Under the Influence

Copyright © 2012 by Richard Uhl.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-5247-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5249-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5248-3 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918597

iUniverse rev. date: 10/17/2012

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Also by Richard Uhl

Wrong Conclusions

For Karen & Brian

Acknowledgments

Richard Holodak for his keen appreciation of the English language and for his sharp pencil

Michael Konczewski for his advice on character and plot development

Metro North Commuter Railroad on whose spongy seats much of this story came to life

JBU

Chapter 1

February 26, 1993

Roger Franklin’s question hung in the air unanswered. He turned his head to study the familiar oval face of his wife. Freckles still graced her fair-skinned cheeks. No gray strands had yet invaded her medium length black hair. Paula looked away and frowned. Roger wondered if she was searching for an answer in the heavy tapestry that hung on the wall behind the mahogany desk. Paula’s lawyer sat behind the desk collecting the papers strewn across it as the awkward silence engulfed the room. The documents were all that remained of the Franklin’s marriage. Roger gripped the edge of the desk and repeated the question.

Paula, why can’t we leave the past in the past? Can’t we try just one more time to make things right?

Paula shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, folded her arms across her chest, and peered at him. Her dark brown eyes filled with tears and she responded in such a soft voice that he had to lean in to hear her. I’m sorry, Roger. God knows that I’d like to erase the past. I just can’t. We can’t. I feel that we’ve given it enough time. It just doesn’t work anymore.

Paula, no! Roger protested. We can’t just throw away fifteen years of marriage like this. Our love is too strong to…

Please, Roger. Stop. Our love was strong—once. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I used to think that our marriage would last forever. I guess I was wrong. It hurts me terribly to accept that it’s over.

Paula Franklin sighed, wiped a tear from the corner of her left eye, and slumped down into her chair. Roger glared first at her then at her attorney as he gripped the arms of his chair in a feeble attempt at regaining emotional control. The realization that their marriage had in fact dissolved hit him for the first time. Through all the long months of bickering, battling, and negotiating, he had remained confident that they would rediscover what had originally brought them together. When they did, it would overcome the anger and pain. Now, sitting in her attorney’s opulent office, Roger knew that they would not. It really was over. Like a stubborn little boy, he rebelled against this reality. Whining like that little boy, desperation shaped Roger’s words. Paula, please don’t do this. It’s not too late to start over. Let’s work our way through this together.

Roger could not remember life without Paula. He reached out and tried to grasp her hands. She left them folded on the desktop. He clutched at them. She pulled away. Her lawyer cleared his throat, shifted his papers into one neat stack, and looked to his client for her response.

This time she spoke in a much more firm tone of voice. Roger, it’s over. Nothing we say or do anymore is going to change that. It’s over. Admit it. Nothing has been right since the accident.

Their eyes met and Roger saw that all hope was lost. He pushed his chair away from the desk, wearily rose, and shuffled toward the window. Seventy-two stories below, people scurried across the outdoor plaza like so many ants. From this height, Roger could not see their cold faces. He watched ice floes glide by on the nearby Hudson River. The leaden sky promised more snow. The gloomy day matched Roger’s mood. He tried to collect himself as he stared through the glass. He felt his will to live draining from his soul.

Roger returned to his seat and the attorney addressed him. Mr. Franklin, I am going to give you a folder containing all of the pertinent documents that support the termination of your union. They summarize the agreements that you and your wife have reached regarding disposal of your assets. I strongly suggest that you review them with your attorney before you sign them. Please return Mrs. Franklin’s copies to me.

What a jerk I am, Roger thought. So strong was his belief in the fantasy that they might repair their broken marriage that he had not brought his own lawyer to this meeting. Roger reluctantly accepted the thick manila envelope.

Looking at his watch, the attorney asked, Would you care to review the material while you and Mrs. Franklin are both still here? I could order in some lunch.

