Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (34 page)

My phone beeped to let me know I had a message as I stepped out of the dark subway into another sun-filled July day. “Hi, Joy. This is John Heart. Give me a call back when you get a chance.” I called him back.

“Joy, I wanted to let you know that we’re going to be able to let you back into your apartment this week.”

“I'm moving.”

“I can understand. The thing is, it’s a rental, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That means you’re responsible for the cleanup.” I couldn’t hear for a second as a bus barreled past me.

“Cleanup?” I asked.

“There are specialists who clean up crime scenes.”

“Specialists?” Here was something I had never thought about.

"Yes. They’re like house cleaners. I mean, they are house cleaners, but they just clean up after crime scenes. You know, spackle bullet holes, rip up stained carpet and replace it. Or in the case of hardwood floors they—I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK.” I thought about the stains that James had left in my house, about the bullet I fired into my molding.

“I talked to someone about taking care of it for you, and he’s willing to do it for $1,000. You should be able to recoup most the cost from the Crime Victims Reparations Agency.”

“OK.”

“Would you like me to arrange it?”

“Please.”

“Alright, I’ll call you back with some details.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know anything yet? Do you know who did it?” I held the phone hard against my ear and watched traffic fight forward.

“Not yet. We’re following some strong leads, though. I’ll let you know.”

“OK.” I hung up and put the phone in my bag, next to my gun, which I squeezed.

Snowball and I did not go directly to the dog run. Instead, we made a circle around Gracie Mansion. I tried to look in through the windows, but the reflection in combination with curtains prevented me from seeing anything. I wanted to see the mayor. I wanted to see what I’d done to his face. Snowball wanted to chase pigeons—a true waste of time.

I gave up on the mansion and headed over to the dog run. Bob joined me, a cup of coffee in his meaty fist. We walked along the river. I looked out at Hell’s Gate, its waters churning dangerously. A ship sank in those waters in 1780 and now, over 200 years later, people were dying because of it. How much treasure had the mayor found? How much treasure does it take to murder a man? I thought back to my own inability to kill and assured myself that it would not happen again.

Later that day, Snaffles and I walked into The Excelsior, a hotel on 80th Street between Second and Third Avenues. The Excelsior was built in the ‘70s and preserved. The lobby floor was covered in shag carpeting. A bizarre, faux crystal installation, reminiscent of Superman’s fortress of solitude, covered one wall. Snaffles sniffed with interest at a dark red stain. Bob waited outside, attempting to see through the tinted glass front door.

“Do you have suites?” The bored-looking man lounging behind the wood-paneled front desk nodded. He was the first person since the fight not to stare at my wounds.

“I’d like to see one.” He motioned to an eager young bellboy to come over. The boy half-ran, half-walked, in a way that made him look like a duck in a hurry. The guy behind the desk handed the bellboy a key and motioned for us to go with a flip of his wrist.

The elevator stuttered on its way up to the fifth floor. The bellboy smiled at me wildly and then stared stonily at the elevators bottom. Then the big smile again. The hallway we walked down was dark, not only because of the deep-brown carpeting and burgundy walls, but also because most of the lightbulbs in the fixtures that lined the corridor were burned out.

“Nice lighting,” I joked. The bellboy smiled back at me as he led the way to room 523. It was a shit hole. The brown carpeting from the hall continued into the living room of the suite. The walls, originally painted white, through years of smoking were stained the same yellow as old men’s fingers.

The couch was the same rough material of airport waiting seats. The coffee table, dotted with burns and scratches, wobbled. “Joanie loves Chachi” was markered onto the bathroom wall along with the news that Harriet was a slut. The toilet water smelled funny.

Beige carpet with cloud-like water stains covered the walls of the bedroom. The bed, large and lumpy, took up most of the floor space. The bellboy smiled at me shyly and pointed to the ceiling. It had a mirror on it.

“I’ll take it,” I told the man downstairs. “I’ll pay for two weeks now, and I want a discount. There is no way in hell I’m paying $250 a night for that shit hole.” He feigned surprise but got bored halfway through.

“One fifty,” he suggested.

“A hundred bucks a night.” I put $1,400 in cash on the counter between us. He shrugged, swept it up, and handed me the key. “One more thing.” I laid another $200 on the counter. “Anyone asks, I’m staying in room 784. You get me?” The man smiled and slid the money off the counter.

Marcus phoned while I was returning Snaffles to his empty house. “That cop thinks I killed James, that I was stalking you,” he opened with.

“I told him it wasn’t you.”

“You need to tell him again. I can’t work. I can’t sleep. They keep coming to talk to me.”

“That must be real hard for you.”

“It is. Joy, I’m scared,” he squeaked.

“Nothing is going to happen to you. You didn’t do it.”

“But,” he whined, “this is really hard.”

“Marcus. Who do you think this is harder on? You or me?” Silence. “How ’'bout you try watching your brother die, and then tell me about what’s hard, you prick.” I slammed the phone shut. It rang again almost immediately. Without checking the caller I.D., I started yelling. “Don't call me anymore!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” came a voice I didn’t recognize across the line.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Marty Schwartman, James Humbolt’s lawyer. Is this his sister Joy?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

He laughed easily. “I figured that one out. I’ve been trying to reach you but I think I had the wrong number.”

“Oh?”

“We need to talk about your brother’s assets. I’ve already spoken with Hugh Milton, the only other beneficiary.”

“OK.”

“Where do you work? I could come by on your lunch hour.”

“I’m a dog-walker on the Upper East Side.”

“Great. I’m in East Midtown. Where would you like to meet?”

“The Excelsior Hotel, room 523.” There was a pause on the other line, just long enough for me to notice but not long enough to be rude.

