Nothing special, except you

by Celia Hayes

  Read: stress. More stress. A stress overload.

  When I walked into the office, I found roughly three quarters of my colleagues with their head in their hands.

  Even Carla, who covered DIY and Gardening, was running here and there with a pile of photocopies.

  I didn’t have the time to take my coat off before being attacked myself.

  «Madison, Doc is looking for you».

  «Got it».

  I tried to not get pulled into the collective madness. I’d woken up with the headache of a lifetime. I’d taken two tablets, had a quick shower, put on a pair of skinny jeans and a white blouse. I had not managed to hide the dark circles under my eyes, but I knew how to get people to look elsewhere. First two buttons undone, sunglasses, red lipstick.

  Other than that, I was hoping for two or three hours of complete quiet locked in my office so I could recover. But first, I had to figure out what was new. It was rare for me to be called up that early. I was usually the one to get called out of hours, for something out of the box. A spur-of-the moment scoop on what was happening in a footballer’s underwear. All right, you might think that’s not much, but I got paid for that. Better than serving milkshakes.

  I showed up in the editor’s office with two cups of coffee. I took one, and handed Doc the other.

  I found him checking a small pile of photos, with the classic expression of someone who is pondering the unhealthy thought of flinging himself out of a window.

  «Bad day?»

  «Awful stuff, believe you me». He took a couple sips without greeting me. I figured out that I could sit.

  «You talking about the coffee?» I asked, or rather mumbled something like that. I was still half-dead.

  He laughed. He was talking about the photos, obviously. Though perhaps also the coffee.

  «You were at Tracy Taylor’s birthday yesterday night?» he asked, leaning on his chair. Doc was in his fifties, didn’t have a single hair left on his head, but you’d still give him a chance. He knew his way around, especially if you had some “experience”.

  «That’s right,» I nodded. «She’s on her third face lift, if you’re interested, and her husband on his third heart bypass. Want to bet on who’s going to last longest?»

  Doc was still looking at the Polaroids. I don’t know what party they were of, it looked like any other one.

  «What’s that stuff?»

  «You don’t recognise them?»

  He handed them to me, and I saw I was there, too. They’d been taken the night before, at that party, and I hadn’t even noticed.

  «Who took these?» I asked, puzzled. I didn’t remember asking for a photographer.

  Doc bit on his lip.

  «Would you believe it? I can barely recognise anyone. It’s not like it was, Madison, celebrities last a couple of articles now. You’ve barely learnt their names and they’ve already disappeared, replaced by more non-entities».

  He leaned against the back of the chair, finished his coffee. I took my time sipping mine. With the basket play-offs looming, my column took a seat in the back row. No one would be breathing down my neck for a while. What mattered was having a new piece ready by Saturday. No typos. With photos. “Not blurry ones, please,” would have said Ave. Ave is the editing overseer. She puts everything together before release. Then it’s printing time.

  «Look, I don’t want to meddle,» began Doc.

  That wasn’t a good start for a conversation taking place in his office, with the door closed.

  «Did something happen?,» I asked, but I already knew what to expect. Call it a sixth sense, but I thought he wanted to talk about my lift home. I’d hit bullseye.

  «You left early yesterday. With a man. I’m not going to meddle with your private life, Madison». He raised his hand. He didn’t mind how I spent my evenings, that was my business only. «But...» He rubbed at his face, he didn’t know how to say.

  It felt like the alcohol had gone back to my head. I’d tried to not think of that man pretty much all night. I hadn’t managed until four past six, according to my alarm clock. The alarm clock I’d flung on the floor. Which was why I was late.

  Doc wanting to talk exactly about him felt like a cruel punishment from destiny.

  «Whatever you have to say, just say it,» I granted. That would be quicker.

  «Be careful,» he warned. «I wouldn’t play around too much with that one».

  I quickly figured out two things.

  First: the night before everyone had seen who I’d gone out with, or Doc wouldn’t have found out.

