The Manolo Matrix

by Julie Kenner

  I swallowed, my fingers itching to rescue the shoes. I managed to hold myself back. I might have a thing for Manolos, but I couldn’t bring myself to stick my arm through a trash can slot and feel around for a pair of shoes. Especially when I don’t wear a size nine.

  Instead, I just stared as the girl pranced barefoot across the sales floor, the bird on her shoulder swaying with the rhythm of her walk.

  “That’s one fucked-up female,” Brian whispered.

  And that, I thought, pretty much said it all.

  Chapter

  8

  JENNIFER

  S ometimes, the stars align in your favor. Not always. But sometimes. And after I parted ways with Mel and Brian, I was the happy recipient of some serious celestial line-dancing.

  No, I didn’t get a callback for Carousel.

  No, I didn’t win the lottery. I didn’t even win a shopping spree at Bloomie’s.

  But I did find that very pair of Manolos on eBay. And the truly stellar part? They were listed at well under a hundred dollars!

  (Take that, Bird Bitch!)

  What happened was this: I’d come home still suffering from Manolo-lust, and feeling a tinge of regret that I hadn’t dug Bird Girl’s pumps out of the trash. So I logged onto the auction site, punched in “Manolo,” filtered out everything but the shoes, and honed in on those auctions that were ending soonest.

  And there they were. Right in the center of the list. Complete with a slightly out-of-focus picture. Those very same shoes. True, they were in lime green—and gently used—but Manolos are Manolos, and after squealing and staring at the computer screen for a good two minutes, I finally realized that the only way these reasonably priced Manolos would be mine is if I bid on them. Which I promptly did. And—yes!—I came up as the high bidder!

  Was life good, or what?

  I checked the computer twice before I went to bed (no one bid against me), and again after I woke up (someone else had bid, but the price was only up to one-hundred-twenty-eight, and I was still in the lead).

  I managed to put the shoes out of my mind long enough to go forth into the world to be both productive and social. In other words, I sang my way through my shift then hit Starbucks with Brian, where he worried and preened and raved about his upcoming debut.

  “You’re making that face,” Brian said, during a pause in his spiel.

  I carefully erased any and all emotion. “What face?”

  “The one that says you’re never going to make it, never going to amount to anything, and you might as well move back to California and pass out baskets at Wal-Mart. Personally, I think you should work the Clinique counter at Bloomingdale’s, but when you get that face, there’s no reasoning with you.”

  “You’re an ass,” I said. “I don’t have a face, and I’m not wallowing in self-pity.” Not much, anyway.

  “Here,” Brian said, pressing a business card into my hand. “Nicolae is taking new students.”

  “Brian…” I’m sure he heard the exasperation in my voice because I sure as heck didn’t try to hide it. “I told you. I’ve taken voice lessons my whole life. I’m thoroughly schooled.”

  “Then why aren’t you thoroughly employed?” He held up a hand. “No, don’t look at me like that. This is my moment to say serious shit. You’re good, Jenn. But you can be better.”

  “I practice. I train.” Okay, even as I said it, I knew I sounded lame. “When am I supposed to squeeze in classes? When I’m not working, I’m auditioning.”

  “Or shopping…”

  “Now you’re just being mean.”

  “Seriously, sugar, you’ve got a voice that can make me cry like a baby, but you’re raw, you know? You’ve been here, what? Two, three years now?”

  “Getting on that,” I admitted.

  “Well, news flash for you. No one is going to swoop down and discover you. You need to make your own luck. Bust your own ass.”

  “I audition!”

  He leaned back, then sucked down the rest of his caramel machiatto. “I’m not interested in excuses. I’m interested in seeing your name in Playbill.”

  “So am I,” I said, because that was the truth. And then, because the whole conversation was skirting a little too close to my reality, I steered us off on a tangent that I knew would interest Brian: him.

