Chapter 7
Night Three
Julian
Was it a risk, this whole thing? Absolutely.
But Julian had gotten comfortable with assumed risk, weighing the odds, weighing the outcomes.
Tonight, on the train into the city, he used the time to keep his brain sharp, to assess who was in his subway car, where they were headed, if they posed any of those risks, which were nothing, he knew, compared to the overarching one of the larger chessboard he was stepping onto.
Robin used to say that he couldn’t shake the training or maybe the training couldn’t shake him.
He missed his wife all the time now. When he had his heart attack, he almost welcomed it, thinking at last he could be put out of his grief.
But then he didn’t die, obviously; he instead retired at Simone’s insistence, like that meant living a more relaxing lifestyle.
Like that meant that he didn’t stare at the ceiling all night replaying how much he wanted to fix what he’d gotten wrong, make up for the things that slipped through his fingers.
As the subway careened around a turn, he asked Robin to forgive him for sticking around for so many years after she was gone, for needing a little more time to get some things right.
Julian intentionally arrived last at the diner.
He wanted a chance to observe them all as a unit, take mental notes.
He couldn’t help it; his brain was just wired this way, always looking to solve a puzzle, even with three strangers.
He was better at Sudoku than he let on; in fact, he nearly always finished it well before Sybil and Zeke but took his time filling in the final squares by chasing down Felix or dropping in some fish pellets.
It felt important that they lowered their expectations of him.
Julian had long manipulated outside expectations; it was his way of managing people without them knowing it.
Robin used to laugh and laugh and laugh about it.
How other parents at Simone’s school thought he was a mortgage broker or insurance salesman or something so boring, no one could even remember when it came up in conversation.
Tonight, Julian’s body ached, his fatigue permeating on a literal cellular level, and through the window he watched Zeke throw his head back and laugh at something Sybil said, and he hated him for a moment.
How effortless his life must be. How fortunate he was, even with his injury, even with the questionable road back.
Julian didn’t know what kept Sybil up at night, and honestly, he liked her company well enough, but he wasn’t all that interested in her milquetoast problems either.
Betty. He was mostly interested in Betty.
He stepped off the curb and opened the door to the diner, his muscles crying in protest as he went. He resented that his body, at sixty, was betraying him again. He resented that he hadn’t screwed up the nerve to call his doctors. He resented that Robin left him so soon.
“Julian!” Zeke called from the back booth, waving him over with his good arm.
Julian forgot his resentments and compartmentalized, took notes, took stock.
The diner had a few more patrons this Tuesday night, mostly college students who looked like they were either on their way to hungover or already hungover.
Julian did a quick scan of the area: an innate habit, a sixth sense.
Robin used to give him shit about how he couldn’t ever relax, couldn’t just walk into a movie theater and enjoy an extra-large buttered popcorn and a Coke the size of his head—because he was constantly on alert, constantly high-strung.
Was it any surprise that his daughter didn’t particularly like his company now?
Was it any surprise that he couldn’t sleep?
Was it any surprise he’d had a heart attack at fifty-six?
“Julian,” Betty said as he slid into the booth next to Zeke. “What can I get you?”
“I thought you were joining us tonight,” he said, gazing up at her from his seat. “No offense to these two, but I’ve had enough of them this week. I could use some fresh company.”
“Don’t be mad because I beat you at Sudoku every night,” Sybil said, then reached for her reading glasses to check something on her phone.
“I think you’re cheating,” Zeke offered. “No one can be that good at Sudoku.”
“Or she’s just a genius,” Betty said.
“Or we’re just morons,” Zeke replied.
Julian started to interject but actually sort of thought that Zeke was a bit of a moron so stopped himself.
“If it’s not Sudoku, it’s true crime,” Sybil shrugged.
“And listening to podcasts about women turning up in rivers really doesn’t do much for my sleep.
I swore off them. Or I tried to.” She set her phone on the table, screen down.
“I’ve sort of started up again. I swear, it’s an addiction.
Like it actually triggers a dopamine hit in my brain, which maybe is why it’s an addiction, because I’m so goddamn tired all the time that I feel like I can’t think straight.
