Hidden Seams

by Alessandra Torre

  “Got plans tomorrow? I have a building to show you.”

  I flick a peanut shell off my thigh. “I don’t need another building.”

  “It’s not for you.” He leans forward, tenting his hands together. “I’m thinking of moving our office.”

  “Really?” I watch his profile, the way the stadium lights reflect off the wire rim of his glasses. “What’s wrong with the green palace?”

  Andrei’s company sucks up the front corner of an old strip mall, the lime-green building squatting on one of the more desirable corners of downtown. The sign out front advertises legal services, but immigration and visas take up the bulk of his billing. He handles all my girls, and cuts me enough of a break to continue our friendship, a Tigers’ season ticket included. We’ve sat through five years’ worth of games, and mourned and celebrated over hundreds of beers. He likes to bitch about his wife, I like to check out the players. In the entire city, there’s no one I trust more.

  “The green palace is starting to smell.”

  I smile. “Thank God. I thought that was Marcia. I didn’t want to say anything but…”

  “Oh no, she smells too. This is something else, like a moldy wet scent. I think it’s making me sick.”

  I groan and shove his shoulder. “You’re terrible.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who said she smells. I just agreed with you.”

  Chase Stern steps out of the dugout and I lean forward, admiring the perfect fit of his pants, his confident stride to the sideline.

  “So, the building is a few blocks down, where that shoe repair shop used to be.”

  I nod, half listening as I watch Chase grip a bat, taking a few practice swings. I eye the scoreboard. Not a good time for him to bat, not with the score tied and a Ranger runner already on base.

  “I’m seeing it tomorrow at two.”

  “Two?” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have shit to do. Come on.”

  I stretch my legs forward and think about Vince Horace, about the stupidity of my hope, a hope I can’t seem to dash. “What do you know about inheritance law?”

  “Inheritance law?” His voice sharpens, the building forgotten, his interest piqued. “What about it?”

  “Hypothetically speaking…” I pick at my bottom lip, pulling at a tag of dry skin. “If I found out I was related to someone, someone who has passed away, then what are my rights?”

  “Rights to what? Their estate?”

  “Or a blood test. Or … yeah, I guess. Their estate.”

  I hadn’t thought as much about the estate, about the fashion line, or whatever assets Vince Horace had left behind. I suddenly remember the bartender, the news clip of the young boyfriend, stepping out of the Rolls Royce. Billion? Is that what she’d said? That slice of gorgeous is about to be a billionaire. Yeah. I feel a moment of despair. There are probably dozens of ‘children’ coming out of the woodwork, gunning for that fortune. I’ll be seen as crazy, and maybe I am.

  “Can we not speak hypothetically for a moment?” He turns in his seat to face me. “This is about your father? Your real father?”

  I nod. “Yeah.” He already knows that history, the story shared over nachos in the Tigers club level a handful of years ago.

  “You think you found him?”

  “I don’t know.” I see the beer guy and raise my hand, digging in my pocket for a ten and passing it to Andrei. He stands, half-crawls over the aisle behind us, and gets my Bud Light. “I thought I did, but now I’m doing some research, and…” I make a face and take the beer from him. “Thanks.”

  “You’re doing some research and you think you’re wrong?”

  “Probably.”

  “So, do more research. You said the guy died?”

  I nod.

  “Have you reached out to his family? Introduced yourself?”

  “No family.” I tip back the bottle and allow myself a healthy sip. “No kids.”

  “Unless you fit the bill.”

  “Right.”

  “How much do you know about him?”

  I should just tell him. Just blurt it out, no matter how stupid or immature I’ll look. My lips open, my tongue moves, but I can’t. I might as well tell him that the Queen of England is my mum, and I’m going to skip off to my castle now, with a quick stop at a psych ward along the way.

  “He’s leaving everything to a friend of his.” It is all Andrei should need to give me advice.

