Moonlighter

32. Eric

ERIC

I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing. It’s my brother Max’s ring tone, which is a full orchestra version of “Hall of the Mountain King.” I ignore it. Eventually it stops.

And, wow. My head is killing me. I must have gotten very drunk last night.

When I force my eyes open, I recognize the sun streaming in my windows. But it’s coming from a weird angle. Because I’m lying on the floor of my apartment.

Another thing in my field of vision is someone’s hairy toe. That might be alarming, except it’s starting to come back to me. That’s Anton’s hairy toe. And it’s his groan that I’m hearing now. “Why am I on this floor,” he grunts.

“Um…” I don’t remember lying down on the floor. Except there’s a bottle of Scotch just out of his reach. And it’s empty. We broke out the Scotch because I was sad about something.

But what?

Anton sits up. “Shit. What time is it?”

“How would I know?” I haven’t reached a vertical position yet. Both my knees are so stiff that I have to work up the courage first.

He fumbles for his phone. “Nine-thirty.”

“Morning skate is at ten,” I point out.

“Fuck!” He leaps to his feet with the agility that twenty-two-year-old professional athletes possess. “We gotta get going!”

“You gotta,” I correct. “I have physical therapy at noon.” At least I managed to have my drinking spree the night before a nice, late start. That’s the luckiest thing that’s happened to me in a while.

Something unlucky happened last night, I think. I just can’t remember what. “Where did we go after the tavern?” I ask, heaving my aching torso off the floor, and sitting up.

Anton is already galloping toward my bathroom. “Manhattan!” Now I hear water running. “We didn’t stay long, though. Your girl threw you out.”

My girl.

Alex.

Alex in a nightgown.

Alex in a nightgown with a pissed-off expression.

Alex yelling at me not to kneel down on the marble floor.

Kneel down?

Dread settles over me like a cold fog. I have vague memories of talking to Alex in her foyer. But there’s still a chance that was all some kind of drunken dream.

“Anton?” I slowly ease my body into a standing position. “Why did we drink Scotch when we came home?”

He sticks his face out of the bathroom door. It’s still half covered with shaving cream. “You were sad she said no.”

“She said no,” I repeat with mounting horror. To what? I was talking about Alex last night. That part I remember. I said I loved her. Even if my blood was fifty percent alcohol, it’s still true. I love her.

That’s something you tell, though. Not ask.

So what did I ask her? I suppose it could have been…

Nah. Even at my drunkest, I wouldn’t be that stupid. Or that boorish.

Anton comes out of the bathroom, naked as a jay bird. “Do you know where my suitcase went?”

“I think it’s under the coffee table. What did Alex say no to? Did I want to stay overnight?” Please say yes.

He grabs his suitcase and then gives me a pitying look. “No, dude. That’s not it. But this ain't over. You can go to Tiffany later and buy a ring. I swear it will make all the difference.”

“A ring.” I almost choke on the word. “What kind of ring?”

“Oh buddy.” He shakes his head. “And here I thought you were the smarter one. It’s a diamond, man. Always propose with a diamond.”

“Anton.” My heart stops. “Why did you get me loaded and tell me to propose?”

“I didn’t know you were going there,” he says with a shrug. “You just wanted to tell her you loved her. I think the marriage thing mighta just popped out.”

“It just popped out.”

“Yeah, man. And you went with it. Balls to the wall!” He pumps his fist. “You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

I’m never drinking again.

My phone starts playing The Hall of the Mountain King again, at a head-splitting volume. I ignore it.

“Look, I gotta bounce,” Anton says. “Want to go out again tonight?”

“No!” Jesus.

“Even for dinner?” My young cousin looks insulted. “Drake said I gotta try Brooklyn pizza.”

“Sure, maybe. After I spend the day trying to figure out how to apologize to Alex.” No woman deserves a slurred marriage proposal from a drunken buffoon.

I really do love Alex. I want to be with her. And I think I just fucked that up. I pick my phone up off the floor to find that it has a cracked screen. There’s no telling when that happened.

It does not, however, have any texts from Alex. I was hoping for something along the lines of: Morning sunshine. You sure were funny last night! Talk later?

But no.

There are several texts from my brother, though. And every one of them makes me grumpy. Answer your phone. Eric. Come on, it’s almost ten. I need to talk to you.