  The ploy worked, and we spent the next hour analyzing the various Puck’s Dream cast members and fantasizing about where he’d be five years from now. He was gunning for a Tony, and I think he just might make it. Of course, that didn’t change the fact that I wanted to make it first. And that thought brought me full circle to his implied suggestion that I wasn’t working hard enough at my craft. Since that wasn’t a road I wanted to go down again, I gave him a quick kiss good-bye, then made my exit.

  I was tired and I really wanted to just call a taxi, but it’s only a ten-block walk, and I couldn’t justify the cost. Fortunately, I was still in my practical (and practically hideous) waitress shoes. Ugly but comfortable. That’s so not my motto. But you know what they say: pride goeth before painful feet.

  Which got me thinking about eBay and the Manolos all over again.

  I hurried through the series of locks designed to keep me in and bad guys out, tossed my bag on the floor, then headed for the desk and my laptop. I’d left the screen up, so all I had to do was hit the refresh key and…Yes! I was still the man! (Or the woman, as the case might be.)

  I did a little jig as I clicked over to check my email (all spam) then expanded my happy dance to cover my entire apartment. The dance turned into a striptease as I tugged off my clothes on the way to the shower. In the steam, I lathered up and soaped down, breathing deep of Aveda and Dove as the clingy scent of french fries and hamburgers coiled down the drain.

  Half an hour and half a bottle of shampoo later, I sat in front of my computer, ready for a laid-back evening in my favorite pair of jeans and a faded black t-shirt. I curled my legs under me, then got ready to count down the minutes until the shoes were mine.

  Five seconds…three…and then…YES! THE MANOLOS WERE MINE, MINE, ALL MINE!!!!!

  My computer dinged and a little envelope appeared at the bottom of my screen, signaling that I had new mail. I clicked over right away, expecting to find an invoice generated by eBay for the seller. Instead, I found an email from a sender I didn’t recognize. Curious, I opened the message…then immediately wished I hadn’t. My stomach roiled, and I realized my hand had gone to my mouth and I’d quit breathing. I hadn’t ever seen a message like this before, but I’d heard about it. Mel had told me all about the emails, and I never, ever wanted to get one.

  Apparently, though, what I wanted really wasn’t the issue.

  FROM: MessageCenter@playsurvivewin.

  com

  TO: Jenn_Crane@Broadwayjenn.com

  SUBJECT: Message Waiting

  MESSAGE:

  You have ONE message in your inbox at the PSW Message Center. Click >>>here<<< to Login to the Message Center and immediately retrieve your message.

  I didn’t want to…dear God, I really didn’t want to. But I did. I had to know. And so I clicked. Then just about threw up when I saw the message that filled my screen:

  >http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<

  PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

  PLEASE LOGIN

  PLAYER USERNAME: BroadwayBaby

  PLAYER PASSWORD:********

  …please wait

  …please wait

  …please wait

  Password approved

  >Read New Messages<<<>Create New Message<<<

  …please wait

  WELCOME TO MESSAGE CENTER

  You have one new message.

  New Message:

  To: BroadwayBaby

  From: Identity Blocked

  Subject: Funding

  Advance payment deposited your account.

  Amount: $20,000.

  Client name: Devlin Brady.

  Additional funds to be delivered upon successful completion of
protection mission.

  Rule Refresher: Involvement by police or other authorities is expressly forbidden.

  Good luck.

  >Player Profile Attached: DB_Profile.doc<<<

  I read the thing twice, somehow managing not to be sick. I’m not entirely sure how. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to crawl under the covers and go to sleep. I wanted to scream. This game was a death warrant. Hadn’t Mel just told me about the protector who’d ended up with a bullet in his gut? And the other guy dead on the floor?

  Hell, Mel and Matthew had both almost died trying to win this game. A game they hadn’t even wanted to play in the first place. They’d lived, but there was no guarantee I’d be so lucky.

  I thought about that—thought about how much I didn’t want to play. How much I’d rather curl up under my covers and hide.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I reached for the phone, grateful for speed-dial since my hand was shaking so badly. Miles away, in Washington, D.C., Mel’s cell phone rang. I prayed that she’d answer. I needed to talk to her. Dear God, there wasn’t anyone else in the whole world I needed to talk to more.