No, Roger bluntly responded. He absently stared at the bulging envelope. It wasn’t fair that his entire life could be reduced to that. Roger looked up and caught Paula studying him. He returned her weak smile, but said nothing.

After an uncomfortable silence, Paula addressed him. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve been collecting mail for you since you moved out. It’s grown into quite a pile. Let me give it to you. She reached behind her chair and produced a small blue tote bag that she slid across the desk. Roger had no interest in either this mail pile or the divorce papers. He simply wanted to flee this room as quickly as possible.

Perhaps Paula sensed this. She addressed her lawyer. Are we done here? This has been a trying morning for both of us. I think we’d like to go home. I know I would. Turning to Roger, she added, Where are you headed? We could share a cab if you like.

Roger smiled at her polite offer. No, thank you. I drove this morning. I have a meeting in Stamford later. I parked my car downstairs in the garage. In fact, if you like, I could drop you off at the train station on my way out of town. It’s really not out of my way.

Thank you, Roger. That’s very sweet of you, she acknowledged.

With their business concluded, some of the tension in the room had eased. Roger Franklin grabbed the document envelope, stuffed it into the blue tote bag, hoisted his black raincoat from the back of the chair, and smiled at his soon to be ex-wife. They both rose.

Before Paula could retrieve her overcoat from the corner closet, the lawyer made a request. Paula, would it be possible for you to stay a few minutes? Several administrative details need further discussion. I thought that while you were here, it might be convenient to get them out of the way.

Paula looked expectantly at Roger. I can wait for you in the lobby, he offered.

The attorney said, The lunch offer still stands. You’re welcome to enjoy it in one of the conference rooms on the other side of the hall. Roger nodded his appreciation.

Paula weighed her options before saying, I suppose I could avoid another trip into the city by getting this out of the way now. I do appreciate your offer Roger, but I can’t ask you to wait who knows how long for me. So, please go ahead without me. I’ll grab a cab when Mr. Brill and I are done here.

Are you sure? Roger inquired.

Sure, she affirmed.

Then I guess I’ll say good-bye, Roger responded.

Harry Brill stood and offered Roger his hand. Thank you for coming down here this morning, Mr. Franklin. Thanks for making this entire process as painless as possible for Paula.

And for you, you shyster, Roger thought to himself.

You’re welcome, he said. Roger turned and reached out for Paula’s hand. She returned the handshake and allowed herself to give him a brief and rather clumsy embrace.

I’m so sorry, she whispered in his ear.

I’m sorry too, Roger agreed as they parted.

Having run out of words to say, he picked up the tote bag, draped the raincoat over his left arm, and strode quickly to the office door without looking back. Once on the other side of it, Roger paused just long enough to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt.

In the ballroom of the Vista Hotel, Special Events Director Candy Williams made last minute adjustments to the afternoon’s floor setup. Referring to a printed layout, she realized that someone had incorrectly placed several tables on the far side of the room. Later, guests seated at these tables would impede the flow of traffic from the makeshift dressing rooms cordoned off behind them. It was a minor flaw, but one that she felt obligated to fix. Candy took pride in her work. She hurried over between rows of ballroom chairs.

This evening, a local trade organization was sponsoring a fashion show in the Vista Hotel ballroom spotlighting children’s play clothes. Five hours from now, precocious pint-sized models would swarm into these dressing rooms. Candy had catered this event the year before and remembered these children as loud, unruly, rude, and demanding. Their infinite cuteness only made it worse. They were truly spoiled rotten. As she approached the errant tables, Candy recalled an incident from last year’s show involving a little blond princess.

Before she could complete her thought, a strange thing happened. The chandeliers overhead rattled and the floor vibrated under her feet. A sound like thunder rolled across the ballroom from behind her. Candy turned just in time to see the floor explode in a flood of huge, jagged splinters. Tables and chairs catapulted toward the ceiling. Reflexively recoiling, she barely had time to shield her face before being battered by the shock wave.

