Girl Watching You

by J. A. Schneider

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  “You almost struck Chloe.”

  “Almost, because she raked me with her nails.” Greer tugs his shirt collar aside, shows me a nasty, still-reddened gouge on his neck. “I feel horrible, just sick about the murder” – his voice catches - “but she…we’d started to end badly and she may have been seeing someone else. She was angry from the first moment I saw her that night. Things got out of hand; booze made it worse.”

  Something fierce takes hold of me and I don’t care if I push him; I just want to see Greer angry. “Maybe she finally accepted that you’re a predator.”

  “Wrong, because I’m not.” Greer broods; sips his wine.

  He didn’t get angry….

  “Horrible word,” he says. “And even if it were true, does that make me a killer? Do you seriously suspect me? My wife who’s a little thing had to half-carry me drunk to the couch – do you really think I could have made it back down to West Eleventh, up that fire escape, then all the way back to Fifth?”

  That confirms it…he slept on a couch. If he faked more drunk than he was, he could have easily slipped out. My mind next rushes to Darcy Lund…but I pull back. I’ve confronted Greer enough and his news about Boudreau has rocked me, taken too much out of me.

  He has his phone out, is leaning across to show me a picture. “Do you recognize this woman?” His tone is odd. He has something new on his mind and it’s hard to switch gears.

  “No, should I?” The woman on his screen is blond, unsmiling.

  “It’s my wife Chrissy. She’d like to talk to you.”

  I look at him.

  He lifts a shoulder, takes a longer drink. “After the cops left, I told them you’d seen me.”

  “Who’s them?”

  “The housekeeper and Chrissy.” He gives a sigh, pushes my glass closer to me. “Would you please have just a little wine to keep me company? I need company.”

  I give in, raise my glass, and drink more than I’d intended. The slug almost calms me; makes me appreciate the fact that I’m not dead yet, and that letting Greer come up might have been good after all.

  “Better?” I say, putting my glass down.

  “Much. You’re drinking company; that’s a good start.” He almost smiles. “So back to Mary and Chrissy-”

  “Who’s Mary?”

  “The housekeeper. She’s still helping with my move.” Greer toys with his glass. “Anyway I was drunk, don’t remember half of what I told them, didn’t even know your name. I just said, ‘the flower girl on the corner.’ Chrissy is…depressed, rarely leaves the apartment.”

  He raises his eyes to me. “Would you be willing to go see her?”

  I blink. “Why?”

  “She thinks you remember her…like her. She had to drop off the kids a couple of times and went to buy flowers, says you were nice. She voice mailed me to ask you.”

  I give a still-confused shrug.

  Greer drinks more.

  “This is just me worrying, but if you go and she asks about what you saw on the fire escape, I’d appreciate it if you, ah, toned it down. I don’t need more against me in the custody battle.”

  “Doesn’t she have friends?” I ask, thinking the poor woman probably wants sympathy for having married such a louse.

  “Not really. Fair weather types who gossip about you the second your back is turned. She’s sick of that scene, doesn’t go out, doesn’t see people. I get her beef but the isolation is bad. Her shrink says having visitors would help.”

  Greer takes a moment, broods into his glass. “I hate having the children see her…the way she gets. Mary and the nanny try to play mother but, forget it. Maybe you could cheer her. Talk about flowers.”

  I can’t picture myself entering a Fifth Avenue gold-and-marble lobby, but curiosity pulls. Compassion pulls, too. Another woman enduring misery. “Okay,” I say uneasily.

  Greer thanks me. From his breast pocket he hands me a small, scrawled-on paper containing the name Chrissy Greer and a cell phone number. The handwriting is male: assertive block letters pressed into the paper.

  Interesting: he’d written it before coming up.

  “Do you think, maybe, you could go tomorrow?” His eyes search mine.

  I look at the paper, suddenly wracking my brain for something missing from this conversation; something I had wanted to know. “Okay,” I agree again, feeling a little lost. “When would be a good time to call?”

  “Late morning. She takes Ambien, other stuff, moves around in a fog.” Greer exhales gratefully, business completed. “I’ll get to work on Ricky Boudreau. He wants to talk.”

