Brooklyn Girls (30 page)

For a second, Toto won’t start. “Come on, Toto, come on…” I mutter. She coughs and splutters, but the phlegm clears and she roars to life. I swing out to the street, do a totally illegal U-turn, put my aviators on, and head for the Brooklyn Bridge. I haven’t packed away everything in the back. It’s going to be a bloodbath of salad back there, but I don’t care.

From Midtown all the way down through the East Village, I speed down every shortcut, side route, and secret alley I know, taking corners on two wheels, cutting in front of people and swearing at cabs that pull in front of me.

I feel like I’m in a movie. If it wasn’t for the sick fear churning in my stomach, I’d almost be enjoying this.

Then, just as I’m about to cross Houston, I get a red light.

I’m usually careful, but I know from experience that these are some of the slowest red lights in Lower Manhattan, and this is an emergency, damnit.

So I race it, at about ninety miles an hour.

The next thing I hear is the sound of a car crashing, but it’s not me, I’m fine, but—

Then the wail of a police siren,
merde,
there’s a cop car right behind me! I need to stop, I know I need to stop, but I’m on some kind of “fight or flee” autopilot, and instead I slam my foot on the accelerator again. The cop’s right behind me, of course, why didn’t I stop, holy shit is this happening? Somehow I control myself, and pull over, my heart hammering painfully.

In a hyper-daze, I pull on the hand brake, take off my sunglasses, and try to smile as I see the policeman walking up to my window.

Stay calm, Pia. Calm.

“What seems to be the problem, officer?”

CHAPTER 25

Defective brake lights.

Running a red light.

Reckless driving.

Leaving the scene of an accident.

Unlicensed operation.

“I am really sorry, sir, the license belongs to the former owner and I’m just doing the paperwork now, and the brake light was just broken like five minutes ago, um, about that, there’s this guy, he’s crazy, I think he’s on drugs, he’s driving a red car, and he’s going to my home at Union Street, in Brooklyn.” I’m babbling now, but I can’t help it. “He’s going to break all the windows and maybe attack my roommate—”

The police officer seems pretty pleased with himself. I guess it was a lucky break for him: he was following the other car, because the woman driving it was drunk or something, and so when I ran the red and caused a collision, he got us both. The drunk driver is fine, hammered but unhurt, thank God.

“That may be, ma’am, but we’re going to have to impound your vehicle,” he says.

“What? Are you nuts? No way! I have to go home!”

“Ma’am, please calm down.”

“But you can’t do this! You can’t— I can’t—” I look around at Toto, beautiful pink Toto blinded by her broken headlights. “Just let me go home and I promise I’ll come by the police station later and we’ll figure it all out. I promise.”

“Ma’am, calm down.”

“I am calm!” I say, sounding more and more hysterical with every word. “Let me go! I mean it!”

“Ma’am, please lower your voice, and hand over the keys to your truck.”

Hand over Toto? Hand over the keys to the only thing standing between me, a loan shark, and my parents? Where ten thousand dollars is hidden in an envelope underneath the seat? No. Never.

Then I make the biggest mistake of my—let’s be honest—mistake-filled life.

I put my hands up and push him, just lightly, away from me.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the back of a cop car, in handcuffs, speeding through Manhattan.

It turns out that arguing with a police officer, pushing him, and trying to run away is kind of the same thing as resisting arrest.

Or, um, exactly the same thing.

The next few hours pass in a blur. I’m searched, relieved of all my possessions, and then they read me all the charges against me, my mug shot is taken, someone asks me if I’m sick or on any drugs. I can barely listen to most of it, words simply float past me now and again, some of them mean something, some of them don’t. “Central Booking” and “arraignment in the morning” stand out.

And that’s how I ended up spending the night in a bullpen holding cell in Manhattan Central Booking in downtown Manhattan.

I’m so beside myself with worry about Nolan and Cosmo and Coco and the girls that at first, I barely think about the ten thousand dollars hidden under Toto’s carpet. Then I remember again, and my brain darts back and forth between the two worries like a ping-pong ball. I can’t mention either worry to the police officers, as it looks so sketchy. I was threatened by a loan shark’s junkie henchman? I mean, is borrowing from a loan shark even legal? And what would they think about ten thousand dollars hidden under the carpet of my truck? They’d think I was a drug dealer or something.

