by Mindy Klasky
“You what!” Something about his tone said that he had checked me out. Not just the Mercer.
“I logged in to ShowTalk last night. After we talked.” At his confession, one of my cursed blushes flooded my cheeks. I could just imagine what he’d typed after he’d helped me with my stubborn lock. I’d accepted bribes on the show, he would have told everyone. I’d stumbled home drunk. “Hey,” he said, as I fumbled for something, anything to say. “Relax. There were just a few of us online that late.”
Yeah. Like that made me feel any better. “It’s just…last night, I was sort of…I…” What? I was just drinking myself into oblivion because my love life was in the toilet? Because my career was landing beside it? Because…Why had I been downing those Godmothers?
“You what?” He saved me from myself. “You had a really crappy day, starting out with an incredibly pushy playwright cornering you at the office to give you his play? And then you found out that your…your director of finance had walked off with a quarter of your theater’s budget? And half of New York’s theater community was writing about you on ShowTalk? And somewhere along the way, you learned that you had a gaping hole in your schedule because of some legal whatchamajig?” His gaze was serious, and his lips quirked in a sympathetic smile.
I decided to match that smile, so that I didn’t cry. “Whatchamajig,” I said. “You’ve really got a way with words.”
“Good thing I decided to write plays for a living.”
I laughed at his disarming reply. “Thanks,” I said. “For the tea and, um, everything.”
“Anytime.”
I thought about my empty kitchen. “You probably don’t want to say that, with me living just across the hall.”
He shook his head and crossed to the door with me. “And what are the odds of that?”
Of course, I couldn’t tell him about Teel. My throat would close up, just as it had when I’d tried to tell Jenn about my genie. I shrugged, and muttered something inane about coincidence.
When Ryan reached across me to open the door, I could feel the heat of his body, rising through the sleeve of his sweater. For one crazy second, I pictured myself leaning closer to him, feeling that energy far more up close and personal.
Of course, I stopped myself. Getting involved with Ryan Thompson would be absolutely insane. He and I had to work together for two long months. Life would be crazy enough, bringing his play to fruition. Our relationship needed to stay strictly professional.
Nevertheless, Ryan seemed to have sensed my thoughts. He tumbled back into his awkwardness, hunching his shoulders and sliding his hands back into the pockets of his jeans. “Thanks for coming by, Becca. For giving me the good news in person,” he said. “I appreciate it. Really.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
I thought about hugging him goodbye, but we really didn’t know each other well enough for that. I would have offered to shake hands, but that seemed too much like the way to conclude a business meeting, too formal and distancing for the rapport we were going to need, so that we could build our production. I considered leaning in and kissing him on the cheek, but I wondered if he would try to kiss on both cheeks, if they even did that in Africa, like they did in Europe. I settled for coughing a little and saying, “You’re welcome,” again.
And then I scurried into my own apartment.
I should have gone straight back to the office. But it wouldn’t hurt for me to take a short break at home, to see how the place looked in full daylight.
Just as I closed the door behind me, my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my bag and stared at an unfamiliar 212 phone number. Curious as to who’d be calling me in the middle of the workday, I hurried to answer before the call could go to my voice mail. “Hello?”
“Miss Morris, this is Detective Warren Ambrose. I’ve been assigned to the Dean Marcus case, and I wanted to follow up with you about a few things.”
Great. Hal had told me that he’d given the police my phone number, but I’d hoped that they would never need to use it. I could hear Detective Ambrose swallowing a yawn before he continued, “Miss Morris, we’re looking into some data that we found on Mr. Marcus’s computer. What do you know about his plans to visit Russia?”
Russia. Dean had never mentioned Russia. As far as I knew, he might never have heard of the country. “Why would he go there?”
“Were you aware of his plane reservations, Miss Morris?”
“No, I—” All of the air was forced out of my lungs. “No,” I repeated.
“Miss Morris, did you know that he obtained a visa to travel to Russia?”
“No,” I said again. And suddenly I wondered how many other things I didn’t know about the man I’d dated for the past three years. “But he’s there now?”
