The picture is a sketch of the withered evil face from my paintings. I sit up straight as my heart pounds my ribs. Yes, thee withered evil face that I have locked up in my private collection. Another weird part is that it’s a pencil drawing and, although it’s a great depiction, I know I didn’t draw it. The killer must have broken into my condo and seen the picture in my studio. It has to be the only way.
Then I realize: The killer broke into my home.
I jump out of bed and into the hall. I open Corey’s door and find him snoring lightly on his bed. I sigh with relief. I then find Grandpa in his loft upstairs. The lights are out and I can hear him breathing. Everyone is safe, but my heart still spasms in my chest.
I check the door and windows for signs of a break in. Nothing looks scratched or jimmied. So did the killer have a key? Not even the Building Association has a key to the units and I doubt Corey and Grandpa would let the killer or a stranger inside to see my work.
I go back to my room, sit on the bed, and study the picture on the cell. Okay, so maybe the killer didn’t break into my condo. Maybe he broke into my private collection that I have in storage. Either way, it freaks me out and keeps me up the rest of the night.
ROCK STARS
I wake up early to the alarm. The buzzing inflames the pounding behind my eyes. I moan out and roll onto my back. I glance at the time and figure I slept for three hours. After I turn off the head drill, I pull myself out of bed, use the toilet, and wash the sleep gunk out of my eyes. In a robe, I shuffle into the kitchen where Grandpa sits at the island with his newspaper, coffee, and cereal. His bus driving uniform appears pressed and cleaned, matching his freshly shaved face and pomade combed hair.
“Good morning, my sweet granddaughter,” he says. “What are you doing up this early?”
I kiss his cheek and make myself a cup of coffee. “Oh, have a few things to get a jump on.”
“Never get to see you in the mornings. This makes my day.”
I kiss his cheek again, place the coffee cup on the tabletop, and sit down with him. I feel his eyes on me and expect a certain question from him.
“Were you drinking last night?” he asks.
And there it is.
I rub my eyes and growl. I’m not ready for this kind of talk. Besides, I have a killer that’s been breaking into my life and threatening my family. That seems more important than having a few drinks; a fact that I don’t want to tell him yet.
“Okay. Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about something else.” He sips his coffee. “We all know it doesn’t work when I tell you how sad it makes me to see you drink so much and stay out late at night. I won’t even bring up that it’s illegal for you to be drinking.”
I shake my head as the guilt saturates my heart. I hate making him feel this way. My grandpa means the world. But…like he says. If I want to stop drinking, I’m going to have to do it myself. And right now, I don’t want to stop. Why should I? I mean, besides feeling like shit in the morning, I’m having a great time. I had a great time drinking with Chris last night.
“What is that devilish smile for?” he asks. “Some good news from the show last night?”
“Lots of good news.” I tell him about the sales and how I met Chris, minus the Katherine Moore memorial part.
“Oh, I see.” He leans back, crosses his arms, and stares at the table. His brow creases, probably fishing for questions to ask. Grandpa only has two boys, my dad and Uncle Tony. I’m sure living with his granddaughter challenges his traditional Italian mentality that makes him so comfortable as a parent. If I were a boy he would probably pat my back and ask how beautiful the girl is.
“Now what do we know about this boy?” he asks.
I fill him in on Chris and how he takes care of his widowed mother. Grandpa’s face lights up when I mention we might have the Chandler products under the sink. “We do?” he says. “So he is a rock star like you?”
“Grandpa, we’re far from rock stars.”
He walks over to the cabinet under the sink and checks out our cleaning supplies. He picks out a spray bottle and inspects the label. “Son of a bitch.”
I laugh. “So do I have your approval?”
He places the bottle back and closes the cabinet door. “Not yet. I still want to meet the boy.”
I nod. “Okay. He’s picking me up tonight for dinner. I’ll have him come up.”
