Hex and the Single Girl (21 page)

Jeff went straight for his ex, like a wolf to a sheep. She stood up to hug him. Emma was impressed with Susan’s bravery—and her acting. Jeff put his cell phone on the bar and said, “I’m expecting an important call.” Then he looked Susan over and added, “You showed up. I’m surprised. After the way I treated you, I thought you’d never want to see me again.” Emma eavesdropped easily; they were sitting only a few stools down.

Susan said, “I’m a forgiving person, Jeff.”

He smiled. “You look great, Susan. I like your hair that way.”

“I always wear my hair like this,” she said, touching her ponytail.

“I remember it differently.”

“How?” asked Susan.

“Splayed across a pillow,” he said and leered.

Emma wished she could punch him. How on earth had Susan ever responded to this amateur Lothario? Was this patter exciting to anyone? William, on the other hand, was a skilled seducer. He was sexual but not salacious, flirtatious but not crass. Emma peered into her Black Bush and saw William’s face in an ice cube. She picked it out of her glass and sucked on it. The whisky burned; the ice cooled. She thought of William shifting and moaning underneath her.

“We did spend a lot of time in bed,” said Susan, snapping Emma’s attention back to where it should be.

“I’ve got a big bed in my hotel room,” he said. “Wanna see it?”

“Why did you break up with me?”

Jeff didn’t have a quick line to follow that. The bartender saved him from answering.

“Two martinis,” Jeff ordered.

Gin was the last thing Susan needed after her afternoon soak in it. But the bartender started mixing. Jeff checked his cell; Susan twisted her rings. That’s when the Good Witch realized: Susan was worried. She must’ve thought Emma’d blown her off.

Emma wanted to give her friend some comfort. She tried to catch Susan’s eye. The martinis arrived and Jeff

immediately put lip to glass.

Susan said, “Forget I asked that question before.”

Jeff said, “What question?”

“Why you broke up with me,” she repeated. “What I really want to know is why you asked me out in the first place.”

Yes, Emma thought. That was the heart of it. Unless one understood the beginning, there was no way to reconcile the sad ending. The beginning of Emma and William’s story was mistaken identity in a dark room, mutual stalking, and a one-afternoon stand in a hotel room. This wasn’t anything like the classic progression of increasingly intimate dates, leading to a relationship based on trust, attraction and respect. She and William had no chance of turning their twisted courtship into love. Already, so many lies had been told. Emma finished her whiskey. A sliver of ice remained in the glass, nearly invisible, clinging to the side, stuck.

I am that sliver,
thought Emma. She sighed heavily.

Jeff turned to look at Emma. She smiled weakly at him. He said, “What are you looking at?”

Emma said, “Nothing much.”

Susan said, “Jeff, I’m over here.”

He turned back toward his date and said, “I asked you out because I thought you were hot. You’re an incredibly sexy woman.”

The petite lawyer was cute. But hot? “That’s simply not true,” said Susan.

Emma couldn’t help chuckling at her friend’s honest self-appraisal.

Jeff sprang off his stool. “What is your problem?” he demanded of Emma, putting his nose an inch from hers. She was reminded of his hot rubber stench. Staring into his malevolent eyes, Emma saw a hair-trigger temper. The guy was dangerous. She reached for the phone in her pocket to dial 911.

He said, “I’m talking to you, Butch. You were spying on my private conversation.”

“I wasn’t spying on you,” said Emma. “You’re paranoid.”

Susan had him by the arm. “Sit down, Jeff.”

Not knowing (or caring about) his own strength, Jeff shook Susan off with enough force to send the petite brunette tumbling onto the floor.

Emma rushed toward her friend, but Jeff shoved her back against the bar. She sputtered in reaction. It was an unfortunate accident that an errant bead of saliva flew out of her mouth and struck Jeff on the cheek. His eyes blazed.

The Good Witch put up her dukes, optimistically and pathetically, and closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to strike.

But it never came. When she opened her eyes, Jeff was twisting like a hooked trout in the arms of Old Grand Dad.

Susan was back on her feet, pleading to the bartender, “Don’t hurt him.”

Emma said, “Hurt him!”

The bartender said, “I have a no-tolerance policy with this shit.”

“What about her?” cried Jeff, meaning Emma. “She spit on me!”

“She didn’t start it,” said the bartender. “Besides, she reminds me of my daughter.” The bartender turned toward Emma. “She drinks Black Bush, too.”

