Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (3 page)

We were soon settled in Nona’s living room enjoying strong black tea and velvet cake. Blue was curled up at my feet on the plush rug, snoring. “Now, about this job situation. Don’t you think it’s time you started thinking bigger?” Nona asked. I looked at her, my cheeks filled with cake. “I mean a career. Don’t you want a career?” I swallowed and then smiled.

“Sure, but I don't know what I want to do.”

“What did you go to school for again?” Nona asked and then refilled my teacup. I poured fresh milk into it, enjoying the way it sank to the bottom and then rushed to the top in a delicious brown cloud.

“Undeclared,” I said. Nona nodded, her brow creased, as if I had said something important instead of a simple fact.

“Why didn't you get a degree?”

I smiled at my mug. “I didn't want to be saddled with debt and no way of paying it off.”

“"But wouldn’t going to college help you find a well-paying job?”

I just shrugged, in no mood to continue the conversation. We sat for a while listening to a clock tick on the mantel, the distant beeping of a truck’s reverse warning, and the familiar sound of chewing in our heads.

“Do you think you will go back to school?” Nona asked, breaking the calm.

“I don't know. I’d like to, but financially it probably won’t ever make sense.”

“Isn’t your mother’s husband a wealthy man? Wouldn’t they pay for it?” Nona had brought this up before, and it made me angry that she was doing it again.

“I don’t want that, Nona,” I said, trying to keep myself from snapping at her.

“But don’t you think you should take advantage…” Her voice faded when she saw the look on my face. “Fine, then. What are you going to do?”

“Nona, I honestly have no idea, but I don’t think I should be working in any kind of customer-service job anymore. My ability to deal with people has all but disappeared,” I said jokingly, trying to break the tension in the room. Nona laughed for me.

“Well, if you’re not going to college you’ll have to go into business. I know of a woman who is selling a dog-walking business. She’s a friend of Julia—you remember Julia, right? The one with the hip thing and the curly hair that looks permed but is natural?” I nodded, vaguely remembering a woman who used a cane and had strange curly hair. “"Well, she has a friend, you know. She lives in Yorkville on East End Avenue— nice area but no public transportation. I don’t know how she does it with that hip. Anyway, this young woman, her friend, I can’t remember her name, is selling her dog-walking business. It’s good money, I understand, with room to grow. What do you think?”

“Well,” I said. “I don’t actually have much experience with businesses or walking dogs.”

“What are you talking about?  You have a dog. I assume you walk him.”

“"Yeah, but I wouldn’t consider myself an expert.” I flashed back to the all-too-recent attempted homicide of an unsuspecting elementary school teacher.

“You don’t have to be an expert. You just have to know how to pretend to be an expert.” Nona raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Look, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll call Julia and get all the information, OK?”

“OK.”

All the Information

Two days after my vow to fix my life, I was sitting on Charlene Miller’s overstuffed white couch with black-and-white photographs of flowers (suggestive flowers) above my head. Charlene Miller, the neighbor of Nona’s friend Julia was selling her dog-walking route. She was the type of woman you might see on the subway wearing a white suit—the kind of woman who made you question how she managed to stay so clean in such a dirty place. “This is a really nice area,” I said. Charlene smiled at me with big, clean, straight teeth.

“It’s Manhattan’s little secret.” Charlene sounded as if she had expressed this opinion before.

“I can see that,” I volleyed back.

“I remember the first time I walked around here; I wondered how it could be so quiet, especially with the highway right there.” Charlene said, referring to the East River Drive that runs right next to, and slightly below, East End Avenue.

“I wondered the same thing,” I said with enthusiasm. We smiled at each other and our shared ignorance about how a street next to a highway was so darn quiet.

“I’m trying to sell the route because I’ve got so many other things going on right now. Also, I might be getting out of town. I’m not sure yet,” I nodded. “"It’s really easy. You just feed and walk the dogs. I only have three clients but the money’s good. It’s amazing how much people will pay for you to walk their dog.” She smiled at me and pushed her auburn hair behind her adorably petite ears.

