They finished exams and went home for the holidays, though neither wanted to. Gordy was determined to provoke the final fight with Brenda and blow up the wedding. Zola did not want to spend time with her family. Even with his troubles, her father would find the need to unload lectures and tirades on her sinful Western lifestyle.
After a week they were back in D.C. with Gordy still engaged, the wedding still on for May 15. But he was off his meds and behaving erratically. For two days he never left his bedroom, sleeping for hours, then sitting with his chin on his knees, staring at the dark walls. Zola came and went, uncertain about what to do. He disappeared for three days while sending her text messages that he was on the train to New York, to “interview some people.” He was on the trail of a great conspiracy and had a lot of work to do. She was asleep in her apartment when he barged in at four in the morning, ripping off clothes and wanting sex. Later in the day he disappeared again, chasing bad guys and “digging for dirt.” When he returned he was still manic and spent hours with his laptop. He told her to stay away from his apartment because he had so much work to do.
Frightened and exasperated, Zola finally went to the Old Red Cat and talked to Todd.
4
She met them at the stoop in front of the building and they followed her up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor. When they were inside she closed the door and thanked them for coming. She was obviously worried, almost frantic.
“Where is he?” Mark asked.
“Over there,” Zola said, nodding toward the hall. “He won’t let me in and he won’t come out. I don’t think he’s slept much in the past two days. He’s up and down and right now he’s bouncing off the walls.”
“And no meds?” Todd asked.
“Evidently not, at least none from the pharmacy. I suspect there’s some self-medicating going on.”
They looked at one another, each waiting for someone to make the next move. Mark finally said, “Let’s go.” They stepped across the hall and Mark knocked on the door. “Gordy, it’s Mark. I’m here with Todd and Zola and we want to talk.”
Silence. Springsteen could barely be heard in the background.
Mark knocked again and repeated himself. The music died. A chair or a stool was kicked and fell over. More silence, then the doorknob clicked. A few seconds passed, and Mark opened the door.
Gordy was standing in the center of the cramped room, wearing nothing but an old pair of yellow Redskins gym shorts, the same pair they had seen a hundred times. He was staring at a wall and ignored them as they eased into the room. To their left, the kitchenette was a wreck with empty beer cans and liquor bottles left in the sink and strewn along the counters. The floor was littered with paper cups, used napkins, and sandwich wrappers. To their right, the small dining table was piled high with papers in random stacks around a laptop and printer. Under it, the floor was covered with papers and files and discarded magazine articles. The sofa, television, recliner, and coffee table had been shoved as tightly as possible into one corner, as if to clear everything away from the wall.
The wall was a maze of white poster boards and dozens of sheets of copy paper, all arranged in some crazed order and secured with colored pushpins and Scotch tape. With black, blue, and red markers, Gordy was in the process of piecing together a gigantic corporate puzzle, some grand conspiracy that led to the ominous faces of a few men at the top.
Gordy appeared to be staring at the faces. He was pale and emaciated and had obviously lost a lot of weight, something Mark and Todd had not noticed two weeks earlier during final exams. He was an athlete who loved the gym, but the toned muscles were gone. His thick blond hair, the source of immense vanity, was stringy and had not been washed in days. Sizing him up, and taking in the condition of his apartment, they knew instantly that their friend had gone over the edge. They were in the presence of a manic artist, secluded and deranged and hard at work on an enormous canvas.
“What’s the occasion?” Gordy asked as he turned and glared at them. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, his beard a week old.
“We need to talk,” Mark said.
“Yes we do,” he said. “But I’m doing the talking because I have a lot to say. I’ve got it all figured out now. I’ve caught the bastards and we have to move fast.”
Tentatively, Todd said, “Okay, Gordy. We’re here to listen. What’s up?”
Gordy pointed to the sofa and calmly said, “Please have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand, Gordy, if that’s okay,” Mark said.
“No!” he barked. “It’s not okay. Just do as I say and we’ll be fine. Now sit down.” He was snarling, suddenly angry, and seemed ready to throw a punch. Neither Mark nor Todd would last ten seconds in a fistfight with Gordy. They had seen two in their law school days, both quick knockouts in bars with Gordy still on his feet.
Todd and Zola sat on the sofa and Mark pulled a stool over from the snack bar. They stared at the wall in disbelief. It was a maze of flowcharts with arrows jutting in all directions and linking together dozens of companies, firms, names, and numbers. Like schoolchildren who’d just been admonished, they sat, waited, and absorbed the wall.
Gordy stepped to the dining table, where a half-empty fifth of tequila was in the works. He poured some into his favorite coffee cup and sipped it as if having tea.
Mark said, “You’ve lost a lot of weight, Gordy.”
“Haven’t noticed. I’ll get it back. We’re not here to talk about my weight.” Holding the coffee cup, and evidently giving no thought to offering his pals anything to drink, he stepped to the wall and pointed to the top photo. “This is the Great Satan. Name’s Hinds Rackley, Wall Street lawyer turned investment crook, worth only four billion, which barely gets the poor guy on the Forbes list these days. A lesser billionaire, I guess, but nonetheless one with all the toys: Fifth Avenue mansion with a view of the park, big spread in the Hamptons, a yacht, couple of jets, trophy wife, the usual. Law school at Harvard, then a few years with a big firm. Couldn’t fit there so he hung out his own shingle with a few buddies, merged here and there, and now he owns or controls four law firms. As billionaires go, he’s rather shy and loves his privacy. Operates behind the veil of a lot of different companies. I’ve only tracked down a few but I’ve found enough.”