Eyes closed in fear, Candy realized that she was lying on her back. Something heavy pressed on her knees. She opened her eyes and saw her legs tangled in the heavy maroon cloth of the temporary dressing room curtains. She ripped at the fabric and managed to pull it away. Thick plumes of black smoke pushed into the space from a gaping hole in the floor. Candy remembered with horror that she had stood in that area seconds ago. White dust swirled around the room giving it a surreal appearance. Broken tables and shattered chairs littered the floor around her. Candy glanced up at the ceiling. A crystal chandelier swayed ominously over her head.

My God, it’s an earthquake, Candy called out. Even though it was unlikely, she knew it was possible. I have to get out of here, she thought.

The heavy metal pole attached to the maroon curtain pinned her legs to the floor. It took all of her strength, but Candy managed to lift it far enough to extricate her limbs. She rolled herself up—first to a sitting position—then onto her knees. Scared, but not seriously injured, Candy surveyed the room. The lights had flickered off making it difficult for Candy to get her bearings.

She worried that a second tremor might send the chandelier crashing down to crush her. Then she realized that there was more to fear. First, she smelled it. Then, she heard the crackle. Finally, she saw it. Bright orange flames shot up through the breach in the floor and curled outward toward her. A gas line explosion. The thought horrified Candy. She groped her way across the darkened room in search of a door. The lowering curtain of black smoke made it difficult to see anything. Candy lunged for an exit door and tumbled into a hallway full of frightened people. Their anguished screams permeated the blanket of smoke as they rushed to escape the stricken building.

Roger Franklin entered the empty elevator and pushed Sky Lobby—44. The high-speed elevator efficiently dropped him from the seventy-second floor to the forty-fourth, making three stops along the way to take on passengers. On forty-four, Roger changed cars for the express ride to the base of the building. On the ride down, he decided not to return to work. Con Edison would have to survive without him for one day. He would call the woman in Stamford and reschedule the afternoon meeting. Then he would go back to his tiny apartment, draw the shades, sit in the dark, and drink himself into oblivion.

The elevator glided to a stop at the lobby level. The doors opened and everyone exited. Roger crossed the floor and entered another elevator for the remaining ride down to the parking garage levels.

A bell rang. Silent brakes eased the car’s free-falling motion. Roger’s ears popped. The elevator stopped and the doors opened. He exited into a massive concrete labyrinth. Somewhere out there his company car awaited him. It was one of those distinctive, blue Con Ed station wagons. Now that he both worked and lived in the city, they would probably take it away from him. Anticipating that, he had made a down payment on a brand new black Cougar. The money had come from his share of the proceeds from the distribution of a joint stock account. The remaining fifty-eight hundred dollar balance from those funds still rode in the folds of his wallet. Roger knew that it was foolish to carry so much money on him, but he hadn’t gotten around to opening his own bank account yet. Maybe next week, he thought.

Cold, moist air spilled down the ramp directly across from the elevator. Roger slipped into his raincoat and walked toward the ramp as he tried to get his bearings. It was difficult to remember where he’d parked the car. All the aisles looked the same. He thought he recognized a red van parked on the end of a row to his left and began walking in that direction. Halfway there, he stopped, realized he was wrong, turned around, and hurried back across the floor. A large, yellow rental truck rumbled down the ramp and turned sharply around a column in the direction of the red van. The squeal of the truck’s tires caught Roger’s attention as it rounded the corner.

A sign fixed to the wall in front of him looked familiar. He was certain that he would find his car around the next corner. Roger fumbled through the inside pocket of his suit jacket and found the mustard yellow parking ticket. He paused to look at the stub to see what time he had clocked in. The short stay would probably cost him twenty bucks. He wondered if he could have gotten Brill to validate the parking receipt. Fat chance, he thought.