And, finally: Don’t text Alex. I doubt she wants to hear from you. Just call me back instead.

“No fucking way!” I yell, as if he could hear me.

Anton gives me a wary look, waves, and then runs out my apartment door.

I’m just pouring myself a glass of orange juice when my phone rings again. But it’s not Max, so I have to peer at the cracked screen to identify the caller.

DUFF it says.

“Hi,” I say into the phone. “Whatever you were going to say, can it wait until after I’ve metabolized some painkillers?”

“No man,” he says, chuckling. “I’m downstairs in the car. Get down here.”

“Why? Did I agree to go somewhere?”

“Nope. But I brought you two egg sandwiches from Lenwich, and a cup of coffee.”

Ooh, Lenwich. My mouth waters. “With bacon?”

“And double cheese.”

I frown. “Fuck, only Max knows I like double cheese. He sent you?”

“Yeah. He needs to show you something. Down at his office.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?” I grumble.

“Not for long. I was off from two until eight.”

“That is probably against the law,” I point out.

“I’m aware. But we are really understaffed right now. Listen, man. These sandwiches smell really good. I’m going to eat one of them if you’re not down here in five minutes.”

“You are not the person I thought you were, Duff. That is just cruel.”

“Four minutes ten seconds…”

“I need ten,” I bark. “You do not want me there until I’ve showered.”

That offer of sandwiches better not be a ruse.

It wasn’t.

By the time I eat two egg sandwiches and slurp down the coffee, we are almost all the way to my brother’s building on West Eighteenth Street. And I am feeling almost human.

I pull out my phone and text Alex. Honey, I’m sorry I showed up to see you when I was in no condition to communicate. Can we talk? Are you free later?

She responds immediately, but only with one word. No.

Well, fuck. I tap her number anyway, and let it ring. It rolls to voicemail immediately. And then her clear voice says: “You’ve reached the personal voicemail of Alex Engels. If this is a business call, kindly dial my office number instead. If this is Eric Bayer, please lose my number.”

I let out a groan.

“Tummy bothering you?” Duff asks as he turns onto Eighteenth.

“No. But Alex hates me.”

“Hate is a strong word,” he says soothingly. “The word she actually used was loathe.”

I groan again as the garage door lifts on my brother’s garage. Duff parks next to the Maserati. “Hang in there. I’m sure you’ll find a way to apologize.”

“But then what?” If I tell her I really do love her, she won’t believe me.

“Baby steps,” he says. “Obviously you can’t repeat the proposal for a while. Until she trusts that you mean it. But you’ll get it done.”

“Wait.” I stare at him, shocked. “You think Alex and I will really end up married?”

I don’t know why it’s such a tricky concept when I’m sober. It’s just that I’ve never pictured myself as a married guy. With half a bottle of tequila up me, it seemed rational, though. Maybe my drunken subconscious knows things.

“What I’m saying is this—I look great in a tux, and I like to dance. So don’t give up.”

That makes about as much sense as anything else this morning. “Thanks for the sandwiches!”

“Anytime. Tell Max I’m headed to the off-duty room to crash out.”

That’s the first thing I tell my brother when I find him bent over a project in the middle of the open office space. And the second thing is, “I need more coffee.”

“In a minute,” he says without looking up. “You have to see this.”

It’s hard to say what “this” is, though. There’s a beehive of activity around my brother. A large worktable has been moved into the center of the testing area. On the table are two workspaces, with a track stretching above them. The thing on the track might or might not be a camera.

On the other end of the table are parked several computer monitors, complete with a handful of my brother’s hired nerds peering at them.

“Test number twenty-seven starts…now!” someone says.

The camera glides to a location over one workspace, which seems to contain a blueprint for something inscrutably technical.

I see a flash of light. And then the camera is on the move, gliding to the other workspace.

That one has the guts of some kind of computing device lying open, its circuits and chips exposed. The light flashes again.

“Now watch this,” Max says, towing me by the elbow over to a computer monitor, where a whole lot of code is scrolling past the screen. There’s a status bar across the top. SCANNING, it says. Then it changes to ANALYZING as the bar crawls from the left to the right.

As it reaches the point of conclusion, everyone cheers. “Five point two seconds!”

It’s a match, the screen declares in red text.

“What’s our accuracy?” Max asks.

“Eighty percent and climbing.”

Max turns to me with a smirk. “Not bad for forty-eight hours work. We should reach full potential on this thing by the weekend.”

