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How long does it take to drive to Chicago?
* * *
I have to admit it. Liz’s apartment complex isn’t quite the dump I’d expected. I mean, it’s nothing like mine — I’ve been parked outside the doors for a solid two minutes and a doorman hasn’t chased me away yet — but it’s not terrible either. Well, it shouldn’t be, considering how much Mother is probably paying her.
No, how much you are probably paying her. I’ve got to remember this, just in case it slips my mind and I forget what Mother has been pounding into my skull since birth: I’m a Westing. I’m different. I’m better. And Liz is an employee and nothing more.
It’s much easier to pretend she’s as ancient as Mother through e-mails or on the telephone. But in person? Is my stomach going to do that strange and unnerving twist again when I see her? It’s the same feeling I’ve always gotten midair on a dirt bike, when everything could still go wrong, before my body reacts to stick the landing. Unfortunately with Liz I haven’t stuck the landing once; if I ever failed as miserably on a bike as I’d done in Mother’s office I’d still be in traction.
Our conversation this morning had been quick. When I’d hung up with Mother, I’d seriously considered just leaving Liz behind. Mother technically never said I had to provide transportation for her too. Thankfully logic had won out. Mother would not be pleased if I ditched Liz in New York because I needed to be obstinate.
When I’d gone to dial Liz, I’d seen that she’d called me six times over the morning and texted me not at all. Her panic is clear in her calls (and in the fact that her flight was supposed to leave an hour ago) but still she’d blatantly ignored the pretty damn clear instructions I’d given her last night. It was almost enough to make me not call her back, but I powered through.
Like I said, the conversation had been quick. No pleasantries or tact.
“I need to get on that private plane with you,” she said immediately upon picking up.
“Can we say please?”
She rolled her eyes. I couldn’t see it, but I could picture it, those striking gray eyes flicking upward in utter annoyance.
“Please?” she added, like she was guessing the magic word.
“No,” I said. She started to protest angrily, but I talked over her: “Because I’m not flying either. Think a private plane is getting off in this weather? You think anyone is? Well, actually I’m sure quite a few people are but we’re not going to be so lucky.”
“Hilarious. You should be a comedian. You know, when this bank thing doesn’t work out for you.”
“Well, you should be a— a— plane.” Not my best comeback.
“A plane?”
“You know, so you could get yourself to Chicago and not rely on me to do it all for you.”
“I take it that means you have a plan?”
Red from my failed jab and swimming in thoughts of how the hell are we gonna do this for twelve hours, I had to get off the call as quickly as possible. “Be packed and outside your building at two o’clock.” Then I hung up.
I spent the rest of the day trying to find a decent car and, more importantly, someone who’d rent to me in the middle of a blizzard. I have my own cars, of course, but they’re mostly in storage on Long Island and none are well-equipped for harsh weather. It ended up being easier to just buy something and offer a huge fucking signing bonus to make the guy open the dealership just for me. I managed to make the two o’clock meeting by the hair of my ass, determined not to give Liz something she can throw at me by being late.
Now I’m realizing I shouldn’t have rushed. It’s 2:05 and Liz is late. Although, on second thought, now I have something to throw in her face. Ha.
My thoughts are interrupted when a figure in a giant bulky black coat with a fur hood knocks on my window. I have to peer closely to make sure this is Liz and not a crazy car thief behind on his rent. Gray eyes strike back at me from a red face, and I unlock the door before they cut a hole in the glass.
“You’re late,” I say triumphantly.
“You’re at the wrong building,” she snarls.
“No, I’m—” I stop as I take a second look at what I’d thought was her apartment building and am now realizing is a particularly attractive Benihana. “Huh,” I say. “How’d you find me?”
“I looked up and down the street for the only person in this city who’d drive a sports car in a snowstorm,” she replies.
“It’s a Hellcat. It has all-wheel drive.”
“Could you just unlock the trunk? Please.”
“Happily,” I say. I press the button and she slams the door shut, disappearing back into white and wind.
I glance out at the snow, at my coat in the back which is too much of a hassle to put on, down at my dry and warm clothes. Then I sigh and pull the parking break.