Roger lost the ticket before he had an opportunity to calculate the charge. He actually felt the concussion before he heard it. The entire parking structure violently shook. It was as if the concrete walls were expanding before his eyes. Then the support columns. Then the ceiling. The sensation in the pit of his stomach was the same that he got when he rode the Cyclone Roller Coaster at Coney Island. The floor fell away from him and a blast of hot air forced him up and back. His shoes flew off, but oddly, he held onto the blue tote bag containing the mail and the manila envelope. Then he landed hard on his back.

Roger couldn’t breathe. The force of the explosion and the blow to his back had knocked the wind out of him. For many agonizing seconds he lay flat gasping for air. When it wouldn’t come, Roger’s eyes bulged with fear. He wrongly concluded that the blast had shattered his ribs and collapsed his lungs.

Vertigo overcame him as the area around him grew dim and began to spin. Roger closed his eyes and fought the panic that was welling up from his gut. Then remarkably, his lungs began functioning again. Violent, hacking coughs racked Roger’s battered body as his lungs fought for air fouled by oily black smoke.

The vertigo passed and the coughing subsided. Roger opened his eyes and focused on a bizarre scene. Nothing of the garage remained recognizable. The lights were out and thick black smoke tumbled over him in the darkness. It took Roger’s eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Acrid smoke burned his lungs and a shrill ringing tortured his ears. The smoke provoked a new round of coughing. He leaned back and waited for it to pass.

It was time to move. He had to find his way back to the lobby. Roger propped himself up on his elbows. Shattered chunks of concrete, jagged, exposed steel beams, and mounds of twisted metal surrounded him. Miraculously, none of this debris had rained down on him. Roger scrambled up to a kneeling position and discovered that all of his limbs still worked. His back ached and his ribs would probably be sore later, but at least he was mobile. That was important because the sooty smoke that now clogged his nose and stung his eyes could only mean that fire burned somewhere near. He didn’t want to be in this area when it came for him.

Roger glanced down and saw that he was kneeling on what had been the hood of a Mercedes. The distinctive hood ornament was still attached. He grasped this emblem and swung himself down to the cement floor. Roger’s long legs propelled him toward a nearby ramp. After several steps, he realized that the ramp no longer existed. The far wall with the sign on it was also gone as was the interior wall nearest Roger on his left. Where they had been, a gaping hole extended down into the darkness. Loose electrical wires, conduit, and plumbing pipes dangled into this seemingly bottomless pit. His company car was somewhere in that abyss.

Black phlegm boiled out of Roger’s nose and he doubled over in a fit of spasmodic coughing. The smoke would suffocate him if he didn’t evacuate immediately. He turned around and backtracked in the general direction of the elevator. Jerk, he thought, if the lights are off, the elevator won’t be running either. Still, going back took him farther away from the hole and the smoke. Roger stumbled through the darkness over a field of debris. It took him several minutes to wind his way through this maze of destruction before stumbling upon an unobstructed ramp. Daylight filtered down from the summit.

Roger was exhausted from the punishment absorbed by his body. He hugged the sidewall, desperately trying to catch his breath. Raspy, wheezing noises escaped through his lips. He noticed that he was not alone. Dozens of others struggled to advance up the ramp. Some wore coats like him, but most were in shirtsleeves. It was a strange parade. All sported running noses, snot covered faces, and bloodshot eyes. Hacking coughs echoed off the walls. No one spoke.

A man in a long, dark coat approached him. The man put his hand on Roger’s shoulder and said, Are you alright? Roger looked up and realized that the man was a firefighter. A black helmet with a red shield on the front sat snugly on his head.

Roger’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper. Yes, thank you. I’m fine. I just need a minute to get my wind.

Are you sure? I can assist you up to the street.

Roger smiled in appreciation. That’s OK. I’m really going to be fine. You probably should go into the garage. There are people down there who need your help more than I do.

The fireman, knowing that this was probably true, nodded, patted Roger on the shoulder and said, Good luck, buddy, before hurrying down toward the inferno.