  “You need to find out who his executor is. Contact them—or better yet, I’ll contact them. Let them know that you are contesting the will and that you’re a potential heir. First thing they’ll do is have you take a paternity test. But it’ll tie up any assets until the results of that test come back.” He meets my eyes. “You think there are any assets?”

  “Yeah.” I take another sip of beer to keep my mouth busy, and muse over the idea of Andrei sending the letter on my behalf. He’s right, it’d be better off coming from an attorney than from me. And it sounds simple, the way he explains it. We send a letter, they order tests, and then I’ll know. No Sherlock Holmes assembly of clues needed. No more wondering.

  “It’s Vince Horace.” I don’t look at him when I drop the bombshell, and he misses its blast altogether.

  “What’s Vince Horace?” Chase Stern hits a line drive that our infield can’t touch, and Andrei groans.

  “I think he’s my dad.”

  He cocks his head to the side and studies me. “The fashion guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “But he’s gay.”

  “Yep.”

  “So… are you sure?”

  I shrug. “Nope.”

  He runs both hands over his short-trimmed beard. “Avery.”

  “I know.” I kick one foot up on the concrete wall in front of us. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous.”

  I pick at the corner of my beer’s label. “It is.”

  “What makes you think it’s him? The photo?”

  “Yeah.” I get off half the label before it tears.

  “Let me see it.” He holds out his hand, and I sigh, leaning forward and reaching into my jacket pocket, pulling out my wallet.

  “It’s not a great photo.” I work the laminated photo out and pass it to him. He rests it on his lap and opens a web browser on his phone, googling Vince’s name and clicking on an image of him.

  “Not that one.” I reach over, scrolling through the image results until I see the one that most closely matches the campfire photo.

  “Who’s the pretty boy with him?” Andrei mutters, zooming in on the image and then holding up the photo next to it.

  “His boyfriend.” I lean in, baseball forgotten, and watch Andrei, his eyes flicking between the two images.

  He sighs and holds the photo out to me. “Boyfriend? How long have they lived together?”

  “I don’t know,” I snap, carefully returning the photo to its spot behind my drivers’ license. “Does it look like him?”

  “It does.”

  I am so prepped to hear a denial, and my head jerks up when he delivers the opposite. “It does?”

  “Yeah.” He grimaces. “But Avery, this is a mess if all you have is a photo. To be honest, I’m not even sure a judge would order a paternity test over a photo. Do you have any proof that he was at the concert that that photo was taken at?”

  “No.” I slump back in the seat. “Not that I’ve found.” Yet. Not that I’ve found yet.

  “Either way,” his voice softens. “We should try.”

  “Yeah?” I look at him.

  “Hell yeah.” He grins. “Do you know how badly I need work? Milking this disaster could cover the first year of rent on that building.”

  For the first time all night, a laugh breaks out of me and I lift my hands in surrender. “Fine. Take advantage of an orphan. If it gets you and Marcia out of that turtle shell of a complex, I’m in. And if I inherit a billion dollars, I
’ll buy you that damn building.”

  “Deal.” He holds out his fist and I bump it, our camaraderie interrupted by the crowd, who explodes in a cheer. Forgetting the fist bump, we jostle to our feet, our eyes on the field, our world back to normal for at least three more innings.

  * * *

  Marcia was my first girl. When I saw her, she was a pretty brunette, walking on a bad street, just before dusk. I passed her, saw two guys duck out of a gas station a block away, and pulled a U-turn. When I pulled up next to her, she flinched. When I offered her a ride, she hesitated but chose my warm car over the darkening Detroit street. Smart girl.

  I drove her over to Brightmoor and asked her a lot of questions, her answers delivered in halting Russian I barely understood. But I got enough of the gist. Eleven months left on her visa. Sweatshop hours. A boss who seemed to double as a pimp. She was two weeks in, somehow owed her employee two hundred and twenty dollars, and seemed a hairs breath away from being sold into the sex trade. I drove past Brightmoor and took her to my house. Fed her a TV dinner, and made some calls. Found an immigration attorney downtown who said he’d meet with us pro bono and give us some advice.