  I lay the paper down, pick up my burner again.

  He looks at it. The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Going to get rid of that?”

  I nod. “Pity I can’t return a twenty dollar phone. Buy lottery tickets or something.”

  He snickers. “You’re refreshing, you know that?”

  “How so?” I say, getting up unsteadily.

  “You’re funny.” He rises too. “Not ambitious, using men to advance yourself like the only kind of women I seem to meet. I mean, Julliard, and you work in a flower shop.”

  Oh, his people have been researching me. We start moving toward the door.

  “That’s because my career tanked.”

  “No, it didn’t. That son of a bitch Brett Moore blacklisted you and you still crack jokes.”

  “Helps keep me sane.” I’ve relaxed a bit more, thanks to the wine and the fact that I’m still not dead.

  I lean my shoulder against the door. Greer steps close, puts his hand on the knob. “You’re very sane,” he says quietly.

  He doesn’t move. His fingers wrap around the knob, but limply; seem not to want to open.

  We study each other for a moment.

  “Why did you say you’re moody?” I ask abruptly. That’s it, the something missing…the question I’ve been wanting to ask since he called.

  He stares at the door knob; inhales. “Because I’m a very unhappy person,” he says. “All cold and empty. Nothing’s ever worked out.”

  “Nothing? You’ve got riches, everything.”

  “She’s poisoning the kids against me and I deserve it. I thought struggling up from Pennsylvania poor would make me happy; it hasn’t. My shit is my own fault.”

  My guard drops; my hand goes up to him. “But you can fix it, provided you didn’t kill anyone.”

  Greer laughs.

  “Just say you’re sorry. I mean, I’m getting divorced because he never said sorry-”

  He pulls my hand to him and kisses it; then pulls my whole body to him and his lips are on mine, desperate and forceful and I’m lost because I’m kissing him back, full and hard, shocked and shaking.

  I stiffen in his arms. “You have to go,” I manage.

  “I know,” he whispers against my mouth, kissing me again, and again. “I know.”

  We pull apart. He opens the door, and looks unhappily back to me. “Wish I’d met you years ago,” he says.

  Then he’s gone.

  23

  In the dark between two street lamps, he stands looking back at the house. He feels surprised, which is a strange feeling for him. How different she is….

  For seconds he sees her again, peering out to the street with her chin down, as if in thought. Then she withdraws, disappears from view and he feels disappointed…wants her to come back to the window; wants to run back up and bang on her door-

  But he can’t. He’s late, has to hurry.

  He shoves his hands into his pockets for one last look. The wine has helped unfog his brain, shake his headache left over from last night.

  She isn’t just beautiful; she has depth. After the first minutes he stopped looking at her slender curves hidden beneath her loose-fitting clothes, and fixed instead on her eyes…large and soulful. He knew she was frightened. He heard the fear in her voice from her first words to him on the phone…which makes her brave too, letting him co
me up like that.

  He turns, walks a few paces.

  Brave? Oh yes. That scene in the alley with him waving his gun - she should have been terrified but instead turned her back to him, walked away! In that moment he was wildly drunk and furious…but also impressed.

  He reaches his car, gets in, and pulls out behind an NYPD blue-and-white just passing, patrolling the neighborhood. They circulate constantly, he noticed while he was waiting for the other guy to leave. Joe, his name is? Her boss, not her boyfriend…he was glad to hear it.

  West Fifteenth is one-way going west, which is inconvenient because time presses. So he slows, lets the patrol car go another block, then careens left onto Seventh and then left again – his wheels squeal - hitting Fourteenth at a speed he hopes the cops won’t catch. Minutes later he pulls into the glaring underground garage near Union Square, and sixteen minutes exactly after leaving Ava he steps from the elevator onto the busy floor with the bright young traders working late, hunched before ranks of computers, gaping alternately from their screens to the dizzying mass of big screens on the wall. Tokyo, Shanghai…crazy busy tonight because it isn’t night over there; it’s minutes before nine in the morning, but they’re probably sleepless too.