Fresh, cold air filtered down the ramp. Roger wanted to be outside in it. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and blew his nose into it. The black slime that ended up deposited in the cloth repulsed him. He coughed, cleared his throat, and hawked up a greasy ball of phlegm that he spat against the wall. It hung on the concrete like a licorice stick before running down to the floor. No wonder his chest felt sore.

Pushing away from the wall, Roger hauled himself up the ramp. At the top, he joined a growing crowd of people standing in the street savoring the crisp, clean air. Roger sucked it in, bent over again in a fit of coughing, then stood and walked away from the World Trade Center.

The scene was one of chaos and confusion. Dozens of emergency vehicles simultaneously converged on the site. Fire engines vied with police cars and ambulances for available strips of asphalt. Roger watched as a small group of firefighters strapped air packs to their backs and jogged down the ramp. He looked across the street and saw people sitting against the side of a building waiting for assistance. Roger considered joining them, but decided instead to leave the area.

Roger headed for the subway. He lived in the West Village. Normally, he could hop the #1 train and take it to Christopher Street, then walk the two blocks to his building. This would be impossible today. The #1 train ran right under the Twin Towers. Even in the unlikely event that it was running, he wouldn’t have been able to get to it. To do so, he would have had to retrace his steps through the garage. Roger decided to walk the block over to Broadway and take the #4 instead.

Smoke gushed from the side of the north tower. It began to snow. Light, fluffy flurries blew through the sky. He started to shiver. Turning his back on the smoking towers and yanking his coat collar up around his neck, Roger walked across the street in the direction of Broadway.

Chapter 2

He sat in the warmth of an uptown #4 train as shock sank in. Roger’s hands trembled and his heart pounded. He studied his soot-covered clothes. He smelled like the ash pit beneath his fireplace on a humid August afternoon. Stealing a look around the subway car, Roger caught several passengers peeking at him. Maybe it was because he was sitting in his stocking feet. Most of them had their backs turned. This was exactly the way he treated homeless people on the subway. These riders probably thought that he was homeless.

At the Brooklyn Bridge station, Roger left the train, crossed the platform, and boarded a waiting #6 local. It was only three stops to Bleecker Street. His apartment was a short walk from there. The 6 train originated at the Brooklyn Bridge station so he had no trouble getting a seat. While he waited for the train doors to close, Roger reached into the tote bag, removed the manila envelope, and ripped it open. He quickly skimmed through the legal documents and stuffed them back in the envelope. The personal mail looked more interesting. He rested the stack on his lap and sifted through it. A lot of it was junk mail. He tossed this assortment of flyers and solicitations to the side on the molded orange plastic bench. He kept the mail most likely to contain bills on his lap. Roger was annoyed with Paula for not processing these for payment. She hadn’t even opened them. Payment of house expenses was the least that she could do. After all, she was the one actually living in the house.

The doors closed and the train bumped into motion. Paula had evicted him just before Thanksgiving. He had returned from work one day to find all of his clothes neatly piled up on their bed. A terrible fight had erupted as Roger first scolded his wife for her theatrics, and then begged her to reconsider when it became obvious that she was serious. The encounter ultimately disintegrated into a vicious exchange of personal attacks that culminated in Roger losing his temper and storming out of the house.

The train lurched to a stop and the doors opened. Roger looked up at several people just entering the car. With amusement, he saw the revulsion on their faces as they stepped past him toward the safe end of the car. He rather enjoyed playing the role of homeless man. It suited his present circumstance. He had the tiny one bedroom apartment, but it had no meaning for him. All of his memories remained locked in the suburban Long Island home that he and Paula had shared. Most had been happy memories. The accident had changed everything. Soon after, Paula had moved into the guest room. Their relationship spiraled downward, culminating in an ugly scene on Christmas Day 1991. His problem had been his failure to recognize that Paula’s spirit had been extinguished. Now, their marriage was over. He had the divorce papers in the tote bag to prove it.