“A woman of taste,” said Emma.

“Jules, call the cops,” he said, saving Emma from doing it.

The snickering drunk hopped off the bar stool and ambled toward the door. He swung it open, whistled, and yelled,

“Yo!”

Old Grand Dad said, “Police station’s right next door.”

Out of the bar window, Emma saw two uniformed cops moseying up to the pub entrance. Jules waved them in.

Susan said to Emma, “Incidentally, that wig does nothing for you.”

Emma laughed. “Took you long enough to recognize me.”

Susan smiled. “I knew it was you the whole time.”

The uniformed cops were talking to the bartender, trying to relieve him of belligerent Jeff who, in his flailing, kicked one of New York’s finest in the ankle. Eventually, they slapped on the cuffs, and the two cops (one limping), dragged Jeff out of the bar, across the street, and up to the entrance of the Church Street police station.

The two women followed.

“We should call Hoff,” said Emma.

Susan nodded. She was unnervingly quiet, considering what had just happened.

Emma asked, “Did you get what you came for?”

“No,” said Susan. “I doubt five minutes of questioning—or five hours—would satisfy me. There are just too many things about our relationship that don’t make sense. And it’s bugging me.”

“Sorry I opened the can,” said Emma. “Of bugs.”

Jeff, meanwhile, was screaming, “I need my phone! Give me my fucking phone!”

Susan said, “He was waiting for an important call.”

“He’s going to miss it,” lamented Emma.

“We’ll have to take a message,” said Susan, holding up a tiny black cell.

Chapter 22

T
hursday morning. Emma made a bright start to the day at the police station, where she’d spent much of the night before. She was at her first-ever bona fide police lineup. Six men stood on the other side of a two-way mirror. It was the ultimate invisibility. She could see them, but they couldn’t see her. She loved it. She thought briefly of a career in law enforcement. Briefly.

“Turn to the right,” barked Detective March, the cop who’d interviewed Hoff in the hospital, to the men in the lineup.

Detective Marsh had one lazy eye and one roving. The rover was focused on Emma’s boobs.

“Remind me,” said the detective. “Who are you again?”

“I’m the woman who was assaulted at Nancy’s Whiskey Bar last night.”

“The description of that woman does not match you,” he said. “Not by a long shot.”

“It was her,” said Susan. “I was on the scene.”

“Witness?”

“And attorney,” she said. “I’m representing both Ms. Hutch, and Mr. Centry.”

The detective said into the intercom, “Turn to your left.”

The six men did as they were told. Hoff took hold of Susan’s hand and said, “It’s great having a lawyer in the family.”

“Recognize any of them?” asked Detective Marsh.

“Number three,” said Hoff, which Marsh repeated into the intercom. The cop in lineup room nudged Jeff Bragg. He moved up a couple of steps.

Emma said, “Can he say in a menacing voice, ’Back off or I’ll kill you, motherfucker.’”

The detective switched on the intercom. “Say, ’Back off or I’ll kill you, motherfucker.’”

Jeff repeated lazily, “Back. Off. Or. I’ll. Kill. You. Mother. Fucker.”

“That wasn’t very menacing,” said Emma.

“More menacingly,” said the detective.

Jeff sighed. “I really need to make a phone call.”

“Say it,” barked the dick.

Jeff practically chewed his own cheeks off. Looking straight into the mirror, right where Emma stood, he said, “I know you’re there, Connie Quivers. Back off or I swear to God I’ll kill you. Mother. Fucker.”

The detective asked, “Who’s Connie Quivers?”

“Sounds like a porn star name,” said Emma. “Can he snarl like a dog now? Or snort like a bull?”

Marsh said, “You’re pushing it.”

Hoff said, “I’m almost positive number three is the man who mugged me. But I need him to recite what I’ve written on this piece of paper.”

“Menacingly?” asked Detective Marsh.

“Solemnly,” said Hoff.

The detective stared hard at Hoff. The battered book editor returned the look with the convincing Connecticut comportment that only old money could buy. Taking the paper out of Hoff’s hand, the detective left the room and returned forthwith. The cop in the other room delivered the note to Jeff.

The prime suspect glanced down at it and said, “This is bullshit. I’m not reading it.”

“How’d you like another hour in the rubber room?” asked the dick into the intercom. To Susan, he said, “You didn’t hear that.”