What the hell kind of idiot gets herself into a mess like this?

Don’t answer that.

But being in police custody is probably the safest place for ten thousand dollars, right? Who’s gonna steal from the police? No one. Exactly. So as I finally arrive in the windowless cell where I’ll be apparently spending the night, I decide all I have to worry about is Nolan. And he’s more than enough.

The jail cell isn’t the dark, tiny dungeon I would have imagined. It’s large, warm, and overlit with migraine-inducing white lights that do nothing for the anemic mildew-green walls, or the filth-encrusted toilet in the corner, or the pay phone that’s missing a handset. Oh, and it reeks of stale bodies and booze and piss and shit and good old-fashioned fear-sweat.

There are a half-dozen other women in the cell already. Half are loudly drunk or high. The others are sitting quietly on the metal bench running along the walls of the room, eyes shut, in a bid for their own personal escape. I guess privacy can be found when you close your eyes, no matter where you are.

“Welcome to the Tombs, Bollywood!” shouts a voice. Bollywood. Guess that’s me. How original.

I ignore her, and ignore the stab of fear that runs through me. I’m alone. In
jail
. I discover immediately that the pay phone is broken, so, though I really don’t want to disturb the other women in the cell, I try to get the officer on duty’s attention.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” I call tentatively. “I need a phone? Please! I need to make a call!”

Nothing. At all.

I try again.

“Excuse me? Ma’am? Officer? I need a phone! I need to warn someone about something!”

Nothing.

I clear my throat, and sort of whisper-shout as clearly as I can. “Hellooooooo—”

“Shut up!”

I spin around. There’s a woman right behind me. She’s gaunt and yellow, with a neck tattoo spelling out “Peaches.”

“Sorry,” I say in a small voice.

Peaches narrows her eyes at me. “What the fuck is your fucking problem?”

I start stammering. “I was just trying to warn somebody … because … there’s a crazy guy, and—”

“There’s always a crazy guy!” shouts a woman in the corner. “We’ve all got crazy guys!”

Every woman in the cell cracks up laughing, and my stomach churns with panic.

“But he … he is dangerous,” I whisper. Peaches is staring me down. I smell cinnamon gum and bourbon.

“Dangerous?” repeats Peaches. “Well, someone let her out of here!”

They all collapse laughing again.

“I just need a phone, okay?” I say. “I need to make a call.”

“Why? What’s so important that it can’t wait? And where are you from, anyway, Bollywood?”

That’s it.

I look her right in the eye. “I’m from Brooklyn. I owe ten thousand dollars to a crazy loan shark who sent his thugs to beat up my truck, destroy my business, and threaten my best friends, and if I don’t get a phone call, I will not stop screaming all night. Got it?”

Peaches turns toward the bars. “Officer! We need a fuckin’ phone call here! Medical emergency!”

She seems to know how to get attention. As I walk out, she high-fives me. “Good luck, Bollywood!”

But as I stare at the grimy pay phone the officer marches me to, I can’t remember my friends’ numbers. At all. Does anyone know phone numbers these days? I can barely remember my own number half the time! How can the world be so über-connected but so easy to get lost in? In fact, the only number I know is my parents’.

I pick up the handset and dial.

“Operator.”

“Can I please place a collect call to Julia Russotti, Union Street, Brooklyn?”

There’s a pause.

“There’s no one in Brooklyn under that name, ma’am.”

Merde
. The home phone isn’t in her name. The bills are directed straight to Julia’s dad; they’re included in the rent. But the day we moved in, there was old mail under the door, still all addressed to Julia’s aunt Jo … it was Jo … Jo …

“Try Jo Lucalli.”

A moment later, the phone rings and a breathless-sounding Julia immediately accepts the charges.

“Pia! Oh, thank God, where the hell are you? We’ve been so worried!”

“Is the house okay? Is everyone okay?”

“Yes, fine, we’re fine. Where are you?”

“I’m … I’m in jail. Is everyone safe? Nothing happened to Coco or Vic or Marie?”

“No, nothing, everyone’s fine.… Sorry, where did you say you were?”

“I’m in jail, Julia.”

A split second later, the insanity of this statement hits me and I start laughing uncontrollably. Pia Keller: brat, princess, party girl, Brown grad, failed PR agent, loan shark client, food truck owner, and now … jailbird.

