful day, he had planned this outcome for twelve years. It had taken him less than a month to demonstrate his value in the prison offices; it had taken him the mandatory two years to win a small measure of freedom as a trusty; and it had taken him little longer to win the financial trust of Captain Warkowski, the warden, and a number of other prison administrators. He had, in fact, won their devotion by advising them to get out of the stock market shortly before the 1987 Reagan crash. That coup, combined with the bull market of the nineties, had allowed him to increase his wealth tenfold and that of his new clients, as well. Seven years before, with the kind help of Eloise Enzberg, he had had his name legally changed. By the time the governor, on the recommendation of the grateful warden and the parole board, had approved his unconditional release, Mitteldorfer had become the most popular man in Sing Sing.

As he neared his apartment building, he realized that his elation had overwhelmed his good sense. He could not afford to be seen by the doorman wearing brand-new clothing on the day of his wife’s grave illness. He waited around the corner until Jeff had to walk up Park half a block to find a taxi on a cross street for a resident, then he ducked into the building and went up to his apartment.

There he found his computer, which had been delivered and installed in his absence, and his files and records. He went through them carefully, weeding out anything with the name Mitteldorfer on it, shredding the documents before stuffing them into garbage bags. Then he fired up his computer and visited his investments. The market was holding up nicely, he was pleased to see.

He had some lunch, then answered the house phone.

“Mr. Menzies, it’s Jeff, at the front door. A gentleman is here with your car.”

“Yes, Jeff; tell him I’ll meet him in the garage.”

“Yes, sir.”

Menzies rode the elevator down to the basement, where the salesman went through all the Mercedes’s features and controls. He wanted badly to drive the car, but that would have to wait until his driver’s license had been issued. He did not wish to allow even the possibility of a brush with the law. He thanked the man and returned to his apartment.

He rang Jeff on the house phone. “There will be some parcels delivered later today,” he told the doorman. “Things I bought earlier in the week.”

“Of course, sir; I’ll bring them right up when they arrive. And how is Mrs. Menzies doing?”

“I’m afraid she has had a stroke,” he replied. “I’m very concerned about her, and I’ll be leaving in just a few minutes to be with her.”

“I’ll remember her in my prayers,” Jeff said.

“You do that, Jeff,” Menzies replied. He hung up the phone with a smile on his face.