With a Twist (12 page)

Two hundred bucks
each. That’s what it cost Quinn for two tickets to the New York Philharmonic. He’d almost stroked out from sheer shock.

Despite a crazy schedule, he’d managed to find time to hit Best Buys to pick up a CD of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto so he at least knew what he’d be hearing. Jesus Christ, it was boring. Long, torturous, and boring. He didn’t know how the hell he was going to stay awake for the whole thing, unless he guzzled at least a few cups of joe before meeting Natalie at Avery Fisher Hall. He also Googled Rachmaninoff, just in case Natalie brought him up. Russian, influenced by Tchaikovsky, blah blah blah. Two dates with Natalie, and he was already down $750. If they continued seeing each other, he was going to have to introduce her to some of the less expensive things in life, or he’d be broke within two months. Then again, both the ritzy restaurant and the Philharmonic had been his idea, not hers.

No doubt $750 was a drop in the bucket for Mason Clement. Clearly he’d gotten to the bastard. Clement had been a prick to Quinn and his cronies all week. Nothing anyone did was up to snuff—as if the asshole knew or even cared about news, sports, or crossword puzzles. It was pure ballbusting. It bugged Quinn that Clement wasn’t just riding him but his friends as well, part of some kind of twisted spite by association thing. If it didn’t stop soon, Quinn was going to call him on it.

He was cooling his heels outside Lincoln Center while he waited for Nat, watching all the well-dressed people make their way inside. Quinn loved people watching, maybe because reading faces was a big part of his job. He wondered if people knew how much their expressions, even if they were only fleeting, revealed about them. An older couple who looked to be in their seventies walked toward him. The frail, slightly hunched guy was decked out in a tux, while the woman, wizened yet bosomy, waddled beside him in some kind of gauzy, floor-length peach dress. The man was talking a mile minute in that croaky old-guy voice, and for a split second, the woman looked like she wanted to plunge a dagger into his heart. The old man didn’t catch it at all. Quinn loved noticing stuff like this.

“Bonjour.”

Hearing Natalie’s voice behind him, Quinn turned. There she was, his four-hundred-dollar date, looking so happy and relaxed that he had no choice but to ignore the feeling he was about to descend into musical hell.

Quinn gave a small bow. “
Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bocuse.
You look rather beautiful tonight.”

Natalie ducked her head shyly. “Thank you.”

She did indeed look beautiful, dressed in a sleek black dress and pearls, her long, wavy brown hair pulled back.

“Frenchwomen really do know how to get decked out.”

Natalie jokingly tilted her nose up in the air. “We pride ourselves on it.”

“You’ve got a booger in your left nostril.”

Natalie’s hand flew to her nose, horrified. “What?”

“Just kidding.”

“You’re an immature ass,” Natalie hissed.

“Yeah, I know. But you love me anyway.”

Quinn quickly glanced down at his own outfit, wondering if Natalie noticed he was wearing the same thing he’d worn to L’Orangerie. He owned two sports jackets, and the other one was at the cleaners because he’d dripped mustard on the sleeve eating a hot dog on the run.

He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

“Oui.”

Natalie threaded his arm through hers, and together they walked to Avery Fisher Hall. When he led Natalie to their third-row seats, there was no mistaking the shock on her face.

“How did you—?” she asked breathlessly.

Quinn almost lied and said he was a season ticket holder and then caught himself, fearing it would be a recipe for poverty. Instead, he just winked and said, “I have my ways.”

They settled into their seats. Quinn was struck by the volume of the murmuring crowd: so low and respectful it reminded him of being at a wake. Meanwhile, Natalie was gazing around in elation.

She finally turned to him. “This was a wonderful idea. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Thank you for accepting.”

He took her hand in his. Her fingers were long and delicate, her hand tiny and soft.
Christ, listen to yourself. You’re rhapsodizing over her hands.
The effect she was having on him was downright unnerving. He couldn’t help himself: without warning, he gently put his mouth to hers, enthralled by the myriad sensations tumbling through him. Though it seemed a sweet kiss on the surface, he could feel need rising up in him, spurred on in part by her lack of resistance. He longed to deepen contact, but this wasn’t the time or place. He slowly lifted his mouth from hers. Natalie looked slightly dazed. He waited for some sort of teasing rebuke, but none came. Still holding her hand, he tightened his grip. No resistance.

Eventually the orchestra filed onstage and began tuning up. The audience fell silent. The house lights went down. The conductor came to stand behind the podium, the orchestra poised for direction, and the music began.

For the first half hour or so, Natalie’s happiness was enough to keep Quinn’s boredom at bay. But then he began losing the battle, stifling yawns, trying to sit up straight in his seat, feigning concentration. Ultimately, the only thing that kept his head from slumping down onto his chest was thinking about the next piece of research he might need to delve into about the possible connection between Shields Construction and Whitey Connors. That’s when his cell phone vibrated.

Quinn quickly pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked to see who was calling. It was Liam. Panic seized him: Liam never called him. Something bad had happened.

“I have to go,” he whispered to Natalie.

“What?” she whispered back, looking stunned.

“I have to go. I’m really sorry. I’ll call you.”

He kissed her quickly on the cheek, turned his phone off, and began his litany of “excuse me’s” as he made his way to the aisle. He could feel Natalie’s eyes burning into his back. He couldn’t worry about that. Something bad had happened. One thing was certain: he sure as hell was awake now.

“Jesus Christ, PJ.”

