Page 81 of Old Money
Jamie’s phone goes straight to voicemail, and I hang up, dial again, and it doesn’t even ring. I give it one more try, and then I put the phone down and slowly ease into the intersection. A police car comes screaming down the road, heading in the direction of the highway—but that doesn’t mean anything. Jamie’s phone cut out barely three minutes ago; even if he was in an accident, they wouldn’t be on their way yet (right?). Besides, the cops are all over the place tonight, handing out firework fines. Like the saying goes, you can’t even get a speeding ticket on Fourth of July. On this particular night, you can get away with just about anything.
I check the road in both directions, then hit the gas and turn left, speeding toward the club. Those sounds I heard—that piercing squeal, that sickening whoosh—that could’ve just been traffic. Or perhaps Jamiedidhave a near-miss while we were talking and decided to just put the phone down and drive. Better safe than sorry.
I make it to the club in decent time, despite the handful of cops that shoot past, nudging me toward the shoulder. I take the service driveway up the back way, craning my neck as I reach the top of the hill and the staff parking area comes into view. I circle it, searching the crowd of cars for Jamie’s.
“Hey,” someone calls as I crawl along the front of the lot. “Alice?”
I screech to a stop and turn to see Cory leaning out from the staff entrance. He waves urgently.
“Alice, hold up, there’s a situation.”
“Oh my God, what happened?” I roll down the passenger window.
“Do you know where Jamie is?” Cory asks. His voice is as dull and unbothered as ever, but his face is alert—almost stressed.
“No, that’s— So he’snothere?”
He said he was coming back first, right? To make sure the servers were pushing water? I run through the timing again. He should be here by now.
My stomach twists as Cory shakes his head.
“Damn, thought he was with you.”
“Cory, what’s going on then? What situation?”
“One of the wives is throwing a shit fit in the gallery.” Cory glances behind him. “She’s drunk and pissed at her husband. It’s getting kind of loud.”
I sit back, gathering myself. This guy.
“So? Go deal with it. Talk to them.” I shake my head. “Did Jamie call?”
“I tried dealing with it,” Cory snaps, ignoring my question. “She toldmeto fuck off, swear to God.”
I put the car in gear. This is a waste of time.
“I don’t know, Cory, try harder. Bring them some cake and coffee—that’s what Brody does.”
“Uh, that’s a little below my pay grade,” Cory calls as I reverse into a turn.
“That’s not the expression!” I shout, heading back toward the service drive. “And no, it isn’t!”
I pull back onto Route 9 and call Jamie again—voicemail. It’s been over forty minutes now. Something is officially wrong. I aim for Ashborough, thinking I’ll go by his apartment. I don’t know the address, but I know it’s the same complex he grew up in—somewhere off the shopping center, near the Carvel. I have a vague memory of it, having been in the back of the car whenMom picked Theo up there, probably hundreds of times. I’m trying to picture the number on the door when I pass a familiar sign on my left: Riverside Hospital.
“Shit,” I whisper, stopping in the middle of the road.
I look back at the sign, gnawing the edge of my lip. Then I signal left and pull into the ER lot.
***
“Say again?” the woman at the front desk asks. “You were in a car accident?”
She scans me, uncertain.
“No, not me. There’sbeenan accident,” I repeat. “On the highway—the Taconic.”
She turns to a nurse seated at a computer a few feet behind her, typing. The nurse shakes his head without looking away from the screen.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” the woman says. “I couldn’t give you any information unless you were a relative anyway, but—it’s been a quiet night.”
