by Damon Suede
“Good. Take your time. Remember: The elevator is always broken. Use the Steps.”
Again he bobbed his head at the slogan like she could see him. She probably could.
Peach coughed. “Go home, rub one out and relax, Ruben.”
“Fuck off. G’bye. You know I don’t do that.” He hung up laughing with her.
He didn’t. Not jerking off had been a point of honor for him all his life, almost a competition.
At eleven his dad had explained the man/woman/baby deal and what his two-by was for. The Osos weren’t Catholic enough for Ruben to get horny-guilt, but he’d taken his dad’s lecture as a kind of challenge. A real man kept shit under control. His coaches said the same: game first, pussy after.
Easy enough. Ruben didn’t need to masturbate as long as he had a girlfriend to tap the sap. He always did.
He looked down at the map on his phone. You are here.
Why did Andy Bauer bother him so much?
According to the blue dot on his GPS, Bauer’s building was on the corner of Seventy-Eighth and Park, so he headed north for a looksee.
Much quieter, this neighborhood. Boutiques and townhouses. Expensive cars even on the street. The buildings all had doormen, and the pedestrians dressed for show, not comfort. He spotted his destination from over a block away, a digital icicle rising ten stories higher than anything nearby.
880 Park Avenue turned out to be a white stone sliver with exaggerated windows above the twenty-fourth floor. The lower half definitely blended in with the surrounding Park Avenue buildings, but the upper floors resembled a space-age dildo. The glass cap kept it from sore-thumbing the block by angling the windows to reflect the sky. Out front, a zigzag row of chestnut trees bloomed in creamy pyramids. The gray awning said “The Iris,” so maybe the whole thing was supposed to look like a flower bud.
As a test, Ruben decided to bluff his way past the door staff. Just to see. Look like you know where you’re going, most staff steers clear.
He crossed Seventy-Eighth and approached a plate glass door held by a young doorman in a suit the building had probably hired for his smile, not his smarts. He was listening to a leggy blonde in a sundress holding a leash with a ball of peach fluff at one end.
Bauer had to be many times a millionaire to live here.
Ruben passed the door boy and the blonde, not even grunting a greeting as he strode across the white marble. Bright. Somehow brighter inside here than the June afternoon outside. Almost blinding.
He tucked his chin, squinted, and ambled inside as if mulling his millions. His pupils started to adjust. Maybe that was why it was called the Iris.
Another thirty feet.
On his left, a green wall of living vegetation and three tall silver birches in a line growing out of containers set into the floor. Sort of a deconstructed indoor garden. The leafy wall muffled half of the sound. Polished limestone slabs covered the other walls.
Twenty feet.
A lacquered desk to the right. Two doormen? One seated, one bent over a ledger talking on a phone. Both kids and too groomed to take seriously. He sauntered past and gave an absent nod to the youngsters. No response; geniuses obviously. A short hallway hooked to the right behind the doormen. Mailboxes, looked like.
Ten feet. Secure building, my ass.
Past the spindly trees, a rigid semicircle of brown leather armchairs on a spotless ecru rug. Hell to keep clean, but maybe the residents wore new shoes every day. The chairs faced a blown-glass coffee table that cost upward of nine grand. Ruben pretended to dig for his keys as he neared the elevator bank at the back.
Five feet.
He pressed the button. According to the posted fire escape floorplan, the dogleg hallway ahead hooked back toward the stairwell and a service elevator opening into the garage.
These kids seriously weren’t going to stop him. Feeling brave, he swiveled to check the lush, hushed space behind him. Not a peep.
The vaulted elevator slid open without a sound. He stepped in and pressed PH. No key, no code required.
Digital numbers flicked by up top, even though the car didn’t seem to be moving. The interior was paneled in cherry burl with a narrow bench running the length of the back. Maybe rich idiots got tired if they stood too long.
See? He knew what he was doing. Charles owed him a raise. Bauer owed him a debt of thanks. Ruben had just stuck his fingers into a fancy fortress built of Swiss cheese.
The digital display above the buttons slowed, although he still couldn’t feel any shift in momentum. For a moment, he thought he was about to walk back out into the lobby, but he had indeed reached the PH without a single hiccup.
The cherry doors slid open directly into the penthouse to reveal Bauer two feet away, big dumb grin on that square face. Dress shirt, slacks, but he’d ditched the jacket. “Oso! You’re about fourteen hours early, my man.” He held out a glass of white wine.