“What is it?” I ask, glancing around to try to spot my father’s assistant. Maybe she’d be willing to find me some coffee. My head still throbs.

“Well, I realized that manufacturers will need a quick, reliable way to verify the accuracy of their designs. I’m building a device that can screen electronics for unwanted extra hardware.

Every single internet device should be checked before it ships.

Every smart speaker. Every computer. Every smart doorbell. Every internet-connected microwave…”

“I get it,” I grunt.

“It has to be fast and accurate, and at least semi-portable.”

“Okay. So you’ll sell these things and make another fortune.”

“Not sell them,” my brother gasps. “This will be a service company. Hire us to come in and verify your products. This is actually where you come in…”

“Not really,” I argue. “I was just in it for the egg sandwiches and coffee. Have you seen Shelby anywhere?”

“Eric, listen. I have a proposition for you.”

“No,” I say immediately.

“You haven’t heard it yet!”

“I’m just saving us both the time. I’m going to say no. Unless this proposition lets me scare Tatum again.” Max shakes his head. “See? Then I don’t care.”

“Max!” Call the nerds at the table. “We need a new testing configuration. How about a phone this time?”

“Sure,” Max agrees. “Eric, hand me your phone.”

“No way!” I put a protective hand on my back pocket.

“It’s just for a minute, I’ll put it back together when we’re done.”

“That’s exactly what you said about my Operation game,” I argue.

“I was nine years old!” Max yelps. “I didn’t have access to the right tools. It’s not the same at all. Besides, I’ll make you an espresso.”

“Use your own damn phone.”

“I can’t. I can’t get a blueprint for mine, because I’ve altered it myself.”

Of course he has. “Where are you getting these blueprints anyway?” I pull out my phone. “That can’t be public information.”

“Oh, the dark web.” He shrugs. “And I called in a couple of favors. That’s why I need your Katt phone. Nate sent over the plans.” Max tries to grab the phone out of my hands, but first I have to see whether I have any new messages from Alex.

Nope.

“Bummer about the cracked screen.” Max clicks his tongue. “Heads up, Kyler!” He takes it from me and throws it to his guy at the other end of the table.

“Why am I really here, Max? Aside from letting you perform surgery on my phone.”

He grabs my arm and steers me over to the kitchenette on one wall.

The heavens are merciful. There’s an espresso machine here. Max grabs four pods out of the overhead cabinet and shoves two of them into the machine. He puts two cups underneath and pushes the button.

“This is a big deal,” he says. “Not just for me, but for the future. A year from now, hardware hacks will be all over the front page of the Times and the Post. Everything is in play. Privacy, industrial espionage, and national security. I need someone I trust to shepherd this project along. I can’t be everywhere at once. ”

It’s not that I don’t believe him. My brother’s big ideas are exciting, but they’re just not me. “I already have a job,” I remind him.

“Do you?” He takes the cups out from under the espresso machine and hands me one. “What if you can’t go back to hockey?”

“I can if I want to.” It’s just a matter of how much pain, surgery and rehab I’m willing to endure.

“But for how much longer, Eric? Be honest.”

Sulking, I take a sip of espresso. Does Max know how terrifying this question really is? I think he does, and he just doesn’t care. “One season, tops,” I admit.

“Then do this for me. Now, or in 18 months. It will help Alex.”

And this is exactly why I hate discussing my inevitable retirement. I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m going to do with myself afterward. But it will not be this. “I want Alex to get all the help she needs. But not like this, Max.”

“Look, I know an office job would be an adjustment—”

I stop him right there. “It’s not the office. It’s your world view. I don’t want to spend eighty hours a week thinking of all the ways the world is about to end. Even if it’s true. That’s not how my mind works.”

My brother sighs. “You’re smart enough for security work. But you’re just not cynical enough. It’s a problem.” My brother drains his coffee, then puts the cup beneath the machine again.

“Look,” I say as he grabs two more pods to make himself a double. “Duff told me he’s worked a lot of overtime this week.”

“Yeah, and I haven’t slept since I last saw you.”

“That was forty-eight hours ago.”

“I noticed.” He hits the button and espresso begins to stream into his cup.

“There’s a way I can help you guys. I want to.”

“Really?” He glances my way, and then he frowns. “Wait. No. You cannot be serious.”

But I totally am.