The Fixer

9

Jeff knew about the money. He’d seen it, that was clear. But how much did he know? Jeff was smart, no question about it. He had a builder’s gift of space perception-had he somehow extrapolated, based on his glimpse of the hundred-dollar bills, how much was there?

Though they’d known each other since they were both kids, Rick didn’t know Jeff well. But Jeff had always struck Rick as basically honest. Salt of the earth. A Good Samaritan, maybe. He wasn’t going to do anything threatening or violent, Rick was confident.

Nearly confident, anyway.

The guys in the demo crew Rick wasn’t so sure of. They were huge, and their tattoos looked like prison ink. If they found out about the cash, they could be serious trouble. Greed brought out the worst in people.

Back in his hotel room, his mind went to Andrea Messina, and he opened his laptop. A quick Google search turned up a LinkedIn profile, showing her employed at Goldman Sachs in New York as a banker. The entry had to be out of date. He could imagine the rest of her story line. She marries a fellow investment banker or a trader at Goldman, gets pregnant, has a baby-and then the marriage implodes. The Goldman guy’s an asshole. Not exactly front-page news. She gets divorced and moves back home to Cambridge, where her mother’s available to be part-time babysitter. Or something along those lines, anyway. Hubby visits his kid two, maybe three times a month. She’s used to pulling in big bucks at Goldman, and now she’s living at home with Mom. A long slide down the razor blade of life. Welcome to the club.

His feelings toward Andrea were complicated. He was surprised at how attractive he found her. He also felt a considerable degree of guilt. He’d been a jerk in high school. He wanted to apologize, but it was twenty years too late.

At least he could try to make it up to her. He called the best restaurant in Boston, a place called Madrigal. Back Bay regularly ran pieces on the chef and reviews, and he knew that you had to call them a month or more in advance to get a reservation. If you were lucky and had strings to pull. Plus, it was preposterously expensive, rivaling New York spots like Per Se or Masa. The girl on the other end of the phone had no idea, when he identified himself as Rick Hoffman from Back Bay Magazine, that he’d been fired. They knew his name. They might have cared more about what Zagat or Michelin thought, but they preferred to stay on Back Bay’s good side, even if it was now only a website.

He got a table for two that evening at eight.

The problem was-though it really wasn’t much of a problem at all, he realized-that he didn’t have anything decent to wear on his date with Andrea tonight. His good clothes had been sold. What remained in his few suitcases was mostly jeans and casual attire, the stuff he couldn’t sell online, not what you’d wear to Madrigal.

And he wanted to look good for her. He was fronting, he knew: He wanted to look successful even if he felt like an enormous failure.

He debated taking his car into Boston. Then he thought about the difficulty of finding a parking space in the Back Bay and settled on the easiest, if most expensive option. He’d take a cab, reminding himself he didn’t have to worry what it cost.

He got out on Newbury Street in front of one of the few stand-alone buildings on the street, which was lined mostly with three- or four-story row house brownstones. This was a magnificent redbrick mansion, originally built in the nineteenth century as a single-family residence. Now it housed the most exclusive men’s clothing store in town, Marco Boston. Marco was where Mort Ostrow was outfitted, at least until his calamitous financial blunder.

Ostrow had taken Rick in here a couple of times. Rick had seen a pair of socks selling for a hundred dollars, a baseball jersey selling for twenty-three hundred dollars. He’d seen cashmere jogging suits and ostrich vests and lizard-leather boots and a kangaroo-hide jacket. The price tags had commas but no decimals.

Inside, the store was spare and imposing. The floors were polished concrete. There were no clothing racks; items were brought out and displayed with hushed reverence. Here and there were austere floral arrangements, white calla lilies and orchids. A ten-foot-long library table had exactly three sweaters on it, each folded into a perfect square. An antique tapestry hung on one wall. An immense crystal chandelier twinkled overhead.

A couple of clerks-sales associates-were murmuring off to one side as he entered, a slender man all in black and a severe woman in a black pencil skirt and a charcoal cardigan. The woman drifted toward him and asked, “How may I be of service?” Then she cocked her head in recognition. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks.” She was good. Now he remembered her waiting on him the last time he was here, in the lower-priced section of the store, on the top floor. That was where they sold the Marco’s Own line. Which still wasn’t cheap, not even close, just not as ridiculously expensive.

“Mr… Hoffman, isn’t it? Sheila.”

