The apartments had high ceilings, wooden floors and gloriously big windows, even if they only offered views of the buildings and billboards on the far side of the street. Its former life as a hotel was still visible in the decor in places with odd little touches here and there. Until recently, it had still had a doorman. Legend had it, he’d come with the building as part of the deal, a favourite of the building’s original owner who’d been guaranteed a job for life as a condition of sale. He’d been eighty and had still turned up to work every day, even if it was only to fall asleep behind his desk.
Speaking of things that came with the building, then there was Evil. The cat was named that as a compromise. Jonathan had initially wanted to call her Hitler due to an unfortunate small patch of black under the nose on her otherwise white fur. She had been born and raised in the Victory and Jonathan liked to tell people that she was possessed by the place’s evil spirits. He’d heard crying one night and, being unable to find the source, had initially believed it to be something supernatural. Jonathan was an intelligent man, but in Amy’s opinion, he went to the woo-woo way too fast as an explanation for damn near anything. He’d heard it three nights running, the same desperate mewing. Eventually, much to the delight of the neighbours, he’d taken a sledgehammer to a wall at 4am and discovered one of the Victory’s many hidden secrets. A dumbwaiter had been covered up and a cat had found her way inside when searching for a quiet place to have her babies. Evil, it seemed, was the runt of the litter, who’d lacked the strength to get herself out of there and so had been left to die. Amy wondered if that trauma was responsible for how the cat had turned out, or if this was a case of “give a dog a bad name”, as she had certainly grown to fit her moniker. Evil was your best friend one second and then drawing blood the next. Amy had learned the hard way not to wear a dress around the little monster. She clearly viewed the Victory as hers and only Jonathan was to be tolerated.
Jonathan actually owned the apartment through chicanery he had never fully explained other than to hint at a bad romance. From what Amy knew, he had been given it in the late 80s by what he termed “an admirer”. At the time, he’d been in a chorus line on Broadway, with a lucrative sideline working as a drag queen. He’d never quite made it in musical theatre, even before the throat cancer had taken away his singing voice, but while he bitched about it often and at great length, he was still in demand as the diva of divas. Amy had seen him perform and it was quite the sight to behold. The fabulous Jonathan could destroy a front row, saying the most horrible things about people, worse than they’d probably heard in their whole lives, and they’d love him for it. They’d applaud through tears of laughter then stomp along enthusiastically as Jonathan mouthed “I Will Survive” in outfits that Liberace would have considered a bit OTT. While much of the fabulous one’s wardrobe was on the high seas, there were still three racks’ worth over beside the kitchen. He had merely taken “the essentials” with him.
Amy had found something to do to fill her time, when not fending off the cat and liberally spraying air freshener around her houseguest. She’d taken to Google and tried to find out as much as she could about Matt Clarke. While it was a relatively common name, when searched alongside financial services, it brought her to the hedge fund of Lanark Lane Investments. There was a picture of him, with two men, one she recognised, one she didn’t – although her best guess was that she had met both. The one she definitely knew was the tall blond guy she’d met on the landing outside her apartment last night. God, was it really only last night? It felt like a lifetime ago now. The other guy was shorter. She couldn’t be sure, but if she had to guess, she reckoned he’d be feeling pretty sensitive about now, after having had his nuts napalmed with hot coffee.
Matt didn’t have any social media accounts that she could see, but the short guy, Brad Bradley, did. His Facebook account was thankfully set to public and it had pictures of him and his two “bros for life” moving into their new place with a view of Central Park, and the epic party they’d thrown to celebrate. Admittedly, the view of the park was a restricted one – it was essentially a hint of foliage between two buildings, but Amy knew enough about Manhattan real estate to know that anything in that zip code would be worth some serious coin. So, while she didn’t know where they lived exactly, she knew enough to maybe figure it out. It wasn’t much, but in a situation where she was feeling all but helpless, it was comforting to know she had managed to do something. Of course, what good it would be, if any, depended on what their next move was. And currently her tactical advisor was still resting his eyes.
As always, at times like this, there was that part of her that wanted to call her father. But, of course, she couldn’t. She’d grown up a daddy’s girl by default, her mother having died when she was three months old due to complications after childbirth that had got progressively more complicated. A little part of Amy felt she remembered her, but she knew that couldn’t be the case. Her mother lived on in her because of how often her father spoke of her. That light in his eyes when he did so, even to a little girl, was a special thing. It was a peculiar thing to be a little jealous of your own dead mother, but there it was. Growing up, there had only been the two of them. Her childhood looked a whole lot different when seen through Amy’s adult eyes. Her father had tried to enter her in beauty pageants, ballet classes, doll clubs, which, even now, Amy was surprised were a thing. She had hated it then, but she got it now. An irrigation engineer – an expert in sewage – he’d been terrified that he didn’t know how to raise a daughter right. He’d tried to suppress her tomboy tendencies out of nothing more than well-meaning panic that he was doing something wrong. Her father was a handsome man. He would invite ladies over to the house, and at the time, Amy had thought he was dating. But it turned out she was the one he’d brought them there to see, hence why so many tried to have chats about make-up etc.