  That guy was Andrei. Marcia was his sexual kryptonite and my new dependent. I found her a short-term sublease, paid off her boss and got her a legitimate job at the hamburger place down the street. Brushed my hands off, patted myself on the back, and considered it my good deed for the year.

  A week later, she showed up with a friend, this one marred by a swollen lip and black eyes, her hip branded with a tattoo from one of Detroit’s nastier gangs. I was just a bartender, one who knew how to use a gun and had been in the city long enough to learn the players. I didn’t know what to do with her. I didn’t know what to do with any of them. But still, they came to me. Needed me. Told me stories of cramped living conditions, slave labor, and sexual assault. They drained me of cash and favors, of emotions and fear.

  Then, one died. I had met her two days earlier. Shared pizza and a beer with her. Learned a few words of Russian while attempting to discuss movie stars. Two days, and then she was dead in the street, mugged and killed for money she didn’t have.

  Someone had to do something. Someone had to protect them, manage them, set them up with better jobs and better bad guys, the sort who needed employees and not prostitutes, the sort who would pay them fairly and wouldn’t make them suck a dick in order to get paid.

  I didn’t want to be that someone. I wanted Andrei to be that someone. I stood there, while Marcia cuddled up to him on the couch, and gave him a fucking perfect PowerPoint presentation on an easy way for him to handle it all. “Why not?” I had accused him. “Why not earn all this money and help people? What are you, selfish?”

  I should have toned down my highfaluting guilt trip. Because when he turned the tables around, dumping the project in my lap, I didn’t have shit to say in terms of a rebuttal. When he said he’d do the first two years of visas pro bono, I felt the noose tighten.

  I turn down the television’s volume. On screen, the Entertainment Tonight special shows a close-up of Marco Lent, his head tilting back, champagne flowing down his lips. I look down at the eBook and study the image, one of Vince Horace and Marco Lent, leaning over a building’s railing and looking down on a crowd. They are both smiling, their bodies relaxed, the photo a festive one. I turn to the next image, one of a fashion show, Vince on the catwalk, waving to the crowd. Closing the reading app, I set my phone to the side and unlock my computer.

  I print out payroll spreadsheets and check deposits, pay a handful of bills and then turn to the counting machines. Washing eleven million in cash a year is laborious, especially when dealing with four hundred girls, four hundred bundles of cash, twice a month. It’d be easy if the girls each worked exactly fifty hours, but that never happens. People get sick, lazy, and some work overtime. Which means I have four hundred headaches, twice a month. I used to have a crew of two that handled it, but fingers get sticky when they do nothing but count out cash. Now, I do it all myself, aided by fifteen electronic cash counters. Four hundred envelopes, each with a name on it, stuck in a bin for their apartment building. I make the deliveries myself, accompanied by Bruce and Eddie—two guys who pack enough heat and muscle to bring down a small army.

  Flipping on the radio, I pull my long hair into a ponytail, grab the first spreadsheet off the printer, and move to the line of counters, entering payroll amounts on each screen in the line.

  When my mother died, my real mother, nobody bothered to contact me, the funeral passing by without my presence. It wasn’t until I called her cell, some months later, that I found out the news. A car accident, head-on collision. It was pouring rain, and she was alone in the car, my brother and sister unharmed and safe at home. Her husband was fairly cold on the phone and gave no explanation for not contacting me. Maybe he thought I didn’t deserve to be told. I certainly hadn’t been a communicative daughter, once I found her. There had been that initial visit, the gingerbread cookies, photo book session, and then just one other meeting—an awkward half hour at a Starbucks ten minutes from her house. I’d left from that encounter and decided I wouldn’t pursue the relationship any further. I just couldn’t see any of myself in her and each interaction seemed to make the feeling of lonely detachment worse.

