“Sloane. Marina?” Digby said.
“I let her borrow my car and driver,” she said. “When she didn’t want anyone to know where she was going.”
“Where did she go?” Digby said.
“Mostly skanky places downtown. She got my driver in trouble because someone keyed the car at the 7-Eleven she used to go to,” Sloane said. “That’s the kind of thing she did. Get my driver to drive to some specific 7-Eleven in the ghetto.”
Digby got excited and said, “Did she meet anyone? Did she buy stuff—”
“It’s not like my driver and I have tea and chat,” she said.
“Sloane . . . are these your friends?” said a guy wearing a three-piece suit. I noticed he carried three cell phones.
“This is my dad’s campaign manager,” Sloane said.
“Well, we haven’t announced anything official, but James Patrick Bloom is exactly the kind of leader who’ll lead this great state of New York into the bold, bright future.” He spoke in a smooth, oily gush. “Hi, I’m Elliot Rosen. How do you know Sloane?”
“They’re public school kids, Elliot. See what the Democratic Party’s forcing me to deal with?” Sloane said. “I don’t know what for. Not like Sasha and Malia ever saw the inside of a public school, and look where their dad ended up.”
“Oh, Sloane. The presidency is such, such a long way in the future.” Elliot laughed, but his eyes were worried. “Did I hear you mention Marina Miller? Is she . . . did someone find her?”
“I don’t know. Did they?” Sloane asked Digby.
“Because if you knew something, anything, I’d appreciate a heads-up. I mean, is she de—” Elliot rephrased. “Is she alive? Because we’d need to get in front of this story. The Miller campaign’s basically dead in the water, but even a dead cat can bounce if you throw it off a high enough ledge, know what I mean?”
Elliot offered us his card.
“Go away, Elliot,” Sloane said.
“No, wait.” Digby took the card. “Would this be a tit-for-tat situation?”
“You bet,” Elliot said. “Wow. Sharp as a tack. Maybe I’ll be working for you someday.”
“Not unless you’re a criminal defense attorney,” Sloane said.
She and Elliot walked back toward the party. Digby and I started walking away.
“Oh, Zoe, you’re welcome, by the way,” Sloane said.
I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t turn around because I knew I’d chicken out. I just reached back, flipped Sloane the finger, and kept it up even after I heard the auction’s audience gasping.
“Hey, Princeton, you know the local news is filming this, right?” Digby said.
No, I did not.
Digby scored discarded, defective hard taco shells from the Mexican place, shook them up in a bag with salsa, and called it dinner. We walked to the parking lot.
“I don’t get it. Marina’s father’s running too? Is everyone here running a political campaign?” I said.
“Just everyone rich. Look, Princeton, River Heights is lousy with old money . . . like, old before-George-Washington Dutch New York money . . . when it was Breukelen and Bronck, not Brooklyn and Bronx. Like Sloane’s last name is actually van der Bloom. They dropped the van der part when Sloane’s grandfather ran for senator. They didn’t want people knowing how blue their blood was.”
“Marina’s family too?
“No, they’re run-of-the-mill twentieth-century rich. They subcontract to the defense facilities.”
“Ugh . . . these people run this country . . .”
“You know, Princeton, you were actually winning until the whole finger thing. It’s only gonna get worse if you let her see she’s getting to you.”
“Why does she keep coming after me, anyway?”
“Well, number one, she goes after everyone. Mean-girling’s her hobby. You’re not that special. Well, except maybe, number two, she hates you because she can’t get Henry to stop hanging around you. That makes her look bad,” Digby said.
That made me feel good. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, are you willing to curl up and die or get out of town? No? Then you’ll just have to win a few and lose a few until she gets tired of you and moves on.”
“That’s some plan.”
“By the way, not to burst your bubble or anything, but I should tell you that Henry isn’t doing what you hope he’s doing and what Sloane’s afraid he’s doing.”
“Which is what?”
“I mean, you’re probably thinking, Henry chooses me in some kissy-kissy Beauty and the Beast way.”
“Beauty and the Beast? Am I supposed to be the Beast in this scenario? I don’t understand your reference.”
“Beauty and the Beast. Wasn’t there a rose in that?”
“Um, yeah . . .”
“And he had to get a kiss from a rose by the grave?”
“Wow . . . the Seal song? Were we even born when that song came out?”
“And then he had to give the rose to the woman he picked, which, in this case, you’re hoping is you.”
“Okay, now, that is The Bachelor,” I said. “Seriously, you need to pick one channel and just watch something all the way through.”
“The point is, that isn’t what’s going on here. This is more like bros before hos,” he said.
“I hate that saying on so many levels.”
“Because Henry’s going out with Sloane.”
“I know. I don’t care.”
“You don’t care. You’re not crying into your pillow at night?” he said.
“Shut up.”
“Because if us three are gonna hang out—”
“Really.” I hoped I was telling the truth, because he was right. There’s nothing sadder than hanging out with someone who doesn’t care you’re dying of a crush on them the whole time.
“I want to believe you . . .” he said.
“Seriously. I’m over it,” I said. “Can we move on now?”