Eventually, they’d hit on a happy compromise with horseback riding. Her father had been called out to the Regency Riding School to help them with a sewerage problem they were having. When he’d seen all the young girls out riding, he’d expressed an interest and promptly been paid off with thirty free lessons for his daughter in lieu of cash. From the first, Amy had loved it. Always a small child, she was suddenly massive on the back of a horse. She loved animals, too, and had a great natural feel for it. By the end of her stint of lessons, she was riding better than any student they’d ever had – so Carol, who owned the place, said. Horseback riding was expensive though, so her father did odd jobs around the place to help out Carol and her partner, in exchange for lessons. That’s how it was that a working-class kid from Pittsburgh ended up with a room full of horseback riding trophies. It was also how, a few years later, when Carol fell ill, her father became the owner of a riding school that’d never in its entire existence managed to make money. Pittsburgh was not an area that was traditionally big with the horsey set.
Since moving to New York, Amy had managed to keep up with the riding almost by accident. While out jogging, she’d met a woman bringing tourists around Central Park on horseback. One of the horses had come up lame and Amy had assisted her with calming it down, so they could get it on a trailer. They’d got to talking, and now Amy went down every Saturday and Tuesday morning and helped out at the stables in exchange for early morning rides. Her horse of choice was Mabel. A former showjumper for a rich kid, she’d been cast aside when a bad leg and an inability to breed had made her not worth anyone else’s while. They went out at the crack of dawn and Mabel got to pin her ears back and run – really run. It was the best part of Amy’s week.
Speaking of big dumb animals… As if on cue, Bunny farted loudly and extensively. It had been a while since Amy had played much music, but it sounded like he’d hit most of the notes on the major scale. She was still very doubtful about getting him involved, but it wasn’t like she had a lot of options. Besides, he had gone up against “the enemy” once already and managed to destroy them with a tasty beverage and the s
econd-most dangerous of the three most common kitchen utensils. He had been able to cause them problems; she just couldn’t be sure he wasn’t going to do the same for her. Despite all of that, and for no logical reason she could give, Amy found herself trusting him. As much as she could put her finger on why, it was the notion that untrustworthy people, in her experience, put considerably more effort into presentation.
Bunny snorted, belched and aggressively scratched at his nether regions. The man was like a biological orchestra.
Amy was done with waiting. She picked up one of Evil’s extensive collection of cat toys that were strewn about the place and tossed it at Bunny’s head. It bounced off his nose, and he snorted and pulled himself into an upright position before it had landed on the ground. “What in da fuck?”
“Oh good,” said Amy. “You’re up!”
Bunny looked around, scanning his location as if he was seeing it for the first time. “It smells of cat piss in here.” He turned around and noticed Evil the cat sitting on the arm of the couch, giving him an appraising look. “Right, well that explains that, I suppose.”
Amy spoke under her breath: “I’m surprised you can smell anything over…”
“What?”
“Nothing. Come here and look at this.”
Amy turned the laptop towards Bunny and he stood and walked over.
“See this picture: that guy is Matt and that guy” – she indicated the tall blond – “is the one who was outside my apartment. His name is Charlie Fenton. They work together.”
“Right, yeah. And I’m pretty sure short-arse there is the bloke whose bollocks I boiled.”
“I agree. I also think I’ve figured out where they live. I think. Rough area anyway.”
Bunny nodded. “Fair play to you. I was thinking the best way to deal with this is to go pay them a visit.”
“I don’t know the exact address, but I think it’s a penthouse off either the east or west side of Central Park.” She turned the laptop and opened up the Facebook page with the picture of their view. “Look, there’s a Starbucks, which probably doesn’t narrow it down much, but there’s a dry cleaner, which probably does.”
Bunny looked at it and nodded. “Excellent news.” He stood and drummed his hands on his belly. “So, will we grab a bit of grub and then get cracking?”
“Yeah.” Amy pointed behind Bunny. “First things first though.”
“What?”
“You need a shower.”
Chapter Ten
Charlie stood nervously on the pavement outside the brownstone in Astoria and looked at his watch.
He’d been here yesterday, and it had not gone well. All he had wanted to do was talk to that Amy girl and make sure she understood that, regarding what Matt had blurted out, silence really was golden. She’d not been willing to listen and, well, things had gotten a little out of hand. Still, there’d been no need for the bitch to Mace him – that stuff really burned. His eyes started to water slightly at the sense memory.
Speaking of crazy, then there was the woman he was currently waiting for. He’d been nervous as hell going to the meeting with Mrs Miller. It had been excruciating, enumerating the ways that they’d screwed up in the last few days. Matt had started it but, between Charlie’s own failed attempt at intimidation and the disaster that was Brad’s plan for elimination, they now all looked like clueless idiots. Still, for all that, it’d gone better than Charlie had expected – they weren’t wearing concrete slippers at the bottom of the East River, or whatever else was currently in vogue for body disposal.