  Working on latex gloves, I pull thin bundles of cash out of the machines and insert them in envelopes, sealing them and writing the girls’ names on the outside. I didn’t use to be all-female. In the beginning, when I was young and dumb, I employed men too. That first year was a disaster. Men didn’t like reporting to a woman, and they couldn’t seem to take an envelope of cash without offering a sly remark, or undressing me with their eyes. Between the sexual harassment, the blatant disrespect for my rules, and the inaccurate time cards, I almost quit the business. It took a stiff drink and a bitch session with Andrei to find the root of the cause—the penises. I removed them from the equation and my sanity and profitability soared. Now I just deal with hormones and girl drama. I can handle that.

  I sing along with Eddie Money and work quickly, the activity calming my nerves. Crossing off names as I move down the list, I studiously avoid the letter from Andrei, printed out and sitting in the middle of my desk, waiting for my approval. He had worked fast, locating the attorney in charge of the Horace estate. The letter requests medical records, recent financials, and a paternity test. Just reading it, I felt invasive and demanding, and way out of my league. Andrei’s accompanying email had been short and sweet. Please review and approve. I’ve reviewed it, I just can’t seem to pull the trigger on approving it.

  Cyndi Lauper comes on, and I hum along with the bouncy beat as I knock out another dozen envelopes, tossing them in the bin as I work. I make it through the first hundred, then take a break, jogging down the stairwell and to the first-floor vending machine. I grab a bag of Doritos and a grape soda, taking my time on my return climb, locking the deadbolt with my elbow when I walk back in. Sitting in my chair and crunching on a chip, I eye the letter and spin, using my foot to turn in a slow circle, surveying the stacks of cash, ready for distribution. Funny how scant half a million dollars can be, how little space it occupies.

  I should have Andrei send the letter. Why not? It’s not as if I have to do anything. He’ll handle it all. If they laugh at me, make fun of my request, I’ll never know. I’ll be sheltered and oblivious, all the way over here in Detroit.

  I complete the spin, the letter coming back into sight. I know the problem. It’s fear. Fear that I’m wrong and my euphoria at having a famous and talented father is misplaced. It’s fear that I’m ordinary, and will discover it through the most embarrassing method possible. What if the press finds out? What if my name gets leaked? What if I am wrong, and everyone finds out?

  The poor little orphan girl. So desperate for love and attention, she tried to claim a dead gay guy’s fortune.

  I crunch a chip in half and study the computer, my email minimized to just a small icon
on the bottom of my screen. Leaning forward, I click the mouse, and it expands to fill my screen. I open his email and reread it.

  Please review and approve.

  I glance at the clock. Barely one o’clock. Plenty of time for him to get the letter into an overnight envelope and headed to New York. It could arrive by tomorrow morning, step one of the process completed.

  Step one of my redemption or embarrassment, completed.

  Reaching forward, I place both hands on the keyboard and type.

  Send it.

  Chapter 9

  MARCO

  It never takes much for us to throw a party —we own both sides of this block, and with lights hung between the buildings, a permit obtained, the street closed, and a stage set up on one end? Done.

  At least, that’s how it always appeared to Vince and I. Everything goes smoothly when you have a staff, one well-schooled in our lifestyle and with unlimited budgets. Every house employee has been trained to the Ritz Carlton service standards, a program which preaches ownership of tasks and issues, along with perfect manners and an unwavering commitment to service. Partygoers always enjoyed the benefits of our entertainment and lifestyle—and got a peek into the world that Vince Horace reigned over.

  It had taken me years to get used to the opulence of his world, the constant buffet of nudity and drugs and excess. Now, I don’t even notice it. Maybe that’s a testament to my tolerance, or maybe it’s a sad side effect of my digression. I look back, at the man I’d been when Vince met me, and I can barely find that individual anymore.

  “Sir?”

  I look up to find Mario in the doorway, a gold clipboard in hand. “Yes?”

  “The Celebration of Life is about to begin.”

  Ah, yes. Not a funeral, since that is something that stiff old men have. Instead, a Celebration of Life. Vince’s will have a star-studded lineup of speakers, then the party will begin. There will be no viewing, his remains already cremated, the ashes to be shipped back to Connecticut and buried alongside his brother.