The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (28 page)

Eve realized she was exceedingly thirsty. “Yes, please.”

“Anything. Anything you want,” said Fernandez.

“Just water,” said Eve.

“No problem. I’ll get you a bottle as soon as you’re settled. Now, ah … before we go into the captain’s office, you want to freshen up? It might be a good idea.…” Fernandez trailed off. “I’ll hold the dog for you. You can use the officers’ bathroom. It’s right here.”

Eve nodded and pushed open the thick metal door. When she reached the sinks, she gazed into the mirror. There was a large purple bruise along her jawline. But there was something else, something strange. Brown lines across her cheekbones. Stripes of … what? She dabbed her pinkie in the stuff. No.
It couldn’t be
.

Eve spun the “H” tap as far as it would go; the water was ice cold. As it warmed, she wiped her face with paper towels, feeling the adrenaline still rocketing through her. She stared like a stranger into her own eyes. Her hair was wild as a lion’s mane, but her clothes were pristine, as if just off the hanger.

She rinsed her face and hands, giddiness bubbling up from within. She giggled. Laughed like a crazy person. The sound slammed into the tiles and bounced back, filling the space, rattling her eardrums.

She came back out, collected Highball, and turned to Fernandez.

“Let’s go,” she said.

E
ve peered into the blackness, aware of heavy breathing in her ear. Her heart racing, her breath coming fast, she flailed in a panic only to connect with Highball, passed out on the pillow next to her. The dog yelped and Eve reached out to embrace her hastily.

“Sorry, girl, sorry,” she said, exhaling sharply. She was in her bedroom; everything was fine. She’d had a dream. A really strange one.

She took in the glowing dial on the nightstand: 7:06. She’d overslept. In the more than seven months she’d worked at
Smell
, her internal alarm had never failed to wake her at 6:58. Other writers slept in and taped the show, but not Eve. Now she might miss the avalanche survivors. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, but as soon as she stood, she fell back on the mattress, feeling as if her legs had lost the ability to support her. She pushed herself up again and lurched out to the living room. She turned on the TV at 7:08. She had missed the news headlines but was in time to catch Tex Franklin finishing up the weather report. A cold, bright day, highs in the mid-forties …

Eve put some coffee on and refilled Highball’s water bowl,
almost falling over as she leaned over to put it down. The wooziness wouldn’t quit. At 7:09, Hap read her intro to the avalanche story. When the survivors appeared via satellite, there were only three instead of four. Either one of them had suffered a case of stage fright or there was a technical problem, Eve guessed. Unfortunately, the script included questions for four survivors, and Hap, seemingly off his game, proved incapable of matching up the appropriate question to the correct guest. Eve kicked the floor when he asked the one with the broken leg about his bruised ribs; she cursed when he joked with the single one about whether his wife would ever let him ski again. When it was over, she poured some coffee and considered the damage. The segment wasn’t a complete disaster but, to be safe, she’d take the stairs.

Eve thought of going back to sleep as she usually did, but felt so achy she decided on a hot shower first. In the bathroom, she punched on the shower radio, poised as ever for breaking news, which would mean having to get to work informed and, worse, early. Traffic report. She turned on the hot water and waited for it to warm. Déjà vu stole round her along with the steam. She stepped into the tub, and put her head under the pounding stream. She leaned out to lather her hair. Weather. She rinsed off. Now sports. She combed through an extra-big dollop of conditioner. More sports. She rinsed again, stepped out of the tub, and reached for a towel. Still more sports. She leaned over and draped the towel over her wet head, giving it a vigorous rub, momentarily drowning out all sound save the roar in her ears. And then she pulled the towel off.

“—Updating our top story. Police say the man who has been stalking New York City for the last nine months—the knife-wielding mugger known as the Stiletto—has been caught. Caught in Greenwich Village just a few hours ago by a young woman who, from all reports, is barely half his size. How did this dainty vigilante manage to overpower such a dangerous criminal? In a word, ‘dog poop.’ Mike George is standing by now on the block of the Village where it all happened. Mike?”