“So it seems, Miss Morris.”
“But why Russia? That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“It does, Miss Morris, when you realize they don’t have an extradition treaty with the United States.”
The words settled into my belly like a frozen stone. Dean’s theft from the Mercer wasn’t some momentary lapse of judgment. He had planned this whole thing for a long time. He had completed the appropriate paperwork. He’d engineered the perfect escape. He’d never planned on coming back, never planned on explaining to me, never planned on telling me why he’d done everything that he’d done.
Ambrose tossed more questions at me, remaining completely formal, always saying “Miss Morris” this and “Miss Morris” that. I answered without really hearing myself.
Part of me was braced for truly difficult questions. How had I ended up with a condo in the Bentley, fully owned, one hundred percent paid up? How was I living in the lap of luxury when my bank account had been emptied by the guy who was now Russia’s newest, biggest fan?
But those issues never came up. Apparently, Teel’s magic protected me, covered for me, explained away the biggest gap in my changed state.
No, I just needed to tell Ambrose about how I had not had any idea that the man I’d dated for three and a half years was a lying, cheating, cowardly, thieving (even from me!) felon. Easy, peasy.
At last, Ambrose hung up, sighing and promising to call me again when he had more information.
I looked around the condo, the first permanent step I’d taken to separate myself from the lie I’d unwittingly shared. Ambrose didn’t seem at all suspicious of my genie-gotten wealth. I was safe. This was my home. My life. I walked into the master bedroom, forcing myself to admire the view from the window. I turned around and threw open the closet doors, claiming them like Columbus staking out the New World.
And then I closed them. I didn’t actually have anything hanging in the closets. That would have to wait until after my eagerly anticipated paycheck arrived. And the delay of that paycheck was going to cause a problem…
I couldn’t visit potential Mercer sponsors wearing sweatpants or jeans. I needed something that looked professional. Something that said “Invest thousands of dollars with the Mercer, so that our businesses can grow together.”
Sure, I worked in the theater. We artistic types could get away with a lot. We could combine colors and textures, accessorize with rampant creativity. But we couldn’t ignore every last business rule with complete impunity. I had nine days to pin down a sponsor for However Long. I didn’t have time to wait for payday.
Knowing what I had to do, I knelt beside the king-size bed. I reached beneath the 1000-count sheets, shouldering aside the lush duvet. For just a second, I worried that my treasure was missing, but then my sweeping fingers found the pillowcase that Kira had handed over the day before.
If the featherlight tattoos on my fingertips stood out sharply against the blue cloth, they positively glowed against the shiny brass of the lantern. I turned my thumb toward the window, marveling at the precision of those individual flames, at the perfect tattoo that had painlessly appeared on my flesh. Before I could lose my nerve, I pinched my finger and thumb together, sayin
g in an overloud voice, “Teel!”
This time, I expected the fog to billow from the lamp. I expected the jangle of jewel-colored lights, dazzling my eyes as if I were the victim of too many paparazzi photographs. I expected the sudden coalescence of those lights into a human form.
I just wasn’t prepared for the precise human form that emerged.
Apparently, Teel moonlighted for Con Ed when he wasn’t hanging out in a courtroom or entertaining kids under the big top. He manifested as a burly man with a bad five o’clock shadow and no neck. His filthy coveralls looked like they’d been orange before he’d dragged them through every tunnel beneath Manhattan. His wide leather belt was heavy with wire cutters and pliers and tools that I couldn’t even begin to name. His tattoo was clearly visible, though, blazing out between the wiry black hairs on his fat wrist. “You rang?” he said in a voice so thoroughly dipped in the Bronx that I almost laughed out loud.
Almost laughed, but for the fact that this genie, this Teel, was utterly unsuited to the wish I planned to make. Sure, he’d be great if I wanted a tour of underground Manhattan. Not so bad, if I wanted to figure out how to become an expert cat burglar, to break in somewhere and commandeer a public building. He’d be a charm, if I wanted to rewire a theater, to create an electrical superstructure that could handle multiple shows drawing from a single power supply.