Grandpa hugs me from behind, resting his chin on my head. “You like this boy? He makes you happy?”
“Yes. So far.”
“Happier than you can make yourself?”
I bite my lower lip and stare at the creamy coffee in my cup. “Yes,” I whisper.
He sighs. I hear the disappointment travel through his lungs. “Then be very careful with him.”
He kisses the top of my head and gets ready for work. I stare at my coffee and wonder what he meant. I give up after a while and drink the now cold, bitter beverage.
STORAGE AND BUSINESS
After Grandpa leaves for work, I shower and dress. I sit at my drawing table and freehand some sketches for the comic script Marvel has hired me to draw. Corey, home from school while his teachers celebrate Professionals Day, putters around the kitchen and knows better than to disturb me while I work. A few hours later when I take a break, Corey approaches and asks if I need him to do anything.
“Nah, you’re free for the day,” I say.
He nods. “You wanna do anything after lunch?”
“Can’t,” I lie. “I have to meet up with Sharon and discuss last night.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re going to discuss Mr. Wonderful with your lawyer. Probably make a pre-nup.” He smiles.
“Oh, my God. It should be the other way around. Chris is like so rich. We drove around the city in a limo.”
“Ugh! I am so jealous. Think he has a gay brother?”
“Hmm. I don’t think so. He hasn’t mentioned any siblings.”
Corey kisses my cheek, “I hate you and I love you,” and walks off.
I sketch for a few more hours. When my hand cramps up and my eyelids grow heavy, I pack up the sketches and get ready to leave the condo. Before I go, I double-check the locks and the window by the fire escape. The metal is strong and, in the light, doesn’t look like it was tampered with. Out in the hall, I jiggle and push at the door. I’m turning into one of those paranoid Italian ladies from Brooklyn who thinks someone is going to steal their mothball scented Faberge eggs. There’s no sign of a break in, stupid. So you know they didn’t get the pictures from home, I tell myself.
I pick up a coffee from the bagel cart on the corner and take a cab to the storage warehouse on the Upper West Side. I enter the office and ask if there was a break-in on my unit last night. The clerk behind the counter doesn’t have any record of one and assures me that the office would have called me to report it.
We walk down the narrow hallway to my unit. Using his own key, he opens the metal shutters and pushes the door up. I step inside and wander the stacks of paintings and boxes of sketchpads. Although it has been a month since I was here, I don’t think anything has been touched or moved. This freaks me out, because now the killer had to have broken into my home. Does that mean they have a key?
The clerk asks if I need to fill out a robbery report. I apologize and tell him that I just had a bad feeling. He smiles, understanding.
Back in a cab, I go to the offices of Red Velvet Pocket. The building is a standard redbrick deal with a bodega under it at the corner of 2nd Ave and 24th St. I approach the buzz box next to the glass door and scan the listed names. I spot RVP, the only non-name. I press the buzzer. I soon realize what I just did and bite my lip. Shit.
“Yeah?” an electric scratchy voice asks.
“Hi,” I say, leaning into to the mic. “Um…”
“Who is this? What do you want?”
I look from side to side to see that I’m alone. “I’m here about a job?”
I wait for a response. I wonder if
the guy has blown me off or the intercom is broken.
“On the site, it says for models to stop by,” I say.
“Yeah, and it also says to send an email with JPEGs and to set up an interview,” he shoots back.
Shit.
“Well, I’m here now,” I say. “Can you see me?”
Another long pause. And then the door buzzes. I push it and step inside the building.
IN THE RED VELVET POCKET
I walk over the checkered tiles and down the narrow hall. The building has no elevator so I take the stairs up to the 3rd floor. I breathe deep. I’m not all sure what I’m going to say to this guy. I don’t have a plan. I’m not even sure why I rang the buzzer. Do I ask him if he’s the killer? And if he is, won’t he recognize me? I move the butterfly knife from the side pocket jacket to my back pants pocket.