  “Where ya been?” Win Brady greets him. “You’re millions late. Billions!” Win is waving a bottle of gin. Greer takes if from him, takes a slug – booze helps, he doesn’t care what anyone says – and sits at his long desk in the middle of the worker bees. At least he isn’t a FILO anymore – first in, last out – these kids are in their late twenties and not long out of business school. He’s forty-one; it’s been years of this, time to cut back.

  He gets a few looks because he abandoned them at five-thirty – but he’d done his homework, was ready to guide them, and wanted like crazy to talk to Ava. Ditto, his return visit to her just now. Cripes, he’s attracted; is he going to be able to stay away from her?

  He’s a portfolio manager. Tonight, on short notice that a Shanghai-based stock is about to split, he has to provide guidance on how to re-structure that portfolio.

  A bell sounds, and they’re off. Eyes bug for a few seconds. Then chairs scrape and roll over to him, laptops slam onto his desk, and everyone starts talking, bleating, pointing to the big screens on the wall. He squints his eyes, fast scans scrolling numbers, and shakes his head.

  “Buy,” he says.

  Uproar! That puppy just lost millions in ninety seconds! Look at that, the damned thing plunged more!

  “Fundamentals are strong,” Greer says, switching to his own screen, scrolling. “Yep, somebody’s screwing with it – buy,” he says again.

  There’s yelling and shouting – “think big and delusional!” - and they’re trading, gaping, emitting locker-room hoots. Greer hopes desperately that he can get out of here by one, two at the latest, because he barely slept last night. His eyes scan and scroll; he hears their shouted questions and answers…but he also hears Ava again - so modest! My career tanked…and he said No, it didn’t, that son of a bitch blackballed you….

  She is one no bullshit lady. He tried, with his Now back to what you saw from the fire escape…and she said, You were horrible….

  That makes him smile. The women he’s known wouldn’t have dreamed of talking like that.

  As for the murder, it’s horrible; he feels shocked and shaken. Like Darcy… That preys on his mind, too. But so far, there’s been no mention of him in the papers; he can walk the streets. The atmosphere here is another planet entirely.

  Someone yells, “There’s an asshole just sold short big in Paris!” Greer looks up, squints at that screen, tells the squad of worried eyes to ignore it.

  The front of his mind continues to manage the ship, but the rest of his thoughts stay stuck on Ava Beck…those soft, really beautiful, luminous eyes….

  24

  What just happened?

  I lock up, press my brow to the door, and try to cool my sudden insanity. You lost it, I storm at myself. Logic, logic…!

  Greer’s visit was choreographed: He gave back the burner, offered help against Moore if I help him, mentioned his hard beginnings for sympathy, then sealed it all with a kiss, literally. What a sap I am. He even had his wife’s name and number written out before he came; probably planned the whole visit with his lawyer. The thought makes me bitter…for moments.

  Then I wonder if the kiss was planned.

  Maybe not. It felt spontaneous…desperate.

  I go back to the coffee table. Now I raise my glass, gulp wine down fast because I need it. Wow, I think; faking nice sure took a surprising turn…not that I’m swayed, oh no. Logic, right?

  But the man is smoking sexy. I can see why women fall for him, and fall hard if that’s the way he starts his affairs. I also realize I’m trembling…in a deep ache in the belly way that I’d almost forgotten.

  I retrieve the small paper he left on the coffee table, study his fast, bold scrawl. Probably his only mistake, I think, writing it out before he came, and that makes me unaccountably sad. That part, he definitely planned.

  “I’m tired and stupid,” I whisper, shamed.

  On the other hand, the help he offered is extraordinary. It’s sinking in. Did I hear right?

  I carry the bottle and glasses to the sink, run the water and rinse, thinking that what happened isn’t all bad. He’ll think we’re what…friends now?

  Fine, I decide; it’s a card game, play your hand like that. And this Ricky Boudreau wants to talk? Well then, braving Greer’s visit brought new intel for Kim’s case, beyond extraordinary if it pans out. Brett Moore would be toast! Kim would be avenged!

