“Nope. That, my dear friend who hates to say ‘I told you so,’ was the one and only Drew Campbell, art collector to the rich and famous.”
“Let me guess: the gallery fell through, but he thought you might want to meet him for a drink anyway.”
“Nope.”
“Okay. He’s dangling the job in front of you and wants to meet for dinner to discuss it further.”
“Nope.”
“My guesses are up. Just tell me.”
“His client wants to go forward, and Drew wanted to know if the new manager—aka moi—can meet him at a space he’s about to lease in the Meatpacking District.”
Lily said nothing as a busboy added their empty plates to his already chest-high pile of white dishes.
“This is where you remind me he’s full of shit, right?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re supposed to warn me that when I get there, he’ll have some story about the gallery falling through. Or the space will be unavailable. Or there will be a delay in the financing. But then he’ll happen to know about a great bar nearby for a little chat.”
“Sounds like you’re doing a good enough job warning yourself.”
“Maybe I should call him back. I can just say I found another opportunity.”
“When does he want you to meet him?”
“Tomorrow at eleven.”
“A.m.?”
“Of course. I really would deserve to lose my membership card if I fell for a business appointment near midnight.”
“And that’s it? He wants you to see the gallery space?”
“And to bring a résumé so he can do the requisite due diligence. All official-like.”
Still, Lily said nothing.
“Go ahead and say it.”
“What? I didn’t say a word.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve got to admit, I’m thinking it myself. It’s too good to be true. We’ve been running through all of the many reasons to blow this guy off for the last four days. Remember?”
“I remember.”
“But?”
“But nothing. It’s totally up to you.”
“There has to be a catch, right?”
“Seemed so when the asshole wasn’t calling. Now the asshole’s calling with the perfect job.”
“Jesus, you are such a contrarian.”
“Am not,” she said, sticking out her tongue.
“So, all right. I’ll meet the man tomorrow. With my Sisters in Cynicism membership fully updated. Bullshit meter on high alert.”
“And Mace,” Lily added. “A little Mace never hurt anyone.”
As she did more often than she would have liked, Alice allowed Lily to leave enough cash on the table to cover both of their meals. In the pattern that had developed, Alice would soon return the favor, but at a less expensive establishment.
“Oh, and Alice?” Lily’s tone softened as she placed a reassuring hand on Alice’s forearm. “I really do hope this is the real thing.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Hank Beckman watched the digital numbers change on the pump, careful to add only five bucks to the tank. He felt his stomach growl, and then stole a glance at his watch. Three in the afternoon, and nothing today but two cups of coffee.
He’d already paid for the gas—cash, just in case—but dashed back into the station to grab something to tide him over.
“Forget something?”
Just his luck. He stops for gas—at the high-traffic mega station outside the Lincoln Tunnel, no less—and happens upon the one and only gas station attendant in the country who could place a customer’s face. Gold star for attentiveness. He raised a hand, both in a wave and to conceal his appearance. Damn, he was overdoing it with the paranoia. “A man’s got to eat.”
He turned away from the register to peruse the aisles. The usual convenience-store crap. Candy. Chips. Those weird, soggy sandwiches stored in triangular plastic containers. Fried pork rinds? He grabbed two granola bars and then a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator case. Laid a five on the counter, then slipped the change into the plastic donation bucket, this one bearing a picture of sad-looking shelter animals.
He heard a bell chime against the glass door as it swung shut behind him. Tucking the OJ in the crook of his elbow, he ripped open one of the bars and ate it in three bites before getting settled behind the wheel of the Crown Vic. As he inserted the key into the ignition, he thought about turning around, driving back through the tunnel, and making his way downtown early.
He’d gone nearly two months without checking in on him. Two months since he’d been warned. Officially disciplined, as it had been put to Hank. But not one day had passed in those two months when Hank hadn’t thought about the guy. Wondered what he was doing. Imagined how pleased the guy must have been without Hank around to monitor him.
But it was precisely because Hank had been on good behavior that he was willing to risk this brief check-in. Back before he’d been hauled out to the proverbial woodshed, he’d been watching the subject at night. His intentions had been noble—personal time for personal work—but the guy had noticed the pattern. On the upside, if the guy were still checking his back for Hank, he wouldn’t be suspicious in the middle of the afternoon. No, this was the perfect time. Hank’s field stops had gone faster than planned. He could easily steal ninety minutes out on his own without anyone asking questions. He’d already bought his one-point-six gallons of gas for the round-trip drive to Newark, just in case Tommy wondered about the fuel level when Hank returned the fleet car.
As Hank removed the ring of translucent plastic from the cap of his orange juice, he thought about Ellen. Poor Ellen. He hadn’t realized it when he’d had a chance to make a difference, but his sister had been an addict. No different from the sad sacks he’d encountered (and judged) for years—junkies who told themselves they’d get off the needle next week, career offenders who said they’d retire after one last big score—Ellen had let something other than herself become a necessary part of her identity. In her case, that something was alcohol.
He remembered his sister commenting—usually with pride, but often in a resentful, teasing way if she’d had a glass of chardonnay or two—about his extraordinary discipline. “My little brother is the abstemious one in the family.” “Hank will live to be a hundred, the way he takes care of himself.” “My perfect baby brother.”
He had missed the signs of addiction in his sister, but wondered whether, if Ellen were alive, she would spot them in him. Like a drunk on the wagon never stops craving the bottle, he had managed to restrain himself in the two months that had passed since the reprimand, but he had never stopped thinking about the man who killed his sister. And like an alcoholic assuring himself that this drink will be the last—even as he knows in his heart that he has no intention of ever letting it go—Hank started the engine, telling himself he would cruise down to the apartment in Newark, just this once, just to make sure the man hadn’t gone anywhere without him.
CHAPTER FIVE
There was a time when the name of Manhattan’s Meatpacking District required no further explanation. It was the district where the meat was packed. Not