I inhale deep and then knock on the door to suite 3B.
“Yeah, c’mon,” the male voice says.
I open the door and step into an office. The room doesn’t appear lived in. A man in black pants and a tacky Hawaiian shirt sits with his feet up behind a glossy wooden desk. His worn and lined face is sculpted into a cold emotion. I’m having a hard time guessing his age. Maybe mid-thirties. A few filing cabinets line one side of the wall and a leather couch is at the other. He makes no move to greet me. Or to kill me. I close the door and stretch out my best cute girl smile.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“Uh, huh.” His dry cracked hands light a cigarette and he tosses the match over his shoulder. It bounces off the closed window. “So you wanna be on the site?” I notice a slight accent. Eastern European? Russian?
I stand at the desk, hold my hands in front, and stare at my feet. Another reason I shouldn’t have rung the bell: I’m totally not dressed for this. I should be wearing something sexy, something to get his attention.
“Yeah, the site is, like, so cool and I want to get into modeling.”
He motions to the chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”
I sit and look around the office.
“Nervous?” he asks.
I smile and nod. “Yeah, a little. I guess.”
He grins and drops his feet on the floor. “Don’t be. I’m not dangerous. And this is a legit business.”
I take a breath and try to act calm. “Okay.”
“So how did you hear about the site?”
“I know some of the girls. They told me about it.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Fanny. Chloe. Oh, and Katie.”
I watch his face to see if there’s any change at the mention of Katherine. Nope. He just drags his cigarette and looks off into space.
“You look underage.” He talks with his cigarette in hand; I hope he doesn’t flick ashes on me. “I don’t do jail bait. I run a clean shop here.”
“Oh, I’m over 18.”
“ID?”
I pull the chain attached to my wallet and remove it from my back pocket. I slip out one of my fake IDs and pass it to him. He takes the license and flips it over.
“Laura Bush, huh?”
“That’s me.”
“Uh huh.” He passes the fake license back. “Could make a good stage name. Unless you already have one in mind.”
I pack the card and wallet away. “No, nothing I’m real excited about.”
“I see you don’t have a portfolio. Or did you forget it at home?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” I say. “I don’t have much experience. But I’m driven. I would do anything to be on your site. I mean, the way you make the girls look is so fucking sexy that…well, I want to look that way, too.”
“Even though you’re going to have a million guys ogling you. Even uh…” His hands try to pull the words out of the smoke in front of his face. “Pleasuring...you know?”
“Well, yeah.” I smile and try to blush. “Who wouldn’t like that?”
He takes another drag. “Stand up. Take your jacket off.”
I do as he says, draping it on the chair. I step to the side and show him what I can of my body even though I’m wearing baggy pants and a flannel shirt.
“Okay. You can sit.” He stubs his cigarette out in a dirty ashtray. “First off, Laura. My name is Devlin. I’m going to give you a shot. You doing anything now?”
Oh, shit.
“Uh, no.”
“Good. We can do some audition photos. Nothing serious, nothing naked, but still sexy. I got some clothes in the back you can try on. But just to let you know, the more you show today, the more daring you are, the more I’ll want to use you. You’ve seen how hard those girls work to create an illusion. I will expect the same from you. Okay?”
I stand and offer my hand to shake. “Okay, Devlin.”
He shakes my hand and stands. “Okay. Wait here and let me go clean up the studio.”
Devlin enters another room and closes the door. All clear, I finally break my silly, smiley girl expression to reveal what I’m feeling inside: Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I knew the guy would want to take pictures of me, but I didn’t think it would be now. Then I wonder if this is all a trick. Maybe the guy is going to trap me in that other room, get me half naked, and then try to kill me.
I stand. “Fuck that,” I mumble.
But still, what have I accomplished here. Do I have any evidence that this Devlin guy killed Katherine Moore? If he is the killer who’s been calling me and sending me pictures, he sure knows how to keep a poker face. Crap, the only proof I do have is that Devlin is a creep and I’m an idiot.