“Like how much?” I smiled trying to sound casual, not hungry.

She smiled. “I get $40 an hour.”

“Really?” She nodded. “So that’s…” I started to do the math when she finished it for me.

“$1,200 a week.” She laughed at the look on my face. “I know it’s insane, but hey, this is Yorkville.”

“What kind of compensation are you looking for?” I asked.

“Well, you could either buy the route off me up front or give me a percentage of the profits for the first year.”

“I don’t have the capital to buy it up front but I think we could work out a payment plan that would make us both happy.” I hoped I sounded responsible rather than broke.

“Alright, that’s fine. Everything here looks good,” she gestured to my résumé and references that sat on her coffee table. “I have a few other people I need to see, so would it be OK if I got back to you by the end of the week?”

“Oh, of course. I understand.” She stood up and I followed. Charlene put her hand out toward me and I shook it. “Thank you for your time.”

Outside, the street was indeed quiet. East End Avenue runs between 79th and 93rd streets right next to and slightly above East River Drive, a four-lane highway that lets New Yorkers speed all the way from Battery Park City to the Triborough Bridge. I wandered up the avenue towards Carl Schurz Park which, in parts, is cantilevered over the highway. The FDR, in turn, is suspended above the East River. Makes you wonder what we are standing on.

Crossing East End Avenue, I walked into Carl Schurz Park. Big paving stones, neatly lined- up trees, and perfectly trimmed grass gave the place an air of formality appropriate for the only resident of the park—the mayor of New York. Kurt Jessup lived in Gracie Mansion, a homestead built with a view of the river before there even was a city called New York, let alone a mayor to run it. The historic house is hidden in a corner of the park surrounded by its own gardens and very high fences.

I wasn’t sure how I had performed during the interview. The fact that we both admired the relative silence of the neighborhood was good. But why would she give me the route instead of someone who could buy it off her? Did I even want it, I thought, as I looked over the dog run in the park.

A large shepherd was barking insistently at a cocker spaniel who’d stolen his ball and ran under a bench, behind the protective calves of his owner. The shepherd’s owner, a guy in sweatpants and a windbreaker, was clearly annoyed at the cocker spaniel’s master, a man who was hidden behind the
New York Times
. The shepherd kept barking, and the cocker spaniel gnawed on the ball, pretending the shepherd wasn’t barking.

“You see that dog over there?” a woman who’d materialized next to me asked. She was pointing at a small dog. He looked like a child’s favorite stuffed animal near the end of its life.

“Yes.”

A grin spread across her face. “He belongs to that dog.” She pointed to a weimaraner whose coat shone a silver blue in the warm sun as he streaked across the run.

“What?”

“He got him in Israel.” She grinned again, overwhelmed with joy that not only could one dog own another but that the second dog could come from Israel. “Isn’t that a lovely story?”

I nodded, smiling. “Excuse me,” I said, and walked away from the crazy lady. I wandered past the small dog run to the esplanade that runs along the river. People sat on benches facing the rushing water, the sun glinting off its silver surface. Warehouses hugged the opposite bank. Downriver, the three Con Edison smokestacks painted red, white, and gray stood tall and alone, shaping the Queens skyline.

I walked upriver, toward Hell’s Gate, where the Harlem River meets the water from the Long Island Sound in a swirling, dangerous mess of tides and currents. A stone with a plaque atop memorializes 80 Revolutionary War soldiers who drowned there in 1780. Prisoners aboard the H.M.S. Hussar, they were shackled in her hold when she struck Pot Rock and slipped beneath the freezing, unforgiving waters of Hell’s Gate. “They died for a nation they never saw born,” reads the inscription.

I watched a train glide across Hell’s Gate Bridge; a beautiful arch with bowstring trusses stretched over the treacherous water. In front of Hell’s Gate Bridge, traffic moved slowly, in stops and starts, across the Triborough Bridge, a workman-like structure that connects Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx.

