I went to the office. The real office. Well. It didn’t seem so real anymore. I took my index cards with me. I closed my office door. I spread them out on the floor. I put into one pile all of those that made sense, in light of everything we’d learned. I put in another pile those that didn’t.
The second pile was empty.
I walked the length of the thirtieth floor. I acknowledged nobody. Lest I be deterred from my intended task. I strode past Cherise without a glance in her direction. I arrived at Warwick’s office door. I did not knock. I walked right in.
He was on the phone. He looked up at me, mouth open. This was just not done. He mumbled something into the phone. Pressed the hold button.
Redman, he said testily, I’m on an important call. Please speak to Cherise. I think I have an opening at three.
Fuck that, Warwick, I said.
His face turned a shade of pink I hadn’t encountered before. His mouth twitched. He was searching for words.
Don’t waste your breath, I said. I quit. Oh, and by the way. Go herniate.
I turned and walked away. I left his door open.
In the background, fading into the history of my former life, I heard Warwick’s whining voice.
Something about burning bridges.
Hah, I said to myself. Some bridges are better burnt.
My last official act was to invite Dorita for lunch. Michel’s, I suggested. I was hoping to see Warwick show up, planning to flatter some overstuffed prospective client. Maybe I could bribe a waiter to piss in his soup.
Dorita arrived. She was wearing a flowing silk thing in a pale peach color.
My, I said. You’ve gone pastel.
A momentary loss of judgment, she said. Don’t worry.
That’s a relief. I was just about to recommend a good therapist. But then I remembered you already have three.
Speaking of therapy, what the hell did you just do?
I quit. I told the fucker off. And please don’t say anything about burning bridges.
Wouldn’t dream of it, she said.
Anyway it’s done. And I’m quite convinced that my next project’s going to get me through it. At least until we set up shop as R. amp; D., LLP, Ace Detectivists.
Don’t hold your breath. One of us still has a real job.
You have my deepest sympathy.
Speaking of jobs, did you hear about Steiglitz?
No.
He’s selling his clinic. Going to Africa.
Gone safari on us?
No. For good. He’s joined Doctors Without Borders.
My, what a little guilt will do for a man.
I guess you’d know. So, what are you going to do? Dealer at the Taj? Live on tips?
Close, but way better. I’m opening my own room.
You’re opening up your bedroom for public viewing?
Hadn’t thought of that, actually. Maybe I’ll do that too. But no. A poker room. I found this amazing space in Williamsburg.
You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding.
I am not.
Isn’t that illegal?
Depends, I said. On who’s watching.