The doors squeaked shut again and the train began to roll. Roger didn’t notice as he focused on these sad memories. Only when they rumbled into the next station was he aware that they had moved. His stop was next so he began stuffing the mail back into the bag. As he did, one particular envelope caught his attention. Like many of the others, it featured a clear plastic address window. The name in the window made this one unusual. Roger smiled as he studied it. Rex Franklyn. The return address on the upper left corner identified the sender as a major bank. Roger turned the envelope over and ripped open the back. Rex Franklyn was receiving a credit card solicitation. He giggled aloud which caused the people closest to him to edge farther away. Roger noticed, but couldn’t stop giggling. Rex was the name of his dog. Well, Paula’s dog now.

Roger scanned the text on the double-sided insert. Old Rex had a brand new MasterCard waiting for him. All he had to do was pick up the phone and dial the convenient 800 number shown in bold type at the center of the page. The marketing vice president whose facsimile signature appeared at the end of the letter was even happy to inform Mr. Rex Franklyn that he would enjoy a five thousand dollar line of credit on his new card. Not bad for a twelve year old black lab with a graying muzzle. Roger wondered how Rex was going to dial the phone when he called to claim his card. He snickered at his little joke and his fellow passengers edged even farther away. It didn’t matter. He was getting off at the next stop. They would soon be rid of this deranged maniac. He shoved the MasterCard envelope in with the rest of the mail as an idea formed in his head.

The apartment wasn’t much. The rooms were small, the walls badly needed paint, and the furniture was tired and seedy. It was a third floor walk-up but cheap and had come furnished. For now, it was home.

The exertion of trudging up the stairs triggered another coughing jag. Roger spit large black globs into the bathroom sink and looked at himself in the mirror. He was a frightful sight. Gray lines dribbled down his face and charcoal streaks highlighted his neatly trimmed, straight brown hair. Roger recognized his long face with its prominent jaw. The hazel eyes reflected in the glass were familiar despite their bloodshot appearance. He stripped off his filthy clothes and took a long, hot shower. His hair required three shampoo applications to wash out most of the soot. When he felt reasonably clean, Roger turned off the water and toweled himself dry.

He pulled clean jeans and a white T-shirt over his medium build, athletic body and sat on the one threadbare chair. Roger sipped a bottle of iced tea and stared at the thirteen-inch television set. Horrifying images filled the screen. An armada of emergency vehicles dotted the foreground. Their flashing lights cast a red glow across the screen. Behind them, Roger recognized the twin towers of the World Trade Center. At the top left corner of the screen, a yellow graphic confirmed that the picture was live. Thick black smoke still gushed from the buildings. Roger listened to the commentator’s dialogue.

Nothing like this had happened at the Trade Center since its 1973 opening.

On an average day, fifty thousand people either worked in or visited the buildings.

Many are believed to be trapped on upper floors.

Elevator service is out in the towers.

The police speculate that either a ruptured gas main or a powerful bomb caused an explosion in one of the subbasements.

Building engineers have reassured the media that the Towers’ structural integrity was not compromised, but that their assessment is preliminary.

Roger put his drink on the side table and listened with rapt attention when the commentator began talking about casualties. Police had confirmed three deaths so far, but would not release their names until next of kin had been notified. These victims had been caught in the blast as they sat in a subbasement lunchroom. The next report of mutilated bodies found in the parking garage grabbed Roger’s attention. He watched videotape of an interview with a police sergeant who suggested that determining the identity of some of the casualties might be difficult due to the trauma suffered. The officer further speculated that other bodies would likely be found buried in the rubble. He assured the reporter that it might take days if not weeks to recover all of the victim’s bodies.

Roger stood, stretched, turned off the TV, and hurried into the bedroom. His idea was developing into a plan. He pulled a suitcase out from under the bed, threw it on top of the sagging mattress, and zipped it open. Tugging dresser drawers open, Roger quickly filled the black suitcase with underwear, socks, shirts, and pants. He was careful not to empty any one drawer. It would be important later that the apartment look as if someone might return home at any moment.