My phone rang as I admired the urban landscape. “Hi, it’s Charlene. Listen, I just thought about it and you can have the route.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Why don’t you come back up, and we’ll work out the details?”

Charlene was waiting at the door, looking paler than before. “I’ve got to get out of town for business, so the only type of payment I need right now from you is to take care of my cat, Oscar, until I get back.” She walked through the living room into her kitchen. Oscar sat on the granite countertop, cleaning his face. He was a big tabby with white paws and a weight problem.

“Sure,” I said.

Charlene walked over to her computer and grabbed pages out of her printer tray. “Here’s a list of the clients and their dogs’ info.” I reached out to take them, but Charlene turned away and pushed the papers into a manila envelope. “The keys…” Her eyes wandered around the kitchen. “Where are the keys?” Charlene pushed past me and ran her hand over the empty granite counter. “I thought I…Oscar?” Oscar meowed, and she gently moved him over to reveal a ring of keys. Charlene dropped them into the envelope with the papers and passed the whole thing off to me.

“We can deal with all the details when I get back, or I’ll call you. Oh, and I’ll leave a set of my keys at the front desk for you. You should come and see Oscar about every three days.” The doorbell rang. She froze. It rang again. Charlene moved back into the living room slowly. I saw her hesitate, then, taking a deep breath, she checked the peephole. The tension ran from her body and she opened the door.

“Hello, Carlos,” Charlene said to a man in a custodial uniform standing in the hall. “Tell Bob not to worry about it for now. I’m going on vacation and will call when I get back. Thanks for coming, though.” Charlene closed the door and turned back to me, a mist of sweat at her hairline.

“Alright, so you have everything you need,” she started moving me toward the door, “and I’ll be in touch in a couple of days. Thanks. Bye.” The door closed behind me.

That Night

That night I brought Blue over to James’s place for dinner. Hugh answered the door. He is a big guy with a wide face, gapped teeth and an easy smile. His hair looks like his mother cut it by putting a bowl on his head. It works for him

We hugged our hellos in the doorway. Blue put his snout between us and emitted a deep warble. Hugh pulled back, laughing. “Oh, my God, he’s amazing.” Blue stepped in front of me. Hugh laughed again and motioned for us to come in.

James’s one-bedroom garden-level was filled with boxes, some half-full, some overflowing. Aurora, James’s cat, was curled in a box on a pile of sweaters. She poked her head up when we came in. Her yellow eyes bobbed at the edge of the cardboard, her multicolored ears at attention. Blue walked toward the box. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warned him as he approached Aurora snout first.

Aurora sat up and hissed, drool spitting, hurling, splattering out of her. Blinded by the saliva, Blue stumbled back, but not before she had a chance to swipe out and lash him across the nose. He whimpered and scampered back to my side, the scratch beaded with drops of blood. Kneading at the sweaters below her, Aurora moaned and settled back into the box.

“What a lovely creature,” Hugh said as he headed for the kitchen to work on whatever was making the wonderful smell that floated through the apartment. I walked back to the yard, where James waited with a pitcher of passion fruit margaritas. “Holy shit,” he said when he saw Blue. “You weren’t kidding when you said you got a dog. That thing is huge.” Blue sat on James’s foot and James laughed. “I like him.” He filled a glass for me. The margarita was an opaque orange-red that glimmered in the soft candlelight.

“So, I acquired a business today.” I sipped the margarita, a perfect mix of fresh juice and jaw-clenching tequila.

“Acquired a business, eh?” James poured Hugh a drink, then passed it through the kitchen window.

“A dog-walking business.” James turned back to me, surprised.

“What?”

I laughed. “I am telling you that this morning I went to the Upper East Side—Yorkville to be exact—and acquired myself a dog-walking business. But I think there’s something weird about it.” Hugh appeared in the window.