  Second: Nolan was right. No one had tried to stop him when he’d taken me away.

  «Who the Hell is he?,» I asked Doc.

  «What, he didn’t tell you?»

  He slammed a newspaper under my nose. There was a photo of a man on the first page. I immediately recognised the suit, even though the picture was black-and-white.

  I read the column quickly. “Carter climbs Wall Street”. I looked at Doc. «That’s him?»

  «Nolan Carter,» he agreed. «He’s buying everything. He started with the shares of a banking company, now he’s running three quarters of the city. Businesses, offices. Us too, soon. Don’t ask me where he’s found the money to do it, because I don’t know and I don’t want to end up like the people who’ve tried digging».

  I couldn’t hide my concern. It was at the very least unusual for someone to come up out of nowhere and carve his way through society without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, mistakes, enemies prepared to tell all the dirty details in order to get revenge. Yet, there was a wall of silence rising around Nolan.

  «You want to own a man? Buy his debts,» mumbled Doc. «He has them all by the balls, he signs off the loans, he decides when they must be paid back».

  That explained what Nolan was doing the night before at Tracy’s birthday – a person who had chosen her wedding guests from the pages of Forbes.

  «I don’t think I’ll see him again,» I admitted, or perhaps hoped.

  «I’ve been a friend, now I have to be your editor». Doc clicked his tongue and put on a serious face.

  Trouble brewing…

  «You want me to meet him?» I couldn’t believe it.

  «Not only that, I want you to make him comfortable, enough that you can snoop around his life and find out who Nolan Carter really is». He knew he was asking too much of me, and immediately tried to justify himself. «We’ll give him a warm welcome, we only ask for a little co-operation on his part».

  «And I should sleep with him?» I knew how things worked and didn’t want to change my path – just figure out my part in that whole business.

  «If you feel like it». Doc shrugged indifferently. «I told you, I’m not meddling,» he guaranteed. He only cared about the end result. How I got there was my problem.

  «But you want something from me,» I reminded him. If he wanted to use me, at the very least he had to own up to it. Doc chose to put it another way.

  «Just think, Madison, if we were the ones controlling the man who controls this town». Doc was not one to sugarcoat his words. «I’m trying not to sink. If I fall, you fall with me,» he warned.

  I’d had enough of sitting. I went and dropped my empty cup in the bin.

  It should have been a Monday like any other. It was even play-off season. I expected the stadium to be sold out and that I’d have nothing to do for the rest of the week, save for my nail parlour appointment on the Friday. And now I had an interview with the most elusive man in town.

  Doc realised I was not happy about it. «You don’t want to do it?,» he asked.

  I shook my head, nervously.

  «Five minutes ago you didn’t want to hear anything about Nolan Carter, Doc. You told me you’d keep away from him, that he’s not all right, that he’s dangerous,» I spat his own words back at him.

  Doc sighed, joined his fingertips, and just played the part he was expected to play.

  «That’s why I’m sending you.»

>   What an absolute dick.

  It was then that I realised a third thing – that I’d got myself in trouble.

  Christopher Dunn

  On the streets they called me Wolf.

  I’d got an eagle tattooed on my side when I’d joined my first gang.

  I punched hard, I asked few questions, I knew how to keep my mouth shut and I went with the flow. That saved me from hunger, and kept me away from jail.

  Then she happened.

  I’d only seen her one time, and that had been enough.

  It had turned my life on its head. Ruined it.

  Her name was Madison Hill. I’d heard it said that she’d been hired for a stage with a local magazine. I don’t think she earned a lot, I knew she topped up her income writing gossip columns as a freelancer.

  I shouldn’t even have known who she was, but she’d managed to catch a guy I had business with, with half a key of coke in his hand. He was coming back from a party, she’d seen him in his car and had taken a couple photos. He was someone of note, she was drunk. She didn’t even imagine the mess she’d got herself into.