But a new wardrobe? I didn’t think so. “What are you doing dressed like that?” I asked.
“Youse got a problem with how I’m dressed?” He sounded like Bugs Bunny’s more pugnacious brother. “I’m tellin’ youse, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.”
“And that means working for the utility company?”
“I don’t ask what youse do with yer spare time.” He had a point. But I wouldn’t spend my time crawling around sewers. Or crawl-spaces. Or wherever Con Ed guys crawled. Teel grunted like a bull. “Got a wish?”
“Um, yeah.” I twisted my fingers around each other. Quick. Think of something else. Think of a wish that this human wall could grant.
But that was ridiculous. Teel was Teel. Male, female, lawyer, clown—the genie was the same creature, no matter her appearance. His appearance. Whatever.
“Great,” he growled. “Yer one of the six.”
“Six?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Six out of ten. The ones who make yer second wish within twenty-four hours of yer first.” That’s right. He had spouted off that statistic. “We got a special goin’, you know. If youse make three more wishes today, then I’ll stay out of yer hair forever.”
“Isn’t that the deal, anyway? I make my wishes, and you move on to the next lucky person?”
He sighed like a whale surfacing from the vasty deep. “Always with the wise-guy stuff.”
“I don’t mean to be a…wise guy,” I said primly.
He harrumphed, then nodded toward me with his bristly chin. “So? What’ll it be?”
I was going to have to go through with this, Con Ed guy or no Con Ed guy. If my wish turned out to be an utter disaster, I’d still have two more to clean things up. “I need some new clothes,” I said. “I have a lot of meetings to go to, business meetings, with important people. People who have money that I want to get, for the Mercer.”
“Clothes, huh?” He scratched at his filthy coveralls.
“Can you do that? I mean, do you know the right type of clothes?” I nodded toward his current costume, arching my eyebrows in an expression that I hoped would convey that I wasn’t judging. I was only asking questions. Like a responsible lamp-holder.
“My clothes ain’t got nothing to do with yer wishes.”
“Then it’s okay? If I wish for something to wear?”
“Sure, lady. But youse still got to make yer request in the form of a wish.”
Oh. I’d known I was forgetting something. I closed my eyes and tried to swallow the swooping feeling of distrust, the fear that I was making a huge mistake. “I wish that I had a new wardrobe, suitable for meeting with sponsors.” I paused, but then I realized I had to give more details—for my peace of mind, if not for Teel’s edification. “I’m sorry,” I spluttered. “I really need everything. All my clothes are back at the old place, so I’m going to need everything from head to toe, you know, underwear and shoes, too. I’m going—”
The lineman rolled his eyes and raised one hairy hand to his ear. His tattoo flashed against his swarthy flesh, as if it were reminding me that appearances—all appearances—could be deceiving. He belched as he leaned forward into a grudging half bow. “As youse wish,” he said. He tugged at his ear twice, and I was so disgusted by the burp that I almost forgot to brace myself for the flash of magic, for the tingle that swept over me from head to foot.
When the electric wave had passed, I breathed a quick prayer to whatever god or goddess was in charge of Teel’s handiwork. Setting my jaw against disappointment, I tugged open my closet door.
And I almost collapsed onto the thick carpet. The closet looked like a display piece in some designer showroom. Two dozen pairs of pants were draped over specialty hangers, marching in a subdued rainbow of earth tones. A quick glance confirmed variations in fabric and styling, but every piece looked like it had been tailored just for me. Lower closet rods displayed a forest of tops—the same earth tones, enriched with hints of deep, jewel-like color. Some had subtle patterns woven into the fabric; others were stark and perfect in their simplicity. A few had sequins, making them ideal for a gala opening night. Dresses hung from their own rod, spanning the options from casual to formal.
Shelves had magically appeared in the closet, and they were filled with accessories. I saw three shawls, each a different weave, a different weight. A jewelry box was open, displaying a dozen necklaces, complete with matching earrings. Shoes marched across the front of the closet, neat pairs that were sleek and sophisticated without shouting out trendy soon-to-be-passé designer names.