Instead, he’d been put in a car with an insanely hot chick. She was a ten, straight up, on anyone’s scale: Latina, perfect skin, full, pouty lips and a smile that could make some things melt and other things go exactly the other way. She’d sat opposite him and not said a word. He’d tried to make conversation, and each time, she’d just smiled. It was weird. She said nothing but there was no indication that she couldn’t. Were people still mutes? Was that still a thing? His cousin Winston was deaf, but he could speak OK. There was no sign of hearing aids or anything. The girl did respond to what he said, albeit non-verbally. Maybe she just read lips? Still, for all that, with the smiles and the fluttering eyelashes, there did seem to be something there. Chemistry. Charlie knew he should be focused, but that was just it: every time they’d had a big game coming up in college, he’d been horny as hell. He figured it was an excess of adrenaline that needed somewhere to go. His body was a machine and it ran hot.
The black dude, Mr Cole, who’d picked them up had told Charlie that he and the girl, Lola, were going to go back to Amy’s place. Charlie had asked if they expected her to be there, and when he’d said no, he’d asked what the point was. Cole hadn’t answered – he’d just given Charlie a look he couldn’t read.
They’d been six blocks away when this Lola chick had tapped the driver on the shoulder and he’d pulled over. Then she’d opened the door of the car and nodded her head for Charlie to get out.
“But this isn’t the place?”
She nodded that she understood.
“Are we walking from here then?”
Lola shook her head and then pointed at him.
“Am I walking from here?”
She gave him a big smile and nodded.
“Oh, OK.”
He’d gotten out and stood on the sidewalk. “So, I’ll see you there?”
She mimed running, blew him a kiss and closed the door with a giggle. Could mute people giggle? Charlie needed to figure that shit out. That giggle was driving him crazy and he wanted to hear more of it.
He had taken off at a fast walk, always a man who loved a challenge.
He’d been standing outside the building for a good fifteen minutes now and there was no sign of Lola. The car had driven off in this direction. They’d hardly got lost, had they? Maybe this was some kind of game to mess with his head? Part of him was tempted to leave but the other, much bigger part of him, more than anything, wanted to do nothing to piss off Mrs Miller any further. He got the definite impression that there would be no more free passes on that score.
It was a dry day. It was therefore odd when Charlie felt water hit the back of his head. He put his hand there and looked up at the cloudless March sky. More water hit his hand. He turned and got some right in the face.
“Hey.”
He looked up to see Lola, four stories above, leaning out the window with a water pistol in her hand. He could see her giggling away.
The door opened and an elderly lady with a shopping bag on wheels started to slowly make her way through the front door. Lola crocked her finger and motioned for Charlie to come upstairs.
He stepped forward and held the door open for the old lady. “There you go, ma’am. You have a great day.”
Her initial look of suspicion gave way to a smile of gratitude. If you couldn’t trust a well-groomed, athletic, blond white boy, who could you? He smiled back and then slipped through the door.
Charlie ran up the stone steps two at a time. When he reached the top landing, the point where his previous disastrous chat with Amy had taken place, he was breathing a little hard. He’d been hitting the weights more than cardio recently. The door to Amy’s apartment was ajar so he gingerly pushed it open and stepped inside.
A song was playing on the stereo; not something he recognised. He wasn’t big into music. It was something old – he could see a record revolving on a turntable in the corner. Some woman was singing about putting a spell on a dude. The spring sunshine coming through the big bay windows illuminated the main room. Off to the left, the door was slightly open, and he could see a dim light playing against a sliver of wall.
Charlie opened the door. Candles threw flickering light against the walls. A large wrought-iron bed lay in the centre of the room. The decor was a mix of blacks and dark reds. Lola stood on the far side of the room, standing in front of a large oak wardrobe. She beckoned for him to come inside. Charlie did so, closing the door beh
ind him.
“So…” said Charlie, suddenly nervous. “Erm, what’s up?”
She smiled and leaned back against the wardrobe. Now he noticed she had a riding crop in her right hand, which she tapped against the side of her leg. As he reached her, she giggled and grabbed his T-shirt, pulling his lips down to hers. They kissed briefly and then she pushed him back firmly, until the backs of his legs hit the side of the bed. Then she turned and opened both doors of the wardrobe with a flourish. Inside lay a cornucopia of objects and implements. Some leather, some rubber. Some things he recognised; a lot he didn’t.
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s some freaky stuff. Not really my bag.”
Suddenly the smile dropped from Lola’s lips and Charlie felt like the world had tilted slightly in the wrong way. She looked crestfallen.
“I mean, y’know, I’m open to new ideas.”
Her face brightened and her eyes twinkled once again. She gave him a big smile. With her left hand, she twirled a finger, motioning for him to turn around.
“OK.” Charlie laughed nervously.
He heard something heavy being slid against wood. “I mean, nothing too – y’know. Maybe we could take turns or…”
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