Surprised she remembered, he smiled. “Nice to see you again.”

“Shall we take a ride to the fourth floor?”

“Sure. Actually, you know what? The hell with that. Maybe I can find something I like on this floor.”

He sat in an antique leather French club chair in his own private changing-room suite, while Sheila rounded up a couple of blazers and shirts and pants she thought he’d like. Meanwhile, a white-gloved butler served him a flute of excellent Champagne. Rick half expected to get a foot massage (“Care for a bit of reflexology?”) as he compared Massimo Bizzocchi ties. He could have been the sultan of Brunei.

Sure, he could have picked up a jacket and a pair of pants at J.Crew or at Brooks Brothers, down the street. But somehow that felt lame. It felt… inadequate to the occasion. He was going on a date with a lovely and intelligent woman at the fanciest, most expensive restaurant in Boston, and he’d rather not look like a suburban dad driving the carpool to soccer practice on Saturday morning.

This would be his first date since Holly had kicked him out. And it wasn’t just with an ex-girlfriend. It was with a woman with whom he’d clearly screwed up. No, that wasn’t even it. He’d been a jerk, plain and simple. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, of shame, remembering what he’d been like as a high school senior, what an asshole he’d been. He was going to Northwestern, to the Medill School of Journalism, and then he was going to become the next Bob Woodward. Whereas Andrea was sweet and pretty, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Or so he’d thought. When he broke things off after graduation, he explained they were moving in different directions. He was going far and fast and wanted to travel light. He didn’t want to check any baggage. Back then, with a young man’s arrogance and obliviousness, he hadn’t wanted the entanglement. He was ambitious, and she didn’t seem to be, didn’t seem to fit the profile. She wasn’t right for him.

Truly: What an asshole.

And almost as bad: He’d completely misread her. He’d got her completely wrong. He’d underestimated her. She wasn’t just some around-the-way girl; she was a Goldman Sachs woman. She was a go-getter. She was one of those high-powered women who appeared in the photos Back Bay magazine used to run. And she was smart. And lovely.

He wasn’t going to misread her again, and he wasn’t going to screw up again. He was going to take her out to have an amazing meal at a romantic, high-end restaurant, and he’d be damned if he was going to look like some zhlub. He thought about how gorgeous Andrea was in the supermarket, and that had been without makeup, after running. He was going to look great, stylish, no matter what the cost. He wasn’t just going to look like his old self; he was going to look better. And he wasn’t even going to look at the price tags.

Sheila returned with another associate, their arms full of hangers. A good number of the items were immediate rule-outs, the ones that were so fashion-forward they were silly. He had no use for rib-paneled denim biker’s pants or polka-dotted trousers or monk-strap A. Testoni shoes made of alligator skin, and some of the jackets looked as if they could have been Soviet-era Red Army surplus. But once Sheila understood that he wanted to look elegant and understated and not like a pimp or a Russian oligarch, she started to bring out the right things. An old Cole Porter song was running through his head like a soundtrack to his life, something he’d heard someone cover-was it Jamie Cullum, or maybe Michael Bublé? “I’m Getting Myself Ready for You.” He was so over feeling and looking like a loser. Maybe he was unemployed, but now all of a sudden he was rich, unequivocally so, and it was time to look like it.

“All right,” Sheila said, materializing again with yet another garment on a hanger. “With your physique? This unstructured cashmere blazer would look fabulous.”

The butler brought a second flute of Champagne, and Rick took it with a crooked smile. This was a nice life. He could get used to it.

On his way out, clutching a couple of chocolate-brown Marco garment bags and a large brown cloth shopping bag, he heard someone calling his name.

“Rick? Is that you?”

It was Mort Ostrow, entering the store as Rick was going out. Ostrow drew back and gave Rick a gimlet-eyed appraising look. “Doing a little clothes shopping?”

With a polite smile, Rick said, “Hi, Mort.”

Ostrow actually stroked one of the garment bags as if it were a cherished pet. “Well, you certainly seem to have landed on your feet.”

“I’m doing okay.” Rick was suddenly at a loss for words. His brain had frozen.

“Quite a bit better than okay, I’d say.”

Rick shrugged, felt his cheeks get hot.

Ostrow smiled thinly. “Looks like someone’s paying you too much, and I don’t think it’s us.” He gave a jovial chortle, or at least his idea of a jovial chortle, but his jocularity sounded forced, and something in his tone struck Rick as almost ominous.