by Jason Pinter
She went back to reading the paper. Her fingers were still a little wet, and I could see the print rubbing off on them. She went to wipe her hands on the towel, then smiled and thought better of it.
“You see this?” she said, holding up a copy of that morning’s Dispatch.
I shook my head. I rarely read the Dispatch. Not because I held a grudge against them-though I did-it’s because they never had much I felt was worth reading. It was the kind of paper that rarely presented an even story.
It was all about eliciting a reaction, stoking a fire, presenting a story so biased in one direction or the other that readers would either be incensed or infatuated. I had all the major New York City papers delivered to my door in one bundle. I could care less about the Dispatch, but it didn’t cost anything more and every now and then I enjoyed reading the sports section.
“I must have missed it,” I said. “What’d you see?”
“Paulina Cole,” Amanda said. “Says here her column will be suspended until Thursday while she deals with a personal matter.”
“Really?” I asked. That surprised me. Paulina Cole was the kind of woman who didn’t take personal leaves.
If my mental image of her was accurate, she stayed in her office while darkness crept in, waiting for some scoop to brighten her desk. And if she didn’t get one, it would only fuel her fire to make the next scoop even juicier.
I wondered what could be so important that she’d suspend her reporting, even just for a few days. It would take either an act of nature or a revolt by the paper’s shareholders to get rid of Paulina. Which meant somewhere a storm was brewing. Not to mention I’d be lying if I didn’t hope, after everything she’d done to Jack and me, that it made her life a living hell.
No doubt Paulina would come back on Thursday with a story that would open some eyes.
11
Wednesday
Paulina Cole glanced over her shoulder. Still nobody there. The Mercedes was empty when she climbed in, empty when she started the engine, and empty when she pulled onto the FDR Drive toward I-95. She even checked the trunk-nothing-but wondered if there had been enough time for someone to climb in during the split second when she closed the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat.
The anger welling up inside Paulina was a firestorm.
She was scared, and God, she couldn’t stand that feeling.
The idea that someone controlled an aspect of her life that she did not, it was like being trapped in cement while people poked you with a stick. That night, the night that man took her, Paulina had experienced emotions she didn’t think she’d ever felt. Not when her husband left her.
Not when he took half of her money because his deadbeat ass barely made a dime, not when she was fired from her first job as a secretary for “not being presentable.” Of course this translated as she wouldn’t wear a blouse lowcut enough that the partners could see her tits, but even then Paulina Cole didn’t feel this sensation. Even then, she knew her future was in her hands. Small people thought small. She was meant for something bigger, grander, and nobody, no idiotic men-whether spouse or employer-would ever slow her down.
Until that night.
There were burn marks on her right side, just below the curve of her breast. It ached every second of every day, and she had to wear a massive bandage, otherwise all the aloe she put on it would seep through her shirts.
She’d never been brutalized. Not like that. She could take criticism. She could take people hating her. Hate came when you got under somebody’s skin, and Paulina was nothing if not a provocateur.
But she did nothing to deserve this.
And neither did Abby.
Thinking about what that man threatened to do to her daughter made Paulina shriek inside. And when Paulina
Cole got scared, she took those emotions and turned them inside out. Fear turned to rage, and rage had to be directed somewhere. She just didn’t know where yet.
She arrived at Smith College at just past noon, the entire hundred-and-sixty-mile-plus drive taking just over two and a half hours. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic leaving Manhattan that early in the morning. Lots of people lived outside the city and commuted in. Not a whole lot did the opposite. No sense paying New York living prices and make a non-NYC wage.
Finally Paulina found herself on College Lane, which was bracketed on the north by Elm Street. Figured, she thought, that this pagan sanctuary of a university would have an Elm Street.
The office of admissions was a three-level white-92
Jason Pinter thatched cottage with a second-level deck that hung over the entryway. The front door had several sun chairs on the porch, though Paulina couldn’t for the life of her figure out who exactly would choose to spend a beautiful day sitting in front of the admissions office.
Paulina parked the rental on the lawn directly outside of the admissions office, purposefully ignoring the yellow sign that clearly stated VEHICLES WITHOUT PARKING PERMITS WILL BE TOWED. Paulina knew this game. In order for her car to be towed, the admissions office would have to call the college’s office of public safety. The public safety office would have to dispatch an officer to survey the vehicle. If the vehicle was, in fact, parked without a permit, the public safety officer would then have the go-ahead to call the local police department, who would then dispatch a tow truck to remove the offending vehicle. The entire process, beginning to end, would take about forty-five minutes.
Paulina didn’t plan to be there more than five.
She walked into the admissions office, trying to avoid eye contact with the students huddled in the foyer reading the campus paper and checking their cell phones for text messages. She went right up to the registrar and planted her hands on the counter in front of the ruddy-faced man who looked at her like she was some vicious bear come in from the wilderness.
“Hi,” Paulina said with the conviction of a woman who knew she’d get whatever information she wanted and might just tear out your spleen to get it. “I’m looking for my daughter. I was wondering if you could let me know what dorm room she’s in.”