  And this time, we sure as hell weren’t going to be talking about shoes.

  Chapter

  9

  JENNIFER

  N o answer.

  I stared at the phone, not quite comprehending that Mel couldn’t be there, and when it kicked over to voice mail, I left a frantic message for her to call me. Then I rummaged through my desk for my address book. I’d only programmed her cell number into my phone. Maybe the battery had run down. Surely if I called her house…

  I found the book and pounced on it, then immediately started flipping pages. The second I found the number, I dialed, then did the finger-tapping routine until the machine clicked on. A regular answering machine, I assumed, and I went through the whole “Mel? Are you there? Mel, goddamn it, pick up!” routine. Nothing. I sighed, then added, “Call me the second you get in. It’s urgent. It’s about this fucking game! Mel! It’s about PSW, and you have got to call and help me!”

  Then I hung up the phone and stood in front of my computer. My chin was thrust forward and my hands were fisted, as if I was afraid it would attack. Actually, I realized, that was exactly what I was afraid of.

  I took three deep breaths and forced myself to relax. Just as if I were backstage and had to calm down and get into character before stepping out on that stage.

  Right. Okay. Right.

  Calm.

  That was me, the leading lady who’s the total spine of the show. Calm and collected and not the least bit hysterical.

  Three more breaths and I’d pulled myself together. I glanced toward the door, saw that I had locked it, just like I always did. Good. My heart was still pounding, but I played my role with aplomb, searching every nook and cranny, just to make absolutely certain I was alone. I was. And the window was locked. For the moment, at least, I was safe.

  I dropped back into my desk chair. In front of me, the PSW message screen seemed to leer, and suddenly my little Manolo victory seemed entirely pyrrhic.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  And, just for the hell of it…Fuck.

  I didn’t know what to do. I might be the calm leading lady, but the fact was that I didn’t have a script. I didn’t know if I should be terrified (I was), proactive (how?), or if I should go hide under my bed (appealing). All I knew was that this message signaled the start of a deadly game. And somehow, someway, I was now right smack dab in the center of it.

  Unless it was a hoax!

  The possibility gave me something to cling to, and I started spinning scenarios in my head: Mel was irritated that I wasn’t supporting her attempts to figure out who was behind her ordeal last year. And so she’d sent this email to give me a taste of her medicine. That’s why she wasn’t answering her phone. And when she did answer, I’d be pissed, but I’d have to agree that I sort of understood now.

  It was a wonderful scenario, but I knew it was only fiction. And since Mel still wasn’t answering her phone, there was only one way to find out. I picked up the phone again, then called the automated system at my bank. If the money wasn’t there, I was fine. It was just a stupid trick.

  I waited, drumming my fingers on the table as the voice went through the entire intro message, then punched in my account number, then 1 to retrieve my balance: $20,157.43.

  The one-hundred fifty-seven I’d been expecting. The twenty thou meant I was screwed. Even Mel wouldn’t transfer huge sums just to prove a point. This wasn’t a hoax, and I grabbed my cell phone once again and dialed 911.

  “911 operator. What is your emergency?”

  I stared at the phone, thinking about the message. “Expressly forbidden,” it said. And I also remembered something Mel had told me about how she and Matthew hadn’t called in the cops to help them, not until it was all over. Breaking the rules, Mel had said, would have been bad, bad, bad.

  “Please state your emergency.”

  “I…I’m sorry. I accidentally punched a speed-dial number. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “Miss? What is your location?”

  “I’m fine, really. I’m sorry. I’m okay. Bye.” I snapped my phone shut, then looked around frantically, half-expecting armed assassins to descend from ropes from my roof, machine guns ready to take me out. I’d broken a rule. I’d called the authorities. I didn’t remember exactly what the consequences were, and I wondered if I’d just fucked myself over royally.

  There was something perverse about convincing myself that I didn’t want the police riding to my rescue, but I told myself I’d done the right thing. Someone had just sucked me into a game that was played to the death. I didn’t know enough yet to risk disobeying the message.