“After this, I get to make a phone call?” asked Jeff.

“Just read it,” said the dick into the microphone. “With solemnity.”

Jeff cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you, Susan. I took advantage of your kindness and your faith that all people are, at heart, good. But I’m not good. I’m a heartless thug, and I don’t deserve your love. You should forgive yourself for caring about me, stop doubting your judgment, and get on with your life.” Jeff lowered the notepaper. “I’m not reading it again.”

Hoff turned to Susan, “Was that solemn enough?”

Susan said to him, “You are the sweetest, most thoughtful man in the world.” She threw her arms around him.

“Watch the ribs!” he bellowed.

While they kissed, Emma and the detective smiled awkwardly at each other and then gave thorough attention to the tops of their shoes.

Hoff said, “Detective, that’s him. He’s the man who mugged me.”

The detective said into the intercom. “Take them away.”

As the six men in the lineup were prodded out, the detective led Hoff, Susan, and Emma into another room at the station. Hoff had a ream of paperwork to do. Emma had to complete another pile (on top of the pile she’d filed the night before). An hour later, the trio left Church Street and walked the block back to the Tribeca Grand. Hoff wanted to pack up and go home. With Jeff detained, they agreed that it would be safe.

He packed and brought his duffle to the lobby to pay his bill. Hoff said, “I feel bittersweet about leaving.” He took Susan’s hand. “Will you come to my place tonight after work?”

“I might be late,” she said. “Should I bring dinner?”

While they sorted out the logistics, Emma watched them, appreciated them like a work of art. They were beautiful to behold. An advertisement for coupledom. The words “love is the greatest good…love is all you need…if you stop trying…if you give up the quest…you might as well be dead” crawled across her mind like a news zipper on the side of a building. A bell rang in Emma’s noggin. A bright, round sound, like a summons, a siren call, a wake-up call. So loud, so clear, Emma almost thought it was real.

“What’s
that?
” asked Hoff.

“You can hear it, too?” asked Emma.

“The whole lobby can hear it,” said Susan, reaching into the pocket of her overcoat and producing a tiny black cell that was ringing at full volume and vibrating. “It’s Jeff’s phone,” she said, handing it to Hoff. “Answer it.”

Hoff said, “Me?”

“You’re a man,” said Susan. “Let’s find out who Jeff was so eager to talk to.”

Emma was curious, too. “What’s the harm?” she asked.

Hoff took the phone, opened it, and hit talk. He leaned down so Emma could listen too, and said, “Yes?”

“What took you so long, shithead?” asked the voice, male, older. “Never mind, write this down.”

Hoff grabbed a pen from the concierge desk. He cradled the phone against his shoulder and scribbled on a registry card.

“Got it,” Hoff said into the phone. He’d written GCNB675688655. Under it, another number: 87988653.

The phone said, “You need the password, asshole.”

“Ready,” said Hoff.

The man said, “The password is the big day. You get it, moron?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Fucking faggot,” said the voice and then he clicked off.

“I know this might sound crazy,” Hoff said, “but I could swear I’ve heard that voice before.”

“In your nightmares?” asked Emma. “GCNB. Maybe it stands for Grouchy Curmudgeon Needs Beeping.”

Hoff said, “Let me check something.”

Emma watched as Hoff fiddled with the phone, finding the incoming call history. The phone had received only one call. And Hoff read the number aloud. It had a 203 area code. Connecticut.

“I know that number,” said Hoff.

“Who is it?” asked Susan.

“One second,” he said, hitting the button to dial the number.

Emma listened with Hoff. A message came on. “You have reached an outgoing number at the Glatting Correctional Facility. Incoming calls will not be connected.”

Hoff turned off the phone. “Just as I thought. It’s Glatting. A low-security prison in rural Connecticut.”

Emma asked, “You have friends in low-security places?”

“Just one,” said Hoff. “You’re not going to believe this. I can’t quite believe it myself.”

“Who are you talking about?” demanded Emma for the last time.

“Seymour Lankey,” he said.

“Who?” asked Emma. Then, “Oh.”

“Of Riptron?” asked Susan, her face darkening.

“My star author,” said Hoff.

“So there is a connection between Jeff Bragg and Riptron. What could it possibly be?” asked Emma.

Susan and Hoff said in unison, “Money.”

“The reward for recovering the stolen pension fund is one percent,” said Susan several hours later. “One percent of six hundred million is six million.”