Chapter 51: The Whole Story Got Twisted Along the Way
The streets of Midtown Manhattan looked especially bleak on a winter afternoon; cold wind carried a biting chill through the gaps between skyscrapers and sent coffee cups skittering along the curb.
Bruce buttoned his coat to the neck as he stepped out of the car, pulled a business card from his wallet, and checked the address again: Martinez & Doyle Accounting, 1270 Sixth Avenue, Suite 2312.
He strode from the parking garage to the tower at 1270, rode the elevator up, and found Suite 2312.
When he pushed open the office door, warm air laced with the smells of paper, toner, and an old copier washed over him; a dark-haired woman at reception looked up with a professional smile.
"Hi, I'm Bruce White. I have an appointment with Linda Martinez," Bruce said before she could speak.
"Bruce... oh, you're the one Grace referred?" the receptionist smiled. "Follow me."
Bruce followed her into a simply furnished private office where a Hispanic woman in her early forties was reviewing files; she looked up as he entered.
"Bruce White?" Linda's eyes were bright and alert.
"That's me," Bruce said, offering his hand.
Linda rose, shook his hand, and said evenly, "Grace called ahead. I've got the gist of your situation—please sit. Let's dive right in."
An hour later Bruce walked out of Linda Martinez's office and stood below the tower, feeling a weight lift; in that intense hour he had accomplished something crucial.
He had hired Linda Martinez as his tax professional, signed a power of attorney, and paid a $4,000 annual retainer; from now on every tax issue—past, present, or future—was in her capable hands.
Next, they split tasks: Linda would rush to file last year's two undeclared incomes, calculate the exact tax due, and prepare the paperwork for the IRS.
Bruce, meanwhile, headed straight to the bank and, following Linda's instructions, wired the back taxes and obtained the receipt.
After the wire, he presented the check and asked the bank to transfer the sum into his own account.
Leaving the bank, Bruce hurried to Estelle's office, showed the receipt to finance manager David, who then wired an equal amount from the trust account back to Bruce's personal account.
With everything done, Bruce drove back to Greenwich Village; before going upstairs he glanced toward Central Perk and was surprised to see Joey, Rachel, Monica, and Ross clustered around the big orange couch—yet through the window he could feel the atmosphere: grim faces, hushed urgent conversation.
Bruce pushed open the door; the bell cut their discussion short and every shocked eye snapped to him—then, to his bewilderment, their faces lit with relief.
"Bruce!" Joey rushed over and grabbed his arm. "You... you're okay? Found an accountant? Solved the tax thing?"
Before Bruce could answer Rachel blurted, "Bruce, thank God you're here!" She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes welling up.
Monica looked him up and down. "You look fine... Is it settled? They didn't give you a hard time?"
Ross asked seriously, "Did everything go smoothly? The IRS didn't open any additional investigations?"
Bruce was baffled. "Hold on... what's with you guys? I just handled my taxes—found a great accountant, Linda. She's filing last year's income; the two late payments went out before tomorrow's deadline. Problem solved. Why do you all look like I survived some catastrophe?"
They exchanged glances; the air turned awkward.
Monica spoke first, puzzled: "Joey told us... it was super serious! He said the IRS might arrest you over the taxes, the amount was huge, and if you didn't fix it you were done for!"
Joey jumped up, eyes wide. "Hey! Monica, I never said that—I just told you Bruce called saying he was in big trouble, tax stuff, 'two payments from last year never got filed,' 'deadline's tomorrow,' he 'had to find an accountant ASAP or he'd be in deep trouble'!"
Rachel immediately shot back at Joey: "Joey! When you came running down the stairs, that's not what you told me. You said: 'Rachel, something huge happened to Bruce! He didn't pay his taxes last year, the IRS is after him! He told me himself he's in deep trouble and totally screwed! He needs a lawyer right now or he's toast—he might even get arrested...'"
"Wait, I'm lost." Bruce raised a hand for quiet. "Looks like the story mutated along the way. One at a time—Rachel, after Joey told you, who did you pass it to?"
Monica said, "Me. I got Rachel's call saying the IRS might open a case against you for tax evasion and, if you didn't handle it, you'd be looking at jail time."
"Then I told Ross." Monica added that the instant she finished the previous sentence.
Bruce looked at Ross. Ross said, "From Monica I heard you'd skipped a ton of taxes, the IRS had launched an investigation and could issue an arrest warrant any second, and you were on the run or in hiding!"
Bruce pressed on: "And then you told...?"
Ross answered, "I told Chandler—he'll probably come racing back from the office soon."
Just then the café door jingled again and Phoebe burst in. Spotting Bruce, she gasped, "Bruce? What are you doing here?"
Bruce said, "All right, Phoebe—what version did you hear?"
Phoebe replied, "Chandler called and said the IRS arrested you for tax fraud involving illegal hot dog sales, and now you're in federal prison. Oh my God... Bruce, did you escape?"
Bruce half-laughed, half-groaned: "No, Phoebe, I didn't escape—but 'illegal hot dog sales'—where did that come from?"
Phoebe blinked, thought for a second, then said, "Okay, maybe I got the details mixed up. So what were you actually arrested for, and who bailed you out? I came ready to help!" She pulled an old envelope from her purse, tore it open, and slapped it on the coffee table; it was stuffed with crumpled bills and clinking coins.
Bruce's head throbbed. "Thanks, Phoebe, I'm really touched, but I don't need bail—I was never arrested. I just had a small tax issue; my accountant's already sorting it out. And..." He looked at her face and added, "Though if I had been arrested, I thought you'd come to break me out, not post bail."
Phoebe grinned. "You guessed right—but that was street-Phoebe from ten years ago."
Bruce glanced at his watch and the darkening sky outside. "Okay, everyone, I've got to pick up my girlfriend from her office. Tonight's the first time she's coming to my place for dinner as my girlfriend. Tomorrow night I want to treat you all to a celebration dinner. Can you all clear your schedules after work?"
Joey spoke first: "Of course, count us in." He leaned in with a sly grin. "But... I heard through the grapevine from Estelle's office that you and Miramax just closed a 'big deal.' That's another reason to celebrate, right?"
Monica pressed, curious: "So how 'big' is this deal?"
Bruce held up one finger.
"One million dollars?" Monica held her breath.
Bruce gave a smiling nod.
Instantly the group erupted: "Oh my God!" "No way!" "A million?!" "Bruce!"
Rachel asked excitedly, "Bruce, does this mean you're moving? That money could keep you in a Fifth Avenue penthouse—with a terrace, a doorman, and a walk-in closet bigger than Monica's whole apartment—for life!"
"No. Why does everyone—Estelle included—assume I'll relocate? I'm not moving." Bruce looked around at them. "Because you're all here."
Phoebe's eyes sparkled as she clapped. "You could just take us with you! I only need a tiny room."
Everyone chimed in at once: "Yeah, Bruce, bring us along!" "Exactly, a small room works for us!"
Bruce laughed. "Deal—just give me a little more time. I need to write more scripts and make more money. All right, everyone, I've really got to run."
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