It’s hilarious.

Julia isn’t laughing, however, and keeps saying, “What?”

Eventually I calm myself down long enough to talk properly.

“So can you please come in the morning and bring a checkbook? I’ll need to pay a fine or bail or whatever, I’m so sorry, I’m good for it. I promise.” Thank God my ten thousand dollars is safe under the carpet of Toto’s front seat, somewhere in an impound lot under lock and key.

“Yes, of course. But you have to stay there all night? Can we do something now? Can we come and see you?”

“Well, no, you can’t just swing by and say hi, I mean … I’m in jail,” I say, and start laughing again. I seem to be slightly hysterical.

“Pia, what the hell happened?”

I tell Julia everything as quickly as I can. She’s not alone; every now and again she relays the updates of my story in bullet points to Coco, Angie, and Madeleine. I can hear them in the background: “Oh, my God,” “Fuck me,” and “Tell her to wash her hands after using that phone.”

“Well, he didn’t come by Rookhaven,” she says when I’m done. “We haven’t seen him at all.”

“Nothing? You’re sure?”

“Totally sure.”

“And everyone is okay?” I say again. Nolan didn’t go to Rookhaven? What could have happened to him?

“Everyone is fine,” she says. “We’re all here. We’re just glad you’re okay.”

“I miss you.” Suddenly I realize there’s nothing left to say. And now I have to sit in a jail cell with a bunch of scary women till morning. “Oh, God, I’d better go.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” asks Julia.

“Yes!” But my voice comes out high and strangled. Tears well up in my eyes and overflow down my cheeks, the kind that just won’t stop. “Thank you so much. You’re the best. All of you … I don’t know what I’d do without you. You guys are the best things in my life.”

Julia sounds like she’s about to cry. “Stay safe, okay? We love you, we’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

“Okay,” I say. A painfully large lump fills my throat. “I love you all, too.”

I hang up, and for a second there’s nothing but silence. A silent hallway, in a silent police station, in the noisiest city in the world. Then the officer walks me back to my cell, as I frantically wipe my face on the way.

“What up, Bollywood? Your crazy guy okay?” calls Peaches.

“He disappeared,” I say. “I don’t know where he is.”

“He’ll turn up,” she says. “They always do.”

I sit down, alone, in the corner of the cell. I don’t want anyone to talk to me. I will not cry. This will not break me.

And then I close my eyes and focus on Rookhaven.

I think about the peeling rosebud wallpaper and the creaky floorboards underneath the carpet. I think about the view from my bedroom over Union Street, and the way the sofa fabric feels against my cheeks when we all watch TV. I think about Vic and Marie living underneath us and watching over us. I think about the kitchen, and how it feels when we’re sitting around the table together.

And suddenly I feel calm.

I can get through this.

CHAPTER 26

The arraignment takes approximately nine seconds, and, with that funny vague jet-lag feeling that comes from being awake all night and not brushing my teeth, when I finally come out and see Madeleine and pay the fines, it takes me a while to realize she’s alone. But we don’t talk till we’re outside the building.

The moment we’re on the street, Maddy and I turn to each other and hug tightly for about a minute.

“It’s so good to see you! Did you sleep last night? Are you okay?” she says at the same moment that I say, “It’s so good to see you! I’m so sorry, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, I promise.… Where are the girls?”

“Marie passed away last night,” says Madeleine.

I gasp.

“So they’re staying with Vic until the family arrives. Her kids are taking care of the details and we just … we didn’t want him to be alone.”

“Oh, of course…” I feel all hot and woolly. Marie
died
? “How, um, how—”

“In her sleep. Early this morning. She went peacefully. Pia, you’ve gone white, are you—”

I half-collapse, half-sit, right where I am, on the cold concrete sidewalk. Oh, God, poor Marie. Poor Vic. Poor Coco and Julia …

Madeleine crouches next to me, holding a bottle of water to my lips. “Pia? Just breathe, okay, drink.…”

I take a few sips, then prop my arms over my knees, and stare unseeingly at the freezing concrete step between my feet. It’s rainy today for the first time in months, with a real October chill in the air, and I feel cold, inside and out. Oh, God, Marie and Vic …