How to Spend $20,000 in 20 Hours

6:41 a.m.

Hide. Get to Bullet, grab the notebook, run. Find a safe spot, then start counting.

7:27 a.m.

Eat. Anything you want. Problem is, you look and smell like shit. So does Bullet. You need a plan.

7:48 a.m.

“Hey, could you help me out? No, man, I don’t want your money, I swear.”

Don’t sound so desperate.

“Can I buy you breakfast, mister?”

Shit, there he goes.

8:23 a.m.

Penn Station. Rush hour. Who cares about a bum heading for the bathroom with his hands to himself?

8:41 a.m.

“Hey, you can’t be—”

“I got money. Just give me a haircut. With shampoo. And a shave. Here’s two hundred dollars.”

“Jesus Christ, the stink on you. Can’t do it, Jack, my chair will smell all day.”

“Another hundred, then.”

“Shit. Luis, shut the door and pull the blinds down. And get me some hot towels. Buddy, the dog’s going to have to go.”

“An extra hundred if he can stay.”

“Shit.”

9:15 a.m.

“Where can I get some new clothes?”

“You rob a bank?”

“No.”

“Yeah, right. Well, even with a clean face, you ain’t walking into Bloomie’s.”

“I know.”

“Two blocks down, across the street. Diamond Pawn. Or try the Goodwill Store on 25th.”

“Okay.”

“Now git.”

9:28 a.m.

“Can I help you?”

“Got anything in my size?”

“Got any money?”

10:22 a.m.

Hush, Bullet.

“What’ll it be?”

“Three eggs, pancakes, side of bacon, toast and coffee.”

“Sir, this is a vegan restaurant.”

“Your sign’s got an egg on it.”

“That’s our logo: Midtown Veggan. Even our eggs are vegan. Want to try some?”

10:47 a.m.

“Welcome to McDonald’s, what can I getcha?”

“Two Egg McMuffins, hash browns, coffee.”

“You got it. Dog’s gotta go, though.”

11:13 a.m.

“Taxi!”

“Where you heading?”

“Bloomingdale’s.”

“Hop in.”

1:24 p.m.

“Welcome to The Plaza. Checking in?”

“How much is a suite?”

“Which one, sir?”

“I don’t know. The best one?”

“How many in your party?”

“Just me and Bullet.”

“Yes, sir, we love pets at the Plaza. If this is Bullet’s first time with us, may I suggest the Edwardian Suite?”

“How much?”

“That would be $1,275 per night. Plus $250 for Bullet.”

“Okay. One night. But I want to face Central Park.”

“Very good. If I could have your credit card and driver’s license?”

“I’ll pay cash.”

“I still need a credit card and driver’s license.”

“No credit card.”

“You’ll need to cover incidentals.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

2:50 p.m.

A man could die happy in this tub. Even Bullet doesn’t mind the bubbles.

3:36 p.m.

“I’d like to order the Central Park Pancakes. And a Heineken.”

“Sir, that’s from the Eloise menu.”

“Who’s Eloise?”

“It’s the children’s menu.”

“So?”

“It’s a smaller portion.”

“Okay, I’ll have the filet mignon.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“The pancakes, too.”

“I’ll put that right in.”

“You got something for dogs?”

“Our hamburger patties are a big hit with our furry guests.”

“Two of those. How does caviar taste?”

“Fabulous. May I suggest the Ossetra?”

“Okay.”

“Excellent. I’d also recommend a champagne pairing. The Krug is outstanding, but the Taittinger is also a fine choice.”

“That one. And do you have toothpaste and a toothbrush?”

“I’ll have housekeeping bring those right up.”

6:00 p.m.

Just one thing left. But you need the right man, with the right look. There he is.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like some company.”

“Sir?”

“A lady.”

“What’s her name? I’ll make some inquiries.”

“I don’t know her name, but here’s three hundred dollars.”

“Very good, sir. Have you been to the Rose Club? I’ll reserve a table for you tonight at 8 p.m.”

“She has to like dogs.”

“Excuse me?”

“C’mon, man, not like that. She just has to like dogs.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

8:03 p.m.

“Is this seat taken?”

“No.”

“May I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Eloise.”

“Like the menu?”

“That’s right. The Plaza has many Eloises. She’s the hotel’s most famous guest, but she never existed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“And your name?”

“How much for the night?”

“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”

“No.”

“Excuse me? I’ll have a Manhattan. You?”

“The Taittinger. No caviar. I don’t like caviar.”

“Now I know four things about you.”

“Four?”

“You like champagne, hate caviar, you’ve got a dog, and you don’t belong here anymore than I do.”

She’s done her best. The clothes are quality. The hair, pinup blonde, doesn’t look natural, but it’s short and sleek and buys her a few years. The skin’s the giveaway; no cream could smooth that leather.

“You Irish?”

“You care?”

“No.”

“So, what’s your tale, Dale?”

“Found some money.”

A smile. “How many pairs of socks did you buy?”

“One. Okay, five. But I only need one.”

She nods. “How much did you find?”

“How much are you?”

“Enough to be worth every penny.”

The champagne tickles. “Can we go upstairs after you finish your drink?”

“What’s your rush?”

“Isn’t time money for you?”

“That didn’t sound condescending at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Imagine that. I come here to escape the street, yet I end up hustling with you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re just a collection of apologies. It’s fine. Five hundred up front. Everything else is negotiable.”

9:03 p.m.

“A suite? You did the thing right.”

Bullet appears, stunted tail a blur. He dances in a circle, yips with excitement. Eloise melts.