Ruben opened and closed his mouth. His face and neck prickled with a blush. “Uh.”
Bauer’s lips flickered with a suppressed smile, dimples framing it like apostrophes.
Lunkhead. Ruben hadn’t snuck past anything. His new boss had poured him a goddamn drink.
“Didn’t we say eight?” The elevator started to close until Bauer waved his hand in the beam. “A.M.?”
Ruben had to step off right into the man’s personal space.
Instead of backing away, Bauer put the glass in Ruben’s hand. “This is yours. I left mine out on the terrace.” Without waiting or explaining, he headed right toward brightness. He was barefoot.
Ruben followed him toward a blinding double-height living room. Floor to ceiling glass faced south over a hot sky and high-rises. The windows were kept so clean they were invisible. It was uncomfortable, actually, as if they were standing on an open platform; wander off and you might fall five hundred feet and end up Park Avenue pudding. He had to turn away and his eyes took a second to adjust. Total showplace.
“Sorry.” Bauer pointed a remote at the gigantic wall of glass and the ambient glare dimmed. “Smart glass.” The sheet windows darkened the day to what looked like early evening.
Ruben nodded stupidly at the glass walls and massive wrap terrace. “Nice.”
“That’s tinting, it can also—” The windows frosted over until they were almost opaque. “Privacy.”
With all that glass, Ruben figured these digital shades cost upward of a quarter million. Some toy. “Uh. Yeah. Cool.”
To his right a wide spiral staircase with glass treads led up to the mezzanine. Not just a penthouse, a duplex penthouse. Bauer had to be worth two hundred million at least. Standing there barefoot on a thirty-two thousand dollar silk rug over a ninety grand square of fruitwood floor.
The toxic sticker shock only raised more flags. Ruben’s breath rose high and cold in his chest. All this fucking luxe. Who was this Bauer guy? What the hell was Ruben doing up here?
Off-kilter, Ruben finally looked at the wineglass in his hand. “I don’t drink.” Why had he admitted that?
The cocky grin faltered.
Fuck anonymity. “Not anymore.” Ruben set the glass on a Lucite trunk serving as an end table. Four grand, easy. Inside the trunk was a polished bear skull. He had no fucking idea what a bear skull cost. He blinked. “Sober.”
“Sorry. Good for you.” Bauer picked up the glass. “Water? Soda?”
“No, I’m fine.” Ruben shuffled in place and squared his shoulders. His eye kept resting on objects and pricing them as best he could. “Look, I’m sorry. I came to case the setup.”
“I got that impression.” Bauer tapped the side of his nose and chuckled.
Jerk.
Giant abstract canvas on the west wall over a celery green vase deep enough to hide a four year old.
Ruben had no idea what the artwork was worth, but he could imagine. “Because that’s what you’re supposed to do. To see what happened. Buildings talk about cameras and logbooks, but all that matters is what’s on the
ground.”
Bauer took a sip. “The elevator has to be cleared for every single person headed upstairs. It won’t leave the lobby if the doormen don’t release it. Hell, they can lock people in it if there’s a breach.”
Ruben blinked. “I had to check.”
“I know. The staff notified me when you reached the block. Cameras.”
Ruben scowled. “What, ’cause I’m brown?”
“Jeez.” Bauer put a hand on his arm. Again. “No. I gave them your picture. I snapped you this morning at your brother’s office.”
When? Another huge red flag right there. “You shoulda said.” He dug his little leather journal from his breast pocket.
“Oso, I wasn’t being a dick. I had to run a check. I took your picture because that’s what I’m supposed to do.” Bauer ran a hand through his floppy hair, releasing a cowlick at his crown. “Believe me, the guys hassling me won’t worry about doormen. Just relax.”
Why would I do that? Ruben frowned.
Every fiber told him to get the hell out of there, just punch for the elevator and cancel the job. His experience was nil and his qualifications minimal: basic CPR and a concealed carry permit. In April, his brother had sent him to a three-day workshop with the Executive Protection Institute just to get him up to speed, with the understanding he’d fly down to Virginia for the full seminar when he could afford it.
No harm in a surreptitious photo, but it felt weird. First day and he felt stupid and outclassed. “I wish you’d said something, Mr. Bauer.”
“Andy. Call me Andy.” Fat chance. “You did right.” Back slap. “Just, this is a weird situation. Let me give you the