“Your…daughter?” the man said, surprised. Paulina could tell from the man’s demeanor that he was probably not considered any sort of threat to the student body of this all-girl school.
“Yes. My daughter. Abigail Cole.” The man sat there unmoving. “Is there a problem?”
“Well no,” he replied. “It’s just that, well, most parents have their children’s phone numbers and dorm rooms etched into their brains. You know, one of those ‘always know where to reach your loved ones’ deals.”
“Yeah, well I’m not one of those parents,” Paulina said.
“No, you don’t seem to be.” He picked up the phone.
“Would you like me to call her for you?”
“No,” she said. “I’d prefer if you just told me where she lives. I’d like it to be a surprise.”
“Surprise. Sure. Can I just see some ID?”
Paulina handed it over. The man took it gently between his thumb and index finger like one might handle a piece of forensic evidence. He looked at it, typed a few keys into his computer, then slid it back to her.
“Thanks, Ms. Cole. Abigal lives in room three-ohthree of the Friedman apartments.”
“Where can I find that?”
“It’s the housing complex at the corner of Elm and
Prospect streets. But you’ll need somebody to let you in-like Abigail. The doors are locked 24/7, and campus security is always on the lookout for people who don’t necessarily look like they know what they’re looking for.”
“Thanks for the tip,” she said, and left.
She drove over to the apartment complex and found a spot in the student lot in between a Volvo that looked sturdy enough to withstand tank fire and a Prius with a
Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker lovingly forgotten on the rear bumper.
She walked across the lawn toward the middle of the three dorms, for a moment thinking back to her
own time at college, wondering where it all went. She barely remembered the days that seemed to have flown by in a blur of books and late nights, staying up until four in the morning to ace the test that nobody else figured they could pass. Paulina smiled as she watched all the young women, these silly young women who probably had no idea what kind of world awaited them. Most looked like they didn’t have a care in the world, and who knew, maybe they didn’t. But, one thing Paulina knew for sure, it was the ones who cared too much who succeeded. The ones who refused to stay down when they were beaten down. The ones who refused to take “no,” and instead took everything. She prayed for years that her daughter was like that. Sadly, she’d resigned herself to the fact that it was not meant to be.
Approaching the dorm, Paulina stopped two young women carrying backpacks and chatting. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can you tell me where I can find room threeoh-three?”
The thicker one who had short hair and stringy-looking tassels lining it, pointed to the dorm on the left, then middle. “One hundreds, two hundreds, three hundreds.”
She finished by pointing at the dorm on the right.
“Thanks very much,” Paulina said, and waited until the girls left. She walked up to the entrance, a glass door leading into a small atrium that was also locked from the outside. She took out her cell phone, pretended to send text messages while she waited. Finally a girl approached the door, looking in her purse for a key. When she found it and inserted it into the lock, Paulina stepped behind her and put the phone away. The girl opened the door, and Paulina caught it before it could close, following her into the atrium. The girl turned around, looked at Paulina.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her young blond hair looking so tender, so naive. “We’re not supposed to let strangers inside the dorms.”
“Oh, I’m no stranger,” Paulina said, laughing. “Do you know Abigail Cole?”
The girl’s eyebrows lifted. “Why do you ask?”
“My daughter,” Paulina said, shrugging. “Surprise visit.”
Suddenly the girl smiled, enthusiasm radiating from her. It took Paulina by surprise. “No way!” the girl nearly shrieked. “I’m Pam. I’ve asked Abby so many times about her family and, well, I guess you know what she’s like.
When she decides to clam up, no crowbar in the world can get her talking.”
“That’s Abby,” Paulina said. “So you know her?”
“Know her?” Pam asked, somewhat surprised. “Hasn’t she mentioned…”
“We don’t talk much.”
“Oh. Because we’ve been…I don’t know, seeing each other.”
“Really,” Paulina said.
Pam nodded, hesitating before she spoke. “But I guess
Abby didn’t tell you.”
“Must have slipped her mind.”
“Here,” the girl said, opening the inner door and holding it for Paulina. “Sorry to keep you.”
“She’s in room three-oh-three, right?”
“She might be.”
“Might be?”
The girl began to look nervous. She brought a finger to her lip and began to chew. “She’s kind of been hanging out at my place. Just for the last few weeks.”
“Is she there now?”
“Probably. She doesn’t have psych until three.”
“Do you mind then?” Paulina said, pointing toward the elevator bank.
“Oh, we’re on the first floor. Follow me.”
The girl led Paulina down the corridor, filled with campus notices, posters and random detritus. When they arrived at room three-nineteen, the girl knocked.
“Abby, are you decent?” she asked.
Before the door could open, a voice from inside called cheekily, “I don’t have to be.”
“Abby, open up,” Pam said.
“All right, don’t get your panties knotted.” Paulina heard a latch being undone from inside, and the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a girl Paulina both recognized and did not. Those green eyes, that long, equine nose she got from her father, she’d recognize those traits anywhere. But the jet-black hair, the nose ring, the thick eyeliner-it nearly obscured the girl Paulina had raised all those years ago.