Roger reached into the closet and withdrew his heavy winter overcoat. Only after this was carefully folded and placed in the suitcase did he realize his mistake. Paula had seen him wearing his raincoat that morning. And she had bought the overcoat for him. She would notice that it was missing, so it had to stay in the closet. He pulled it out of the suitcase and hung it back in the closet. Roger pulled the now grimy raincoat off an adjacent hanger. It would have to come with him. So would the filthy clothes that he had just stripped off. The smoke in them would foul the clean clothes in the case, but that couldn’t be helped. Quickly, Roger stuffed his ruined suit and raincoat into the suitcase. Next, he tossed in the underwear that he had worn. The towel he used after his shower followed this. Last to go in was the blue tote bag containing the mail and the divorce papers. Convinced that he had eliminated all evidence of his presence in the apartment, he zipped up the suitcase.

Roger checked the entire apartment for any loose ends. Good thing. Out of habit, he had packed his shaving kit. He retrieved it from the suitcase, returned to the tiny bathroom, and deliberately placed each of his personal items back in the medicine cabinet. The empty canvas kit went back in the cabinet under the sink. Razors and toothpaste would be available wherever he was going. Finally satisfied that he had restored the apartment to its original condition, he slipped on a light windbreaker, picked up the suitcase, and vacated the apartment.

Roger’s breath hung in the chilly air in front of him. The suitcase was heavy and forced him to stop every couple of yards, but the walk was critical to his plan. Roger saw the busy traffic of Canal Street at the next corner. He would be much less conspicuous hailing a cab from there. Reaching the intersection, he paused, caught his breath, and raised his right arm. He hoped that the yellow windbreaker didn’t look too odd in this frigid weather. Roger shivered under it despite having slipped on his heaviest sweater before leaving the apartment. The snow flurries didn’t help. With chagrin, Roger remembered that his good leather gloves were packed away with the soiled clothes in his suitcase. He debated whether to open it and retrieve them, but decided against it. He was paranoid that someone would remember his face and recognize it later when his picture appeared in newspapers. The sooner he left the better. Roger tapped his feet on the frosty pavement and waved his arm at a group of approaching taxis.

Wispy gray smoke from the Trade Center complex drifted across Canal Street. The sight brought back the image of the horrible devastation in the parking garage. The metallic screeching of bad brakes returned Roger to the present. A yellow cab rumbled to the curb and abruptly stopped. Roger opened the back door, tossed in the suitcase, slid in behind it, closed the door, looked up at the driver, and said, LaGuardia Airport, please.

Chapter 3

Snow pelted the windows at the far end of the rink. The flakes fell large and heavy. Pierre hoped that the plows caught up with the storm before practice ended. The ten-mile drive back to his condo would be a bitch. His next-door neighbor had claimed that Hartford sat in some kind of snowbelt. Of course, he was no stranger to winter storms. Having grown up in suburban Montreal, he remembered February blizzards worse than this.

Pierre ripped off his helmet, pulled off his gloves, and ran his left hand through his bushy black hair. Sweat beaded up on his brow and his breath came in shallow, raspy gulps. He was badly out of shape. Not dressing for six straight games had allowed him to get lazy and sluggish. Playing back-to-back games the next two nights had been a strain. Today he felt like shit. He wondered how much longer Rod would keep them on the ice.

Resting against the boards, Pierre drew in long, cleansing breaths. When he exhaled, a frosty cloud fogged the Plexiglas. He studied his reflection in the glass. Piercing gray eyes, a huge bulbous nose, and a ruddy complexion stared back at him. Pierre turned and saw his last name stitched in green block letters into the back of the white sweater. "CHANDON"

Pierre grinned and thought back to 1989. The Hartford Whalers management had just drafted him out of an eastern Canadian junior hockey league, signing him to a multi-million dollar four year contract. They paraded him before the local media at a lavish press conference held here in the Civic Center. Then they presented him with his first NHL sweater. Number 19—CHANDON. The GM told the media to remember the moment because that uniform was destined to hang in the rafters in retirement someday.