Like, I need to be put in a clinical trial or something.
” She shrugged, then grimaced and reached around to massage the nape of her neck.
“Anyway, yeah, my name’s Sybil, and I’m a true-crime addict. ”
Julian felt his gut rumble. Sybil, he considered, could be useful.
Or problematic. Sybil was obviously very smart and well educated, a bored middle-aged empty nester who thought she had the skill set of a detective.
He wondered how she would react if she really did have to examine a bloated dead body pulled from a river. Probably not as well as she expected.
His gaze returned to Betty. “Come on, sit down, tell us about yourself.”
Betty glanced around to the other diners, who had all been served.
“Okay,” she said. “I have a few minutes. But I can’t blow off the other customers. Unless, Zeke, you wanna tip me like you did last time.”
Her face illuminated into a wide grin, and Julian sized her up: He didn’t quite buy the smile, but also didn’t find it totally disingenuous. She was slippery, he thought. His favorite type of company. A puzzle needing to be solved.
“So,” Sybil said, and Julian let her take the lead because it came naturally to her. “Betty, tell us everything important we need to know about you.”
Betty raised and lowered a shoulder. Julian didn’t believe the performance. You don’t end up on the graveyard shift at a diner in lower Harlem if you don’t have a story.
“Moved here from North Carolina. Thought I could be, like, an actress. Turns out that being cast in your high school musical in your small town of ten thousand people does not qualify you for Broadway.”
“Oh, you’re an actress?” Sybil looked delighted. “My best friend is a casting director. Can I help?” She aimed her phone at Betty. “Can I take a quick pic? I know she’s casting something right now. And she’s always looking if that doesn’t pan out.”
Betty held up a hand abruptly, blocking the camera. “No, no. I’m actually not much of an actress, as it turns out. I’m a better waitress than an actress, which pretty much tells you everything.”
“So this is the plan? Overnight shift until something better comes along?” Zeke asked.
“Overnight shift until I save enough to move out of my apartment. My roommate’s a psychopath.” She flopped that shoulder again. They all looked at her expectantly, and she just said, “Don’t ask. It’s a nightmare.”
“Zeke, isn’t your apartment about as big as the White House?
” Julian said. He remembered reading about it in the Post when the sale had gone through.
Some gargantuan penthouse that was ridiculous even for a family of five, much less a thirty-four-year-old bachelor.
The Post had claimed the co-op board had a heated debate over his application approval.
No one in New York really wanted a celebrity in their building, but also, the diehards kind of wanted Zeke Rodriguez in their building.
Such was the blessed life of the golden boy.
“I mean,” Zeke said. “It’s not small, I guess.” Now it was his turn to shrug.
“Maybe Betty could crash with you?” Julian suggested.
“Oh,” Zeke replied.
“Oh no,” Betty said over him.
“That is a great idea.” Sybil beamed, and Julian knew that her endorsement would sway Zeke.
He’d seen the way that the All-Star’s eyes lingered on her for approval, how even when they were just talking about mundane stuff in their group chat at three a.m., Zeke always tapped a heart on Sybil’s text.
“Betty, you’re a young woman in New York City, and I know you’re not my daughter, but it wouldn’t be so bad if you had a roommate. ”
“I have a roommate,” Betty said.
“A psychopath,” Julian offered.
“You know what?” Zeke said. “My apartment is ridiculous. And I actually wouldn’t mind the company. Want to try a trial run?”
“You’re basically a stranger,” Betty said. Her tone was clipped, and Julian suspected that Betty had plenty of reasons to be wary of strangers.
“How’d you meet your current roommate?” Julian asked, because he already intuited that the answer would tilt in his favor.
Betty pursed her lips. “Craigslist.”
“Betty, no!” Sybil said. “Your parents are okay with this? That doesn’t sound like a safe scenario at all.”
“My parents are dead,” Betty said flatly, and then they all looked a little apologetic. Sybil looked particularly mortified.
But Julian watched Betty slump against the back of the booth, her face downcast, her posture a curve. And though he didn’t say a word, the thing was, he was pretty sure that she was lying. It was a masterful performance, he thought, and he suspected they were in for an encore.