Quinn tried not to wince as he pulled up a chair beside the writer’s hospital bed. He’d hated leaving Natalie in the middle of the concert, but he didn’t have a choice. Liam had called to tell him that the Mouth had rushed into the Hart after seeing PJ being loaded, bloodied and unconscious, onto a stretcher and taken away in an ambulance. The “family” at the Hart was close-knit; what happened to any one of them affected them all. Someone beating up mild-mannered PJ certainly fit the bill.

Quinn prayed in the cab that he wouldn’t have to go hospital hopping to find PJ, and his prayers were answered: PJ was in the first hospital he hit, Roosevelt. Unsurprisingly, Quinn found him in a small cubicle awaiting triage, his cuts and bruises pretty low on the emergency room’s totem pole. Even so, it was a shock to see him: there was blood caked to his head, his left eye was a bloodied slit, and he was missing a front tooth. His face was virtually swollen beyond recognition.

“Quinn.” PJ looked pleased to see him and began to smile, then stopped. “Shit, that hurts.”

“Any idea when they’ll fix you up?”

“Nurse said they’ve got two heart attacks and a gunshot wound. I’ll probably be here all night.” He touched his left cheek, grimacing. “I must look a sight.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Who called you?”

“Liam. The Mouth saw you being loaded into an ambulance—where? Outside your apartment building?”

“No, the building where I rent my writing room.”

“Wanna tell me what happened?” Quinn murmured.

PJ’s eyes turned toward the wall. “I got mugged. It’s nothing.”

“It’s nothing? PJ, your face has been rearranged. That’s not nothing.”

PJ didn’t say anything.

“Did some guys rob you and then decide to kick the shit out of you just for fun?”

“Just let it go, Quinn, okay? It’s not important.”

Quinn drew his chair closer. “You know what, PJ? For an Irishman, you’re a terrible liar. Don’t hold out on me here, pal.”

“I can’t go into it, Quinn,” PJ replied evasively.

“Why not?”

PJ hesitated. “Because it could make things worse for me.”

“Worse for you? Did the guys who beat you up threaten you?”

PJ looked exasperated. “Quinn, just—”

“No. I’m not moving from this chair until you give me at least the bare bones of what happened. I’m serious.” Quinn sat there, knowing that if push came to shove, he could wait PJ out. Hell, he could wait anyone out if he had to; he was the master of the journalistic stakeout. He just never thought he’d be staking out a friend lying in a hospital bed.

As Quinn predicted, PJ eventually caved. “I was in my writing room,” he began woodenly, “working on my book—you know the one based on Celtic myth with a touch of—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the book.” Quinn hated sounding impatient, but he knew PJ: once he got started rhapsodizing about his magnum opus, it could be hours before he got round to the meat of the story—and Quinn wanted the meat badly.

PJ glared at him with his one good eye. “Anyway, I was working on my book, when three young thugs burst into the room. All of them were wearing balaclavas. I thought, ‘Shit, they’re here to rob me, and all I have to give them is my precious Underwood and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.’ But they weren’t there to rob me,” he said quietly.

“What happened?”

“They asked if I knew that the building had a new owner. I said no. Then they said they were putting me on notice that I had a week to get out of there. I told them I had a lease, and I didn’t see why I couldn’t just keep paying rent to the new owner. Their charming, erudite response? ‘There’s no way you’re going to be able to afford this room anymore, fuck face.’ ”

PJ took a long breath, gritting his teeth. Obviously his ribs were hurting. “I said, well, could I just talk to the owner and see? That’s when they beat me up, reiterating I had a week to get out or else.”

“They didn’t say who the new owner of the building was?”

“No.”

“So then what happened?”

“What do you think happened?” PJ retorted. “They left, I pissed my pants from pure fear, and I called an ambulance.”

“You’re gonna file a police report, right?”

PJ’s swollen lips fell open in disbelief. “What are you, out of your mind? Those guys almost killed me. They want me out, I’m out.”

“Peej—”

“Don’t push me on this, Quinn. I wish Liam had never called you. I knew you’d come running down here sniffing blood.”

“That’s what I do for a living, PJ. I sniff blood. Besides, you’re my friend.”

“I guess,” PJ mumbled.

Quinn shook his head, distressed. “I can’t believe this shit is going on in our own neighborhood.”

“Well,” said PJ, groaning in pain as he shifted position, “I got the message loud and clear, and I’m getting the hell out of there.” He sighed. “At least they didn’t break my typewriter.”

Fuck your typewriter,
Quinn thought. “I’m gonna write this up for the
Sent
.”

“Don’t,” PJ hissed vehemently. “You wanna get me killed?”

“It won’t get you killed.”

“Look at my face, you bullheaded idiot. If even one of them sees the article, I’m dead. I’m begging you as a friend: forget I ever told you about this, okay?” He looked desperate.

Quinn gently patted his shoulder. “Okay, don’t worry about it. I won’t write up the story. I’ll just wait here until they fix you up.”

“Actually, I’d be much happier if you went and got my typewriter and manuscript.”

“I can do that. You sure you gonna be okay here? Let me at least go get you some magazines or something. Even better.” He dug into his backpack, pulling out his iPod and earbuds and handing them to PJ. “Close your eyes and just relax. I’ll go get your typewriter and keep it safe.”

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar, Quinn O’Brien.”

Quinn walked out of the emergency room, his mind racing. PJ had had his ass beaten and was told to vacate his room within the week. Franco the tailor was mysteriously retiring after being made “an offer” he couldn’t turn down. Porco & Sons’ higher bid was rejected by the mayor’s office.
It didn’t take a scholar to connect the dots.