  Before she got us both in trouble, I’d gone looking for her. I didn’t want to harm her, just talk to her. Ask her to give me the pictures and keep her mouth shut for a while. Just the time to fix a couple things I’d left hanging, then I’d even give her the pictures back. I didn’t care about the guy, but I needed things to run smoothly for a month or two.

  She was a little girl, I was sure I’d persuade her, maybe scaring her a little. I trained every night in a gym in my suburb. I fought welterweight, amateur matches. I was sure I could do some work on that one.

  I had waited for her by her house, leaning against my motorbike. I only knew her name: Madison Hill. Didn’t have a clue what she looked like, but when she’d come out of the taxi I’d immediately known it was her. With that look in her eyes she could only be the one to cause you a lot of trouble.

  I’d got closer, pulling up the hood on my jumper. There were a lot of cameras around there.

  «Hey».

  She’d looked at me.

  My fucking brain had blacked out.

  I’d never been one to talk much, but I hadn’t managed to say one word more.

  She’d been alarmed. You didn’t often spot people like me around there. Old jeans, leather jacket, the face of a criminal.

  «You want to rob me?»

  She thought I was going to take her money. I’d felt like laughing.

  «How much do you have in there?» I’d asked, thinking I’d have some fun. I thought she would get agitated, or something. That she would scream.

  Instead she’d pulled her wallet out and started counting, all pissed off.

  «Look, I’ve got thirty dollars left and a lunch coupon. I can give you my credit card, but it’s not going to be much good. I’m six hundred dollars below. I’m always in the red». She was shaking her head. «I’ll give you everything if you’ll go away, but let me keep my keys. I don’t want to go to my parents. What do you say?»

  She’d even wanted to haggle.

  And I was thinking I’d never have a woman like that. She was like one of those race cars, the ones that cost you a kidney. Curves like no one’s business, eyes like a cat and a mass of black hair falling down to her rump.

  «So what? You want it or am I keeping it?»

  She’d waved the money under my nose again, and I’d thought she must have thought me a tramp.

  So I’d grabbed her by the wrist and I’d forced her to put it down.

  «I don’t want your money».

  «Then what do you want?»

  Another one would have been terrified, she was challenging me. And I liked it. Her scent was making me mad, I would have ripped that dress off her that very moment if she’d asked me.

  I’d gone looking for her to get myself out of trouble, and yet the only thing I was thinking of was what I had to do to have a woman like her. No, not one like her. I wanted her.

  Four years had passed since, and I hadn’t changed my mind.

  I hadn’t seen her again since that evening, but there had never been room for anyone but her. And I’m not that kind, I’ve never been the relationship type. I was fucking some girl called Liza. I pulled in clubs sometimes, but I didn’t go past a night’s quickie. I had a lot of problems. I was only trying to put aside enough cash to leave that fucking hole of a flat and start from scratch. In Los Angeles perhaps. I knew a guy around there, who owned a garage. I was good with motors. That was the plan. And with a glance she’d managed to ruin it all.

  «You’ve got something I need». I’d told her in the end.

  «I think you’ve got the wrong person». She’d tried to lose me, I’d kept my grip on her just so that I could keep touching her.

  «You took pictures of the wrong guy».

  She’d started figuring it out, she was sharp.

  «You’re too late.»

  «What do you mean?» I knew she’d fooled me from the look in her eyes. «You’ve gone to the cops?»

  She’d shaken her head. She was about to tell me something, but she was reached by some guy with a Rolex that was worth in itself more than anything I owned – my life included.

  «Anything wrong?»

  He’d put a hand on her shoulder.

  It was the kind of guy who drinks cocktails, goes to reunions of people wearing Harvard fleeces, and snorts coke in nightclub toilets. I stank of beer, I’d bought that pair of jeans for twenty dollars, and I played pool in bars. If I didn’t want him to call the cops, that was the time to let go.

  «I only asked her if she had a light». I’d pulled back. I couldn’t afford any more shit. I already had enough.

  She’d played along.

  «Come on, I’ll take you home».

  She’d let that guy escort her to the elevator.