“Who is dis widdle guy? Come here, honey.”

She’s on her knees, and suddenly they’re old friends. Bullet knows kindness when he sees it.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.”

Count and recount.

“I have 162 left.”

“Of what?”

“Hundred-dollar bills. That’s $16,200.”

“Wow. More than I guessed.”

“That should be enough.”

“For what?”

“For Bullet.”

“Come again?”

“For you to take my dog. Give him a home, some love, real food, whatever he needs.”

She stands up.

“That’s what this is about?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not an animal shelter.”

“I know what they do in shelters.”

“You also know what I do. It’s not exactly a dog-friendly profession.”

“Bullet won’t give you any trouble. He’s the kind of dog that’s made up of other dogs, and those guys get along with everyone.”

She’s shaking her head.

“You find this fucking fortune, enough to set you up for years if you’re smart. You could take care of Bullet just fine. Why are you doing this?”

This was the plan. How does she not see that? She knows the way of things.

“Whoever lost this money’s gonna come after it. I’d be thinking about it all the time, worried about getting caught, getting it stolen.”

“So move to Florida.”

“What if something happens to me there?”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Get beat. Get arrested. Get so down I don’t want to get back up.”

She squats again and calls to Bullet, black dress hiking up around pale thighs.

“You just got the kind of break the rest of us only dream about, and we literally fucking dream about it. You’re already looking forward to feeling suicidal?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then snap out of it! You’ve got money, a cute dog, and the freedom to make choices. Not to mention a hot piece of ass in your bedroom. You might be the richest man in The Plaza tonight.”

“I’ve got cancer.”

“Bullshit. Don’t try that on me.”

Shit.

“Look, I need the money, don’t get me wrong. But not like this. You’ve got Bullet. Be bulletproof for him, okay?”

One last card to play.

“I don’t have cancer. What I have is fifty-two years on this Earth, most of them in jail or on the street. And this little black notebook.”

She thumbs through it, reading out loud.

“‘Whatever it costs you to give, it costs me more to ask.’ ‘Please help. All sales final.’ ‘Homeless is where the heart is.’ What is this?”

“Ideas for signs.”

“Do they work?”

“Hell, yeah. I save the cheeky ones for summer and tourists. Others are just for emergencies. Too much of a good thing, you know?”

“I still don’t see the problem.”

“I stopped using them. Stopped writing new ones down.”

She says nothing. Bullet nestles between her legs, as if guarding a bank vault.

“I didn’t care anymore. About any of it.”

“And him?” She points to her dog.

“Got him nine days ago. He’s called Bullet because it was the sound of a bullet that startled him and sent him running into my arms.”

“That’s enough to make him yours.”

“I know. He goes everywhere with me. Helps me on the street and everything.”

“I bet he does.”

“Then I find this money. A second treasure, right? I’m counting it, thinking of all the shit I’m gonna buy and all the food I’m gonna eat.”

“And you didn’t care,” she finishes.

“Not really. It felt like more trouble than it was worth.”

“So this was the alternative?” she waves around the room.

“Why not? Give me one night at The Plaza, and find me one person to be kind to Bullet for the rest of his life. That’s worth twenty grand.”

She blinks away hard, salty tears.

“He’ll miss you.”

“Yeah. But he’s tough. He deserves better than the life I can give him, even with that money.

“What happens to you?”

It’s done.

“I’m going to sleep in the softest bed I’ve ever known. Then I’ll walk out of here with a smile on my face.”

She stands up on legs that shake only slightly, bends over and scoops up Bullet.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Drew. I’ll stay with you tonight. You’ve got no money left for a fuck, but I’ll make an exception, just this once. You interested?”

“Yes.”

“Gee, thanks. Afterwards, we’ll sleep in that beautiful bed together. In the morning, you can decide if you want to go ahead with your plan. If you change your mind, no hard feelings, just give me five grand for the night.”

“Deal.”

“Good. Now go wash up. You could use another round. I’ll make myself pretty for you.”

“You’re plenty pretty.”

“You’re too sweet, Pete.”

“You want to know my name?”

She shakes her head.

1:19 a.m.

You’d think Eloise was a light sleeper. Occupational hazard and all. If she did wake up, she doesn’t show it. That’s class right there. Bullet isn’t fooled. One second he looks like he’s been shot: belly up, stubby legs in the air, paws curled, tongue peeking out. And all of a sudden he rolls over and cocks his head. Just making sure this is the decision, boss.

The fancy clothes can stay in the closet, except for the socks and shoes. The notebook gets dropped into the bag with the money. Eloise will know what to do with it. Pawn shop threads make their first appearance at The Plaza.

1:57 a.m.

The pre-dawn chill is an old friend. Central Park lies across the street, huddled against the cold as if it, too, is homeless.

2:12 a.m.

With every step, the Plaza fades into fantasy. Can people really spend so much on something so forgettable? The park is different. It growls in its sleep, like Bullet sometimes does.

2:41 a.m.

“This is a place to dream things that never were—and ask why not.” That’s the inscription on the bench. So sit and dream. About Eloise: a real girl with a made-up name. About Bullet. Maybe he’ll become part of The Plaza’s story. Hey, what’s this on the menu? Bullet’s Biscuits? Why, sir, that’s our special treat for furry guests, baked right here by our pastry chef. Don’t you know about Bullet, the homeless dog who magically found himself one winter night in the Edwardian Suite? No one knows how he got there, but legend says he was found by the ghost of Eloise herself, who made sure he was adopted by a kind lady. She took him home to live happily ever after with her.

Why the hell not?