"Let's just say you can do all the searching you need by sitting on your ass."
"I've used Google."
"That's a place to start. But there's more to it than that. There're services. You drop a few bills, they can find anything. I kid you not. A little bit of luck, you'll get his name, address, where he went to school, what kind of dog he has, how big Nanci's tits are and how long his dick is."
"Seriously?"
Freddy frowned. "Okay. Probably not the boobs and dick, but that's not impossible. The world has changed, my friend. The world has changed."
FRIDAY IV
THE PEOPLE'S GUARDIAN
CHAPTER 26
At 12:30 a.m., Abe Benkoff took a last sip of his brandy and clicked off the streaming Mad Men episode with ten minutes left to go. He liked the show--he worked in advertising, one of the biggies in Midtown, though on Park, not Madison--but without Ruth here, it wasn't as much fun to watch. He'd save the episode for when she returned from her mother's in Connecticut the day after tomorrow.
Benkoff, fifty-eight, was sitting in his leather lounger in the couple's town house in Murray Hill. Many old buildings here but he and Ruth had found a three-bedroom co-op in a building that was only six years old. A motivated seller. That coincided with Abe's promotion to partner of WJ&K Worldwide, which meant a bonus. Which became the down payment. Still more than they could afford, technically. But with the kids gone, Ruth had said, "Go for it."
And they had.
Great for entertaining. And it was just a walk to his job and hers, at a publisher in Times Square.
Abe and his wife had sunk tens of thousands into the decor and appliances, stainless steel, glass, ebony. State-of-the-art kitchen--a phrase that Abe would not let a copywriter slip into an ad, though it certainly did describe the room. Brushed-steel stove and oven and other accessories.
Tonight, though, he'd cranked up nothing more than the microwave, zapping General Tso's Chicken from Hunan Host, up the street. Not so great in the calorie department but it had been a busy day, he'd gotten home late and didn't have the energy--or inclination--to whip up something healthy.
Was General Tso from Hunan province? Benkoff wondered, rising stiffly from the chair and gathering the dishes. And if not, would he be offended that he was being honored by a restaurant with roots in a different locale from his own?
Or was Hunan Host run by Taiwanese or Koreans or an enterprising couple from Laos?
It's all in the marketing, as Abe Benkoff knew quite well, and Cambodian Star might raise a few questions and discourage diners. Or Pol Pot Express, he thought, both smiling and acknowledging his bad taste.
The plates and glass and utensils he took to the kitchen, rinsed and stacked them in the dishwasher rack. Abe started to leave then paused and returned. Then rearranged the dishes and utensils the way Ruth would have wanted. They loaded the appliance differently. He believed he was right--sharp ends down--but that was a battle not worth fighting. It was like trying to convince a Dem to vote Republican or vice versa.
After a shower, he donned pajamas and, snagging a book from above the toilet, he flopped into bed. There he set the alarm for six thirty, thinking about the health club. He laughed to himself and reset it for seven thirty. Benkoff opened to page thirty of the thriller, read five paragraphs, closed the book, doused the light and, rolling onto his side, fell asleep.
Exactly forty minutes later Abe Benkoff gasped and sat up in bed.
He was fully awake, sweating, gagging, from what was wafting through his bedroom.
Gas!
The room was filled with cooking gas! That rotten-egg stink. There was something wrong with the stove. Get the hell out! Call 911. But get out first.
Holding his breath, he instinctively reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it on.
He froze, his fingers gripping the switch Are you out of your mind? But the light didn't, as he'd thought in a moment of icy panic, set the gas off and blow the apartment to pieces. He didn't know what might do that but apparently a lightbulb wasn't sufficient. Hand shaking, he shut the bulb out before it got hotter.
Okay, he thought, stumbling to his feet, the danger's not explosions--not yet. But you're going to suffocate if you don't get out. Now. He pulled his robe on, feeling dizzy. He dropped to his knees and breathed slowly. Still the stink, sure, but it wasn't as bad lower, near the floor. Whatever was in natural gas, it seemed to be lighter than air and at the ground level he could breathe all right. He inhaled several times and then rose.
Clutching his phone, he made his way through the darkened apartment, picking his route thanks to the ample illumination from outside, washing through the ten-foot-high windows, unobstructed by curtains. His wife insisted on this and, though he didn't care much for the glare and the lack of privacy, he silently thanked her for it now. He was sure that if there'd been curtains he might've stumbled in the dark, knocking over a lamp or some furniture, metal against stone... producing a spark that would ignite the gas.
Benkoff made it down the hall to the living room.
The smell was growing stronger. What the hell had happened? A broken pipe? Just his place or the entire floor? Or the whole building? He remembered the story of an apartment in Brooklyn where a gas main explosion had leveled the five-story structure, killing six people.
His head was growing lighter and lighter. Would he faint before he got to the front door? He had to pass the kitchen, where the gas probably was coming from. The fumes would be greatest there. Maybe he could open one of the windows in the den--he was just outside the doorway--and suck in more air.