“Hi, Abby,” Paulina said.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” came her daughter’s startled reply.
12
Morgan stood outside of his apartment, his cheeks still stinging from that morning’s shave. It was a good pain, though, one that reminded him of what it felt like to wake up with a purpose, to wake up knowing that the day would take him somewhere. Shaving wasn’t a big deal on the surface. Lots of people liked scruffiness, women especially these days, as though there was a magnetism to the inherent laziness of it. Morgan loved the feel of running a sharp blade over his face during a hot shower, the feel of patting his skin after drying off. He knew that whenever he felt like that, things would go his way. A big paycheck. Some honey who knew he brought home the money whereas that bearded artist who spent every penny he owed on cheap paints and canvas could not.
Cleanliness. Right next to godliness. Perhaps somewhere in that equation was Morgan Isaacs.
He didn’t dare bring a cup of coffee with him, or anything more than his wallet and keys. He had no idea what this guy Chester wanted, this guy with the hair so blond it nearly disappeared in the sunlight. He didn’t look like he belonged in New York, this guy. His ear-length blond hair and lanky but strong build reminded him of a pro surfer, maybe one of those guys you saw pumping iron on Venice Beach. Someone who took care of their body for a reason. Not a gym rat like most New Yorkers, but someone whose vocation required it.
The day was crisp, the streets quiet after rush hour.
Morgan wondered why Chester wanted to meet at one, such an odd time. Something about the whole deal smelled not quite right, but Ken Tsang was nothing if not a bloodhound for straight-up cash, so if he ended up working with this guy there had to be money involved.
Just when he was thinking about what kind of payday could be involved, a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled up right in front of Morgan, the tires screeching to a halt.
Morgan watched as a driver exited, an older white guy wearing one of those hats that said he’d probably been driving rich folks around most of his life, and opened the back door. When nobody came out, Morgan stepped forward. Chester was sitting inside. He was wearing a sharp gray suit and sunglasses, his blond hair a striking contrast against the black leather.
Chester tapped the seat next to him and said, “Get in.”
Morgan nodded and slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed behind him. The car sped off as swiftly as it stopped. Morgan turned to see Chester staring at him, smiling.
“Glad you could make it,” he said. “You ready to make some money?”
Morgan smiled right back.
The car cruised effortlessly downtown, turning left onto Fifth Avenue. Morgan felt a slight lump rise in his throat as they sped by his old office building. It wasn’t right that he was gone. All his life Morgan Isaacs had dreamed of making his living in finance, working for a bank or a hedge fund, having a different, brilliant suit for every day of the week. He would have one of those massive corner offices, a bar stocked with decanters filled with the most expensive liquors money could buy. He would have a beautiful young secretary, some hot girl just out of college who had no desires in life other than to work until the day she met someone like him, someone like Morgan, who could satisfy their every need and pay the bills so she would never have to work another day in her life. She would have dinner ready, shop (but not too much), be a doting mother and always have a good reason as to why Daddy came home late.
He wouldn’t be one of those absentee fathers. No,
Morgan actually looked forward to having children. He wanted vacations to the Greek islands, ski trips to Telluride.
He wanted a pied-a-terre in France, a vacation home in the
Bahamas. He wanted to send Christmas cards and have pictur
e frames littering his massive desk. He wanted everything. Right now, sitting in the back of this shiny black car, with a perfect stranger next to him on whom Morgan’s future might well depend, this was most definitely not the direction Morgan had expected his life to take.
This was not too much to ask, Morgan thought. Everything was going perfectly until the economy went downhill faster than an Olympic skier and soon he was out on his ass with thousands of other men just like him.
Men with GPAs in the high threes, impeccable references and several internships and jobs from which they could draw experience. Even if (and this was an if the size of the Grand Canyon) a job opened up, it would be like trying to get a drink at a hot bar at one in the morning.
Thousands of people pushing and shoving like barbarians to get the attention of one person. Was one resume really better than the other? It didn’t matter. But Morgan had
Chester. Good old Chester.
“Anything stand out to you?” Chester said as they passed through midtown.
“Um…it’s a nice day?” Morgan said, not sure what
Chester was getting at.
Chester smiled. “It is that. But look at the streets.
Notice anything?”
“Uh, not really.”
“Not really,” Chester said. “Exactly what I noticed.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“These streets, they used to teem with professionals. It’s lunch hour and you can count the suits on two hands. What is the financial workforce down, ten, twenty percent?”
“At least,” Morgan said.
“These streets used to mean something,” Chester said, his voice almost wistful, making Morgan wonder if Chester had ever held a job here. His attitude and dress were corporate all the way, but he was loose enough to hang with the boys at a steak house or strip joint. Morgan’s guess was that Chester was in upper management, the kind of guy everyone else reported to who could act with a little disregard. The kind of guy Morgan couldn’t be…yet.