“I put yer lingerie in the dresser,” Teel grunted. The French word sounded bizarre in his New York twang. I suddenly remembered to breathe.
“Um, thanks,” I said. “I’m sure it’s perfect. All of it is. It’s just…incredible.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He settled a hammy fist over his tool belt and sighed. “As long as we’re talkin’, lady, are youse ready to make yer other wishes?”
“Not yet,” I murmured, resisting the urge to slip a cashmere dress off its hanger, then and there.
“Youse saw the Garden, right? Youse understand what yer makin’ me wait on?”
“Yes, Teel. I saw your Garden.” Eye contact always made lies easier to sell. I remembered Kira’s warning, and I steeled myself to challenge our genie. “I saw it, but I’m not going to rush my wishes just to get you in faster.”
Again, that exasperated sigh, like a hippo discovering its mud wallow had gone dry. “Yer delay is leavin’ me with a lot of downtime, lady. I can only read so many girlie mags in one incarnation.”
That was an image I could have lived without forever. I bristled. “In all of Manhattan, you can’t find some better way to pass the time?”
“It’s not that simple, lady. I gotta be ready for whenever youse decide to call me. I can’t be sitting in no bar, or talking to no cute girls. I can’t just disappear into thin air, in front o’ other people.” Yeah, I suppose that might have been a problem. Disappearing barflies can really be bad for business. “You could do something, though,” Teel said, and his bass voice dropped into a register that I was probably supposed to find seductive.
“What’s that?”
“Take me to work with you. Youse got all these meetings…” He nodded at my wardrobe.
“I can’t take a Con Ed lineman into meetings with potential sponsors!”
In a flash, that hairy wrist flew up to his ear, tugging so hard that I feared for his aural health. Suddenly, a pimply teenager stood in front of me, gawky, awkward, wearing a suit that was a full size too large, and a tie that had come pre-knotted. H
is voice broke as he said, “What about this?” He cleared his throat and started again. “What about an intern?”
I stared, dumbfounded, and he tugged at his ear again. A young woman stood in place of Zit Boy, her ample figure filling out a Fair Isle sweater. “Or an assistant?”
“I’ve already got an assistant,” I said automatically, loyal to Jenn.
Another ear-tug. “Then a clerk from the accounting department.” The middle-aged man had combed his hair across his balding skull. His cardigan sweater was buttoned up as if he were channeling Mr. Rogers.
“We’re not that sort of company! We don’t have accounting clerks.”
Teel’s watery eyes blinked. “Then you tell me,” he said adenoidally. “Thirteen out of twenty wishers bring their genie to work. I want to count you with the thirteen. Who would go to a meeting with you? I’ll be that person, anyone!”
I hovered indecisively. On the one hand, bringing Teel along could throw a definite wrench into things. I didn’t know him, didn’t know exactly what he might do, how he would behave. On the other hand, though, I owed the genie something. My delay was the only reason he wasn’t rushing toward his Garden with open arms. Another little thought uncurled at the back of my mind: Teel would be a readymade chaperone. No one—myself included—could accuse me of acting inappropriately, dramaturg to playwright, if Ryan and I had a constant traveling companion.
“You can be a student,” I said at last. “Visiting from Yale. A woman who is shadowing me for a week, to see what dramaturgs do. The university sets up externships all the time. That would make sense.”
The accountant nodded vehemently. “Woman. Yale. Student. Got it.”
Something about the enthusiastic reply made me wary. “Let me see her,” I said.
Teel sighed, as if he bore all the weight of the world, but he tugged at his ear again. A woman stood in front of me—medium height, probably ten pounds heavier than she should be. Her shoulder-length hair was straight; she hadn’t bothered with barrettes or hair bands. Her olive skin bore the faintest hint of makeup—a touch of blush, a light dash of mascara, some lip gloss. She wore a black turtleneck and khakis, perfectly logical attire, given the early-spring weather outside. Her flame tattoo was hidden under the cuff of her sweater.