  Mel had survived, but Mel is smart. Hell, Mel is a Mensa-certified genius.

  I couldn’t even get a callback audition.

  My mom had always told me that the odds of making it on Broadway were slim. But right then, I’d be more than happy to take those odds. Because I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that the odds of surviving this game were even slimmer. Plus, now I wanted my mom. I didn’t call her, though. What could I say that wouldn’t make her call the cops?

  Without a plan or the police, and fueled only by adrenaline, I got up, sat down, got up, sat down, then got up again. Something familiar had tickled my brain, but I couldn’t remember what.

  Out of frustration, I grabbed my phone and dialed Mel again. Not too surprisingly, I still got no answer.

  Okay. Fine. Obviously I was in this on my own. I could handle that. I might not be a genius, but I wasn’t an idiot either. I sat myself back down in the seat, looked at the screen, and tried to think what to do.

  First thing, what did I know?

  Well, just from the message, I knew that even though I’d definitely been sucked into a terrifying situation, I wasn’t the one whose ass was on the line. At least, not directly. Because I wasn’t the target in the game. Instead, I was the protector. (Which, frankly, made me feel a little sorry for Mr. Devlin Brady. I mean, I’m qualified to do a lot of jobs, from waitress to receptionist to makeup consultant. Bodyguard, however, is not on the list.)

  And that’s when I remembered: That little tickle in my brain was because of Devlin Brady.

  Devlin Brady was the FBI agent who’d investigated Mel’s case.

  And now I supposed to protect him?

  This was not computing in a big way. How the hell was I supposed to protect an FBI agent?

  But then I realized that I was looking at this all the wrong way. Maybe this was a good thing. The man had a gun and a badge, right? If he couldn’t watch his own back—and mine, too—then who could?

  Chapter

  10

  DEVLIN

  D evlin only remembered because of the panties.

  He’d dropped his goddamn beer, and he was bent over sopping up the mess when his fingers had brushed a bit of satin under the sofa. He’
d tugged it out with two fingers, the light from the television illuminating the pale pink panties. Panties that brought back a rush of memory highlighted by a wash of self-loathing.

  God, he’d been a fool. When was that? Yesterday? The day before? He couldn’t remember; it was too much of a blur. All he remembered was picking up the girl. Fucking the girl. Forgetting the girl. And all in the hopes of forgetting his own damn problems.

  Hadn’t worked.

  Now he sat on the couch, the panties in his hands, feeling lost and disgusted.

  And, once again, alone.

  Frustrated, he shoved the balled-up panties down into the couch cushions to rot with the loose change and old Cheetos. Then he just sat on the couch in the dark and tried to lose himself once again.

  Didn’t work.

  The shades were drawn in the apartment, the black-out kind, designed for people who worked at night and slept during the day. Devlin didn’t care about that. All he’d wanted when he’d pulled the shades weeks ago was darkness. All he’d wanted was to forget. Forget his partner, dead and buried. Forget the investigation that was either going to clear him or crucify him.

  Forget every goddamn thing.

  Lately, though, that was getting harder and harder.

  Had he really nailed the girl just so he’d have a reason to escape from his thoughts? From the fucking mess his life had become?

  He sat there like a slug, miserable and drained, as colors flashed from the television, illuminating the room with images from Gilligan’s Island. Or maybe it was Bewitched. He hadn’t bothered to look up once, and even now, with the television right in front of him, he didn’t care enough to look at the screen. It was just television. He didn’t give a fuck about television. He told himself he didn’t give a fuck about anything.

  Disgusted, he shoved himself up off the couch, kicking the take-out containers that littered the floor in front of him out of the way. He stumbled to the kitchen, then turned the water on in the sink. He leaned forward, staring down at the Indian food stuck to his cheap plastic plates, glasses half-filled with watered-down scotch, apple cores, pizza crusts, and half a dozen other unrecognizable food products. In short, a disgusting mess. If anything, the mess gave him some minor degree of satisfaction. He wasn’t a complete basket case. Not yet, anyway. Because at the very least, he was still remembering to eat.