  I pop the little antihistamine tablet, but may not need it. I feel heartened. Still, I carry the Burgundy into the bedroom, put the bottle on the side table, sink down next to my pillow.

  Another thought occurs. A big, ironic one.

  The tragedy of Chloe Weld’s murder has opened up my life again. From hurting loner in a shriveled world - look: in one night, two men in my place, and tomorrow I’m off to pay a social call. Chrissy Greer is…like I was. I want to meet her.

  I slug more wine, put the bottle back, feel even more heartened.

  What, really, was so terrible about Greer’s “choreography?” He made two no-big-deal requests: visit his depressed wife, and tell the cops (if they call) more that they can’t use. Hours before Chloe died I only saw him being physically threatening – he raised his hand; bad, yes, but not murder - with no motive to kill because his wife and employer already knew that he womanized.

  So…what was his real reason for coming?

  If you cheer my wife it’ll cheer my kids.

  Could it be that simple?

  I upend the Burgundy for a longer pull, put the bottle back, and look over to the photo of Kim and me. “I have no idea what I’m doing, do I?” I tell her.

  She just grins and keeps goofing around, seeking footing seconds before she trips and drops her end of the canoe. “Oh, just follow your nose,” she’d say.

  But she was careless. Gave her heart and lost her life.

  One more slug, bottle back on table.

  Darcy Lund troubles me, but something Greer said after Jae-woo’s comes back: Rocco’s is a pit!

  There was disgust, even fear, in his voice. He may or may not have known that Darcy was using drugs, but is it just the wine telling me that he wouldn’t have been caught dead - excuse the expression - at Rocco’s at any time, much less at two or three in the morning?

  Long sigh.

  I change into a T-shirt and panties, get under the covers, and feel sleep coming fast.

  I still feel good, too. Most of all I’m hugely hopeful about Ricky Boudreau. Can’t wait to tell Alex.

  Morning comes like a miracle. I slept well and dreamless, never woke.

  For just moments, I squint against the sun sliver sneaking through the drapes. Then I’m up and excited, mulling last night in the shower, then back in the bedroom pulling on my navy tracksuit.

&n
bsp; By eight o’clock I’m pacing the bedroom, calling Alex with the explosive news that there’s a witness to Kim’s murder.

  “Ricky Boudreau?” he sighs, not impressed. “We know about him. Where’d you hear it?”

  “Around,” I frown, feeling crushed. “Show biz talk.”

  “That’s the problem, it’s talk.” There are clanks and kitchen sounds at Alex’s end, then the soft rumble of a microwave.

  “Peter Greer may hire him,” I protest, heading into the kitchen, struggling to hang on to my plunging good feeling. “Pay him more, get him to flip on Moore.”

  “Have you been talking to Greer?”

  “Ran into him. He didn’t murder me.”

  “Stay away from him! He’s a bullshit artist and dangerous.”

  I slam the bread down in the toaster, punch the coffee machine button. “But Boudreau-”

  “Is afraid of Moore, wants out but can’t. Moore has bodyguards who’d maul him or worse. Moore himself has guns, he’s insane.” Alex’s microwave dings. A small door slams. “Greer must know that. He played you.”

  “Played me for what?” I say plaintively. I want to weep. “He might have better connections than you do.”

  “Don’t count on it. If Boudreau’s afraid to die, he’s afraid to die.” Alex is talking with his mouth full. So annoying.

  I’m suddenly angry. Remember Greer’s assertion that Boudreau wants to talk - and dammit, I want to stay feeling good. I grit my teeth.

  “You know what I think?” My feet pace in circles. “I’ll bet you sounded wimpy to Boudreau. He’s tried going to lawyers before and chickened out because you’re all wimps. Most of you, anyway. Greer’s tough, he could pull something off.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. I didn’t mean to shoot you down.”

  “You’re good at that.”

  Alex ignores my last comment. “What’s frustrating is, Boudreau knows if Moore gets put away he’ll have nothing to worry about, but that’s Catch-22. Wait – how do you know so much about Boudreau?”

  “I hear things.”

  “Not from Greer, I hope. Waitamminit - where did you talk to him?”