“Tomorrow, about 1?”

“Sounds good.”

Bullets and Money

Bob once again left me at the train station. I went back to Nona’s. She wasn’t there, so I wrote her a note thanking her for taking such good care of me and left my new address at the Excelsior. I packed the few items of clothing I had and put a leash on Blue. I picked up a bottle of tequila at the liquor store and then hopped on the subway acting like it was legal to bring a giant dog on the train.

Halfway there I opened the bottle of tequila and took a painful swig. A child watched me with big, glistening eyes. Her mother, without looking at me, distracted him with a colorful stuffed toy that had lots of legs.

I stumbled on the steps on my way out of the subway, scraping my knee on the filthy cement. Blue whined and licked my face. I picked myself up and walked to the Excelsior. The man behind the desk didn’t move as I walked by him to the elevator.

Once in my room I placed the bottle of tequila on the coffee table. I pulled my gun out of my bag and put it next to the tequila. I found my bullets and spilled them onto the coffee table. A couple of them rolled onto the floor. They were gold and pretty looking. I ran my hands over their smooth surfaces, pushing them around.

I woke up naked in bed with a big hangover. I walked barefoot into the living room and grabbed a $7 beer out of the mini bar and opened it on the bottle opener attached to my bathroom wall. I didn’t look in the mirror.

When I got to the dog run about a half-hour later, Marcia took one look at me and told me to go home. I started to protest, but when I saw that even Elaine was looking at me with pity, I put Snowball’s leash into Fiona’s outstretched hand and walked back to the Excelsior.

I took a nap on my face, on the couch. I woke up with drool on my cheek and a cramp in my back. Someone was knocking on the door. I stumbled on my shoes, then opened the door to a short, sweaty man wearing a suit and thick glasses. “Joy, I assume? Call me Marty.” He handed me a card that had his name on it followed by “Esq.”

“Come in.” Blue sniffed him intently before letting him pass. Marty took it well. I threw myself back down on the couch. Marty perched on the edge of the coffee table, ignoring that it was covered in bullets and spilled tequila.

“I’ve actually been working on this thing for a while. Like I told you, I couldn’t get ahold of you.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file. “Your brother left you his life insurance.” I nodded. He rifled through the folder. “So here is your check.”

“What?” I sat up too fast, and for a second my vision swarmed with black dots. He handed me the check. It had my name on it, and it was for $100,000.

“What do I do with it?” I asked stupidly.

“Whatever you want. It’s all yours.”

“Oh.” He stood up.

“Alright, Ms. Humbolt. I’m happy we got this sorted out. Good luck to you.” I stayed seated on the couch, and he let himself out.

“Thank you,” I said long after the door had clicked shut.

A Proposition

Hours later, after the sunset and the street lights turned on, Blue and I went out looking for food. Bob was asleep on one of the couches in the lobby. His face looked almost sweet in sleep. Bob had not shaved in a day or two. He was working on a nice set of crow’s feet. Bob’s hair was thinning, running away from his face. He didn’t look so big or so mean.

I got us a pizza covered in sausage. I was going to offer Bob a slice, but he was gone when we returned to the Excelsior. Blue ate his half quickly and loudly. I had a slice-and-a-half and then turned back to beer. Three beers later, Blue and I went out and got another bottle of tequila.

When I got back to my room, Mulberry was sitting on my couch. “That’s a fancy trick,” I said, trying to act as though I wasn’t surprised.

“You look like you’re healing well,” Mulberry stood and approached me. He reached a hand out to touch my face, and I backed away. “We need to talk,” he said.

I smiled, then grabbed two beers out of the fridge and headed into the bathroom to open them.

“So what’s going on?” Mulberry asked. I handed Mulberry his beer and leaned against the window still.

“You figured any of it out yet?”

“A bit.”

“Like what?”

Mulberry sat back down and took a slug of his beer. “There are tunnels leading from Gracie Mansion to the basement of Eighty-Eight East End, among other places.” I nodded. “I talked to a friend in City Planning, and, apparently, the rumor is the first passageways were discovered during the O'Dwyer administration. They decided to upgrade them and use them for security.”

“What else do you know?”

“The mayor, Kurt Jessup, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He killed Joseph and Tate because of something having to do with the coins Charlene had.”

“What do you know about the gold?” I looked out the window. Several stories down, industrial fans hummed.

“It’s old, British, and valuable.”

“It is from the H.M.S. Hussar, a very famous shipwreck, a long sought-after shipwreck. It sank in Hell’s Gate in 1780 with not only the British payroll but also pirated treasure. Then some 200 years later, the mayor found it.”

“He found the Hussar?”

I nodded with the beer to my lips. “He and Tate. Joseph knew about it and was helping them to cover the sale of the treasure, but then he got greedy.” Mulberry was paying close attention. “He got horny and greedy. He wanted to run off with Charlene and the treasure.”

“That’s why he was killed.”

“That’s why the mayor killed him. Why did he set up his wife?” Mulberry shrugged. “Because he thought it was really all her fault. If she had kept her man interested, he would never have tried to run off with Charlene and the gold.”

He sat back and took a long swig. I pulled the bottle of tequila out of my bag, running my hand over the gun on my way. I thanked Jesus that I had cleaned up the bullets before Mulberry broke in.

“Shot?” I asked. Mulberry’s eyes focused on the bottle. He shook his head. I opened the tequila, savoring the sound of the plastic safety seal breaking. I poured a large shot into a glass and drank it back, then shivered. “Kurt Jessup is not a good guy.” I leaned back, getting comfortable in my story. “He’s a bad egg.”

“Did the mayor bleed at your place at all?” Mulberry asked.