Eve sank down on the edge of the tub, the cold porcelain pressing into her shower-hot skin. Like a drunken episode recalled mid-hangover, it all rushed back with alarming hazy-clarity, including how one of the ER doctors had given her a bottle of sleeping pills. Of which she had taken how many exactly?

Still listening to the radio, she began to dry her back when she felt the towel catch on something. She reached back to touch it and found gauze, which must have been taped over the stitches. Eve headed back into the living room.

“—stunning news this morning,” Bliss Jones was saying. “As you heard in the news block, one of New York City’s most bizarre criminals, the Stiletto, has been apprehended. And, what is so gratifying to us here is that he was nabbed by one of our own. Yes, the heroine is a valued staffer here at
Smell the Coffee
. Her name is Eventual Weldon”—here they put Eve’s corporate ID photo on the screen, the pixels so enlarged that she looked as though she’d been rendered by Lichtenstein—“and we want to let you know that we’ll have an
exclusive
interview with her tomorrow morning. You won’t hear her story anywhere but here. So! Stay tuned for that. Now, coming up in our next hour, we turn our attention to airfares.…”

Eve steadied herself against the bar. She wrapped the towel around her more tightly and glanced at the answering machine. She’d turned off the ringer before falling into bed as she always did, and now—
twenty-three messages
.

5:32 a.m
. “Hi, this is Kathleen Swanson from Channel 11. I’m looking for Eve Weldon. We’d like to talk to you about your part in the capture of the Stiletto. Please call.”

This was followed by messages from four or five other local news stations.

5:49 a.m
. “Hello, Ms. Weldon. This is Jill Mimeux from the City section of the
Times
. I apologize for calling so early, but we’d like to get in a feature on you for this Sunday. Please call at your earliest convenience.”

5:52 a.m
. “Hey, it’s Mary.” It was Mary Lauder, a booker at
Smell the Coffee
. “How are you? Call the office ASAP. You’re leading the show tomorrow.”

Just as the last of the messages finished playing, the phone rang again, sounding a bit tuckered out. She let the machine pick up.

“I cannot believe this.” It was Vadis. “We need to talk, pronto.…” Eve picked up.

After promising Vadis exclusive duties as her publicist or spokesperson or whatever—the opportunity to help her friend had come far sooner than she ever could have guessed—Eve noticed Highball standing by the door, whining urgently. She threw on a rush outfit: a camisole and some silk lounge pants, her wool kimono and her favorite Turkish slippers with the upturned toes. As she closed the apartment door behind them, she heard the phone ring again.

They made their way down the dim stairs, through the front hall, past the mailboxes. Eve turned the knob of the heavy oak front door and pulled. In fell an enormous bald man with three cameras around his neck. He had evidently been sitting with his back against the door, and now landed with a thud at her feet, which sent Highball into a frenzy of barking. Immediately, voices pierced the morning. “There she is!”

A dozen reporters and photographers, who’d been camped out on the sidewalk and the adjacent stoops, darted through the blue light, snapping pictures and yelling, “Eve! Over here!”
Snap, snap
. It felt strange to be greeted by perfect strangers as though they knew the name of her favorite childhood doll. “What’s it like to be a hero?”

“What gave you the idea to use dog shit as a weapon?”

“What would you like to say to the Stiletto this morning?”

She picked up Highball and pushed her way down the steps till she reached the sidewalk. Plumes of steam pumped out of the reporters’ mouths as they shouted more questions and the photographers asked her to turn this way and that. Eve lowered Highball to the ground, where she promptly peed on a man’s shoe.
“Seen the early editions yet?” A tall woman with wild red hair and large, black-rimmed glasses waved the morning papers at Eve.

“Hey, Fred. Snap her looking at herself on the covers,” called out a reporter in an enormous down parka to his young photographer.

Each paper had the same picture splashed across the front: Eve, in three-quarter profile, winking at the camera over the brown stripes on her cheeks. She pulled her eyes away from the image and found herself looking at the young man who’d shot it. He gazed at her with round green eyes.

“Seth Finkelstein from Overnight Newsservice.” He extended a hand. “I just want to thank you for last night. Everybody picked up my picture. That’s never happened to me before.”