Chandon had not achieved stardom in his first three years with Hartford. He rationalized that he had only been too young and immature at eighteen to live up to their advance billing. He truly believed that he would become one of the great superstars in the league. When he wanted to, he possessed the skills to impose his will on a game. So far, those flashes of brilliance had come sparingly.

Injuries had hampered his play and Pierre easily lost his concentration when bothered by nagging aches and pains. The resulting depression he fought with substance abuse. This left him sapped of energy, which translated into sloppy work habits. It was a vicious cycle.

Pierre was still convinced that he would be alright. Natural talent alone would keep him in the game. The previous evening was a good example. The Whalers had played the second of a home and home series with the New York Rangers. They lost Wednesday night in New York, but returned to the Civic Center on Thursday and won convincingly in a come from behind victory. Pierre was pleased with his performance in both games. In the first, at Madison Square Garden, he felt slightly out of sync and missed two really good scoring opportunities. The Whalers lost 4-2. He left that game exhausted with his back aching from a solid Mark Messier check in the second period.

Pierre and several teammates hit a couple of midtown New York City bars following the game. After three Canadian Clubs, he excused himself and flagged a cab to transport him downtown. Since his accident, Pierre was much more careful about his drinking. Pierre directed the cab driver to a street corner in Chinatown. He knew a drug dealer who was more than ready to keep Pierre’s bulbous nose filled with cocaine when the Whalers came to New York. It was like this in every NHL city. The dealers knew all the professional athletes. It wasn’t an expensive habit for guys making millions a year in salaries and endorsements. Not all of the players did drugs. Some were afraid of being caught by the league’s random drug testing. Others enjoyed different vices. Many were actually serious about taking care of their bodies. But, for those who wanted it, all kinds of shit was regularly available.

Pierre Chandon made his connection and stayed in Chinatown to do some coke and bang a hooker. The whorehouse was located one flight above a commercial laundry in a seedy building on Mulberry Street. By the time he left it, the first light of dawn had filtered into the eastern sky. He found a taxi on Canal Street and made his way back to the hotel. The drugs had him flying. His back no longer ached.

Pierre caught four hours of restless sleep followed by a huge room service breakfast and a long, hot shower. He did more cocaine before leaving the hotel. Later, on the tedious bus ride back to Hartford, sound sleep found Pierre. The bus was pulling into the arena parking lot when he awoke. Pierre discovered that he was penciled in for that night’s game so he went in to dress and did a little more coke in the trainer’s room. Rejuvenated, Pierre hit the ice with fire in his eyes and had a great game. He scored twice, assisted on another, and the Whalers trounced the Rangers 7-3.

Rod waved to him from the other side of the rink. Rod was one of a new breed of brash young coaches who had recently come into the league. He had never played professionally, but what he lacked in experience he made up in preparation. Rod was a brilliant tactician. Most guys loved to play for him. Pierre did not. Rod demanded hard work and dedication from his players. The press regularly compared Rod to his idol—the legendary Scotty Bowman. He was certainly just as demanding although Rod had not yet enjoyed any of Bowman’s NHL coaching success.

Pierre pushed his lanky body away from the boards and glided over toward the coach. Rod completed his conversation with some of the Whalers brass who then gingerly slid off the ice in their dress shoes. They exited through the bench area.

The coach barked across the ice at him. Let’s go, Chandon. Move your ass.

They met at the center ice circle and glowered at each other. Rod stood just over six feet, but still looked up at the taller Pierre. Pierre mopped his brow on the right sleeve of his sweater and said, "Sorry about that last rush. I shouldn’t have let the puck