I make a break for the door just as Devlin comes back into the room.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
I stop, turn, and smile. “Oh, no. Just nervous. Trying to work it off.”
He nods, understanding. “Okay. Well, I’m ready for you.”
“Great,” I say.
Devlin opens the door to the studio and shows me inside.
CENTERFOLD
The room is as large as the office with red and black drapes, just like the ones from the photos on the site that cover the two walls forming a corner in the room. The same dirt mattress with holes lies on the floor. A beat up metal garbage can is positioned next to milk crates. The tungsten lights shine on the bed. Although I spot many digital still and video cameras on tripods, all but one point away from the set.
The other side of the room is sectioned off with an Asian design partition. Devlin walks me over to a rack of clothes. I flip through the black, red, and white lingerie and notice that a few of them look familiar. Probably worn by the girls on the site.
Devlin checks my body up and down. “Should have something in your size. If all else fails, just pick something that will be tight.” He grins and pats my ass. I do all I can to smile back instead of kicking him in the teeth.
I hear him wander across the room and light another cigarette. I find the closest thing to my size, a satin white slip with black lace trim. I check inside the hanger and notice that there’re no panties or thong with the piece. I wonder if I can get away with wearing my own underwear.
Jesus, what am I thinking? I have to get out of here.
“Got something?” he asks from across the room.
I pull out the slip and show it to him. “Yeah, this okay?”
“Go for it, Miss Bush.”
I carry my jacket and the slip behind the partition. I drop them both on a chair and look around the sectioned off dressing room. No windows, no doors. Fuck fuck fuck.
I smell dirty, rank clothes from the hamper in the corner. This guy better not be into shit play. No freaking way I’m going for that. I lift the lid and find bloodstained lingerie lying on top. The smell wafts up my nose. One Halloween I made a road kill costume with fake blood out of Karo syrup and red food coloring. No way in hell this is fake blood in here. The stench is far from sweet and the edges of the stains are already turning brown.
Okay. Now I definitely need to get out of here.
&n
bsp; “Let’s go, Miss Bush,” Devlin says. “Don’t have all day.”
Shit shit shit.
A mix of guitar riffs and club beats fills the room. The song reminds me of an old New Order track. I change out of my clothes, keeping my bra and panties on, and into the slip. Before I step out, I take a deep breath and pray to God that all the cameras are broken and he has to reschedule. I place my clothes on a chair by the door.
Devlin turns from the stereo system and smiles.
“Like the touch with the boots.”
I’m sure he does, I think.
“Why don’t you have a seat there?” He motions to the bed. “And we’ll get rolling.”
I kneel down on the mattress. I just know this guy is going to want me to get naked somehow. And stupid me walked right into his office to do it. I bet 10 to 1 that he’s going to play the ‘mature’ card.
Devlin takes the camera off the tripod and snaps a few shots, blinding me with the flash. He pulls the camera from his face. “Feel free to smile.”
“Sorry.” I come up with something that should look sexy.
Devlin snaps more pictures. “Try not to look constipated.”
If I give this guy what he wants, without showing my boobs, then maybe I can get out of here without a scratch. I imagine he’s Chris and lounge around on the mattress. I pose my body in ways that I think will turn him on without having to spread my legs or show cleavage. I pout and stretch out, showing as much leg as possible since they’re my best limbs.
“Better. That’s it.”
Yeah, right. I suck at this.
The flashing stops. Devlin stands by the bed and places his dry cracked hands on his hips.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Yeah, waiting for you to go the extra mile.”
“Oh.”
“Listen. I don’t deal with little girls here. Only women. If you’re not mature enough to be a real model, then we can forget this shit right now.”
Well, he dealt the ‘maturity’ card. He also gave me a chance to get out.
“Um, I don’t think I can do that today,” I say.
A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1) Page 7