She smiled at him but another man demanded her attention. “Ms. Weldon. Please, over here.” He pulled a pen out of the breast pocket of his trench coat. “Cliff Landy,
Daily News
. So far, we’ve only heard from the police. Everybody wants to hear from you. Would you take us through the events of last night, starting from the moment you first laid eyes on the Stiletto?”

She opened her mouth, then stopped short. Bliss’s voice echoed from within: “We’ll have an
exclusive
interview with Eve Weldon. You won’t hear her story anywhere else but here.” And it hit her: In a stunning turn of events,
Smell the Coffee
now needed her more than she needed it. She was the big story. This was going to fix everything!

Eve cleared her throat and addressed the crowd. “I’m sorry,
everyone, but I’m afraid I’m unable to do any press at the moment.”

   • • •

She spent the day lying in bed, trying to go light on the painkillers. She called her father but there was no answer and she didn’t want to say what she had to say on an answering machine.

Just as she hung up, the phone rang. It was Gwendolyn, screaming so loud Eve had to hold the phone away from her ear.

“Are you all right?!”

“I’m fine.”

“The dog?”

“Also fine. We’re fine, fine. Just tired.”

“I can’t believe this. I picked up the paper on the way to the store and there you are on the cover. It’s amazing! What are the odds? You take that Stiletto segment for yourself and then a few weeks later, boom, you’re face-to-face with the real thing. Did you tell him that? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry I’m talking so much but I’m just blown away!”

Of all the reactions Eve had encountered, this was by far the most genuine. And the sweetest. “It’s okay. In fact, it’s great. You’re making me laugh. And thanks to the painkillers, laughter doesn’t hurt.”

“What can I do? Bring you food? A heating pad? I can close the store for an hour and come by.”

“Honestly, there’s nothing. I’m going to order in and take a nap. And then this afternoon I have to do a pre-interview for the show tomorrow.”

It took a good ten minutes to make Gwendolyn stand down, although she did send flowers, which arrived at the same time as Eve’s wonton soup, saving her a trip downstairs.

   • • •

“How does it feel to be on the other end of one of these things?” Quirine asked.

“Surreal,” said Eve, stretching out on the bed. “I can’t quite believe I’m doing this.”

Quirine asked her to describe everything that happened the previous night, starting with the moment she first realized she was face-to-face with the Stiletto. Eve offered a few recollections, not wanting to bore Quirine or make too much of herself. Quirine listened, waited a beat, and then prompted, “And?” Not rudely, but quietly insistent. Eve supplied more details, fleshing out the tale till it came closer to her actual experience. Each facet of the story followed suit; if Eve omitted—or even skimmed over—anything important or interesting, Quirine would say simply, “And?” Eve surmised that this was Quirine’s interview technique, and it was a good one. You couldn’t help but want to fill up the silence that hung in the air after each gentle “And?”

They spoke for nearly two hours. At the end, Quirine said there was someone who wanted to talk to her and that she’d transfer the call.

“Eve?” It was Mark.

“Oh—hello.”

“I, ah. I just want to say how glad I am that you’re all right. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through. We’re all really proud of you.” He seemed to grasp for words. “Whatever’s passed between us, I want you to know that.”

Eve felt tears coming. “Thank you, Mark.”

“I’ll be at the studio in the morning. I don’t want you to be alone out there.” He coughed. “If that’s okay.”

“It’s very much okay.”

   • • •

As instructed, at 6 a.m. on the dot, Eve arrived at the studio and went straight to hair and makeup, where Parminder Singh slathered her face with base the consistency of cement.

“Jeez, honey, that guy really decked you,” she said as she tapped extra concealer on the bruise along her jaw.

“Do I look awful?” asked Eve.

“Actually, it looks kind of cute. You’re just a little swollen. We can contour it with powder,” Parminder said, sorting through various pots of color.

Lark Carmichael popped her head in. “Well, well, we meet again.” She patted Eve on the shoulder as she gazed at her in the mirror.

“Lark, hi,” said Eve, relieved to see a familiar face. So far, there’d been no sign of Mark.