  I watched her climb up the stairs and kept thinking I’d never be able to touch a woman like that.

  That had been the last time I’d seen her. Because the next day, she’d ruined my life.

  I’d been forced to run in the middle of the night, to leave everything I have, my name included.

  I’d never tried to track her down again. But I’d thought about it every night, for four years. And when at last I’d come back, she was the first person I’d looked for.

  It had been twenty-four hours since I’d left her at her place. Yet I went into that bar with her scent still on my hands.

  I could feel it everywhere. On my clothes, on my tongue.

  «What can I get you?»

  «Fix me a scotch».

  How had I ended up with her in my car? I’d told myself to move slowly, to be careful. Instead I’d dragged her to a limo’s back seat and I’d taken her clothes off.

  I don’t know what had got into me.

  I’d met her at a party. She was drunk.

  I’d kept to a side, watching her. Then she’d moved away, she’d gone out on the terrace, and without thinking I’d followed her. I just wanted to talk to her, see if she would remember me. But how could she? I was no longer some guy in a pair of twenty-dollar jeans. I had a Rolex too.

  «Hey».

  As I was thinking back on what had happened, sitting at that bar, someone drew close to me.

  I didn’t turn. I drank and stared ahead.

  «Don’t I know you?»

  «I don’t think so».

  «Yes, I’ve seen you somewhere before. I never forget a face». He was thinking about it, poring over it. «Aren’t you Chris? There was a guy once who moved around these parts, yes… His name was Chris».

  «You’re mistaking me for someone else,» I told him.

  Because Chris was dead. A woman with eyes like a cat had killed him.

  I left a five-dollar tip. I put on my jacket and got on my bike. That night I would get everything back, my life included, and with interest, this time.

  Two

  Don’t ask me why, but when he’d left me by my place I’d been
sure that I’d meet Nolan again. Of course, I didn’t think it would happen that night.

  I’d come out of the office at six. So I didn’t have to go back home, I’d listened to a friend’s suggestion and stopped for a drink in a busy club on Ninth, the Smoke Club.

  I’d ended up being approached by a lawyer from the DLA Agency, and I’d scribbled my phone number for him on a Paulaner beer mat. We’d told each other we’d hear from each other again, but I already knew I’d never answer his calls. I did that often, get close to a guy I’d never seen before, forget all about him a moment later. It was part of the game. You never know in advance who could prove useful, in a job like mine. In the meantime you collect contacts, knowing you’ll think about it later.

  That night I got Bradley’s number, a Sex On The Beach and a taxi.

  The plan was to have a hot bath, fall into bed and watch a movie. It was roughly what happened. I had the bath, and I fell into the wrong bed, though not to watch a movie.

  Let’s take a step back.

  I was still lounging in the bath foam when Greta phoned me. Greta had been working at the Sunset for ten years. She handled meetings, appointments, organised conferences. Because my pieces were made up mostly of cocktail-bar gossip and indiscretions gathered in hotel toilets, me and Greta talked a lot. She gave me tips, when she could. Where I would find a certain person, and most importantly, what that person would be doing.

  I’d left my cell phone by the side of the bath. I listened to Greta with my eyes closed, a cigarette in hand.

  «Can you be ready by ten?,» she asked.

  I checked. It was nine PM. That was a problem, because whatever I was in that moment, ready was not it.

  To me, ten PM was like five for any other person. I started picking up pace only when the street was filled with the scent of the night, I was at my best when the lights were off.

  «What’s going on?», I tried to get a sense for it, to figure out if it was worth the fuss.

  «I’ve seen some movement around the docks. Miko Yakizu, one of the hottest fashion designers right now. He’s doing a runway show on the Queen Elizabeth to showcase his Summer collection. The show is sponsored by a company that makes jewelry. The yacht does a tour of the bay, comes back tomorrow morning. Gambling in international waters, high fashion, champagne. The paper gets a free pass. They’re looking for someone to write a piece about it. Sounded like your kind of thing».