Digby still looked dubious, so I moved on first.
“Now what?” I said.
In the parking lot were four limousines with drivers sitting in them.
“Those two are rentals,” Digby said. “Leaving us those two . . .”
“May I contribute?” I said. “That driver’s way too young and good-looking. No way Sloane’s parents let that guy drive her around.”
By process of elimination, we landed on the limo with the tired middle-aged driver reading the paper.
Digby dumped the taco bag on his way to the limo. I tried to copy the confident swagger-y way he opened the door and slipped into the seat, still licking his fingers.
“Hi. Sloane said you’d take us home,” Digby said. “She’ll ride with Mrs. Bloom.”
The driver snapped his paper shut and eyed us in the mirror.
“But Mrs. Bloom’s going straight to the benefit and Miss Bloom specifically said she wasn’t attending,” the driver said. “She was very clear.”
“That’s what I said, but she told me to shut up and butt out,” Digby said.
The driver put the car in gear. “Sounds like her . . .”
After we pulled out onto the interstate and relaxed into the drive, Digby started his spiel.
“I’m Digby. Sloane didn’t tell us your name.”
“Doubt she knows it. John.”
“Nice to meet you, John,” Digby said. “I hope this isn’t rude, but I gotta ask. Is it weird working for a kid? ‘Miss Bloom’? Seriously?”
John laughed. “Yeah, my daughter’s just two years older than Miss Bloom. Ashley lives with her mom in Chicago.”
“That’s too bad,” Digby said. “You must miss her.”
“Yeah, she’s a good kid. Works two part-time jobs and still finds time to volunteer at the shelter,
” John said. “I don’t get to see her as much as I want, but me and her mom are putting away what we can for college.”
“I feel you, John. Sloane drops five hundred bucks on lipstick, meanwhile your kid’s smart enough to go to college, but she’s being punished for not being born rich,” Digby said. “Sloane says she can choose between Wellesley, where her mom went, and Wharton, where her dad went, because she’s guaranteed spots in both.”
John’s eyes narrowed at us in the mirror. He pulled over onto the shoulder of the road.
“Mrs. Bloom went to Vassar,” John said.
“Great,” I said.
“I drive these people around listening to them finesse each other all day long, so I know you’re finessing me right now. What d’you want, kid?”
“Just a little information,” Digby said.
John stepped out, opened my door, and said, “Get out.”
We were in the middle of nowhere on the interstate. The cars were going so fast, the limo shook every time one passed us.
“Fix this, Digby,” I said.
“I don’t rat out the people I work for. The Blooms are very good to me,” John said.
“No, no . . . we don’t want anything on the Blooms. It’s Marina Miller we need to know about,” Digby said.
“Wh-what about her?” John said.
“You drove her around,” Digby said.
“Miss Bloom told me to.” John was instantly defensive.
“Relax. We’re just curious where you took her. If she met up with anyone,” Digby said.
John just stared.
“Listen. I know you’re worried about the police, but no one’s interested in that. Not us, not Sloane,” Digby said. “By the way, was it Sloane’s idea that you not come forward with this information?”
“Miss Bloom and I barely discussed the rides. And after Marina disappeared . . . well, it was never brought up again,” John said. “But, th-there was one time, Marina got a nosebleed in the backseat . . .”
“Ohhh . . . there’s blood evidence on the seats,” Digby said. “You got nervous, you didn’t say anything, then three weeks went by and it went from looking bad to looking like guilt . . .”
John folded. “She went to a 7-Eleven in the Js mainly. She was weird.”
Digby explained later that the Js was a neighborhood in the old downtown core where crime was so bad, pizza places refused to deliver to it. The Js, by the way, stood for “the Jungle.”
“She had me take her to a motel in the Js too. I didn’t see who she met up with, but she never checked in at the desk or anything. Just went straight up into one of the rooms,” John said. “I really had nothing to do with her disappearance.”
“It’s okay, John, we believe you,” Digby said. “But we need you to show us where you took her.”
John climbed back into the car. As he pulled away, Digby whispered, “See, Princeton? This is what it’s like to be upstate political dynasty one-percenters. They tell their driver to take them wherever to do whatever and not only does he not ask questions, he protects their secrets.” Digby checked his phone and said, “I was right, dammit. Mrs. Bloom did go to Wellesley. I shouldn’t have flinched. I gotta learn to bluff better.”
TWENTY-TWO
John took us on a tour of the sketchiest parts of River Heights, places I’d only seen on the local news, and pointed out stops he’d made with Marina. We went through a railroad crossing into a landscape of chain-link fences and bombed-out apartment buildings with garbage bags over smashed windows. It was literally the wrong side of the tracks.
“Funny there are abandoned shopping carts everywhere, because there aren’t any actual supermarkets . . . just chips and beer for miles around. And, of course, the one-two punch that really socks it to ’em . . .” Digby pointed at a payday loan place and the liquor store beside it. “Location, location, location . . . people living here don’t stand a chance.”
I looked at the pedestrians. “It’s like we’re on a different planet. I never see these people anywhere else in town.”
“Look at a bus map and count how many lines go from downtown to anywhere else in River Heights. Just a few in the daytime for maids and cleaners to get to and from their jobs,” he said. I guess I made some kind of despairing sound, because Digby said, “Oh, this is nothing. Wait until you see how undocumented farm workers live outside town past the West Perimeter Highway.”
It was a relief when John dropped us off at my boring suburban house.
“You know, it’s one thing for Marina to go slumming downtown twice a week, but . . . run away to do it full-time?” I said.
“I watched Nick Boskowitz drink an entire glass of OJ through a straw stuck up his nose, then burp the alphabet all the way to W before he threw the OJ back up on himself,” Digby said. “Never underestimate the stupidity of the average teenager.”
“Nick Boskowitz is my social studies partner. We’re supposed to write a presentation on World War I chemical warfare. Man, I have the worst luck partnering up.”
“That comment’s really about me, right? Because we’re partners on the project? Relax . . . we have weeks.”
“To do a project we supposedly worked on for months.”
“Chill. Seriously.”
“Whenever you tell me to chill, my butt clenches tighter,” I said. “What do we do now?”
“By now the police have checked out the birth control prescription and realized what we realized. They’ll probably internally downgrade the case to a missing persons and take their foot off the gas.”
“So you don’t think the same thing happened to Marina and Sally . . .”
“Not unless my four-year-old sister ran away in the middle of the night to be a party girl.”
“But you still wanna find Marina . . . why?”
“Princeton, I’m ready for Sally to not be the first thing people think of when they see me. Worse than the people who think I killed her are the people who pity me . . .” When I pretended not to understand, he said, “Oh, yeah, even you do. You wouldn’t let me get away with half the stuff I say and do to you if you didn’t feel sorry for me.”
“Maybe I’m just bored,” I said. “Maybe I just don’t want to see you starve.”
Just then, the front door burst open.
“Oh, hey, kids . . . come in. Stay for dinner, Philip. I haven’t seen you in forever,” Mom said. “I made spaghetti surprise.” Mom was being weird. Not only because she was being nice to Digby, but also because she was talking super-fast and hardly breathing.
“Um . . . Mom? You okay?”
“I’d love to,” Digby said. “I’m starving.”
“After that entire pizza? The tacos?” I said.
“That was hours ago. Besides, on principle, I never turn down food,” Digby said.
Zillah the amazon appeared at the doorway and loomed over Mom.
“God! Zillah!” Digby smirked at the annoyance his joke caused Zillah.
“Kids, Zillah has bad news. Zillah and her . . . family?” Mom said.
“We are all one in God’s family, but we prefer to refer to ourselves as a household,” Zillah said.
“. . . are moving out. Such a shame to lose you from the neighborhood,” Mom said.
“It is a shame. After four years here, I find the tone of life in River Heights changed. Unsavory elements have insinuated themselves. You only have to watch the evening news to see that.” Zillah looked at me when she said that. “Now I should return to packing. So much to do before the movers come on Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving? How d’you get a moving company to work Thanksgiving?” Digby said.
“It isn’t Thanksgiving in Canada, where my movers are from,” Zillah said.
“They’re moving to a farm just over the border,” Mom said.
“Canada? Guess you’re se
rious about getting away from the neighborhood,” Digby said.
Zillah turned her back on Digby. “Good-bye, Liza. Let me know if you find out anything more about that other matter?”
“Of course, Zillah,” Mom said. “So sorry to see you leave.”
Mom pretty much slammed the door on Zillah’s frowning face and leaned on the door like kids do to keep out monsters.
“There was one moment when I thought she was going to strangle me. She looks like a strangler. It’s the hands. Like Molly in Great Expectations,” Mom whispered. “Kid . . . your bad reputation came in handy.”
“Anytime, Liza,” Digby said.
“But don’t push it,” Mom said.
“So, what was the other matter you guys were talking about?” Digby said.
“Neighborhood thefts. She asked if I’ve seen anyone sneaking around at night,” Mom said.
“Other than your boyfriend?” I don’t know why I chose to say that right then. Maybe it was because Digby was around and I wanted it out there without creating a mother-daughter Hallmark moment.
Mom blushed. “You know?”
“It’s not like you made it hard. He stomps around and there are weird seeds everywhere after he eats breakfast,” I said.
Digby shivered. “Bird food.”
“Sorry, Zoe . . . I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but now I just look like I was trying to slip one past you,” Mom said. “Maybe we could talk later.”
“Can’t wait,” I said.
“So, Philip, would you like to eat dinner at the table, or would you rather wait until I leave and eat in Zoe’s room?” Mom said.
“Ah,” Digby said.
My turn to go red.
“Yeah . . . I’m not the only one sneaking around,” Mom said.
“That’s pretty detailed with you knowing the timing and the eating in her room,” Digby said.
“You two leave the blinds up and Helen next door likes to talk on recycling night,” Mom said.
“You’re not freaking out?” I said.
“Tell you what: If the blinds ever went down, then we’d be having a different conversation,” Mom said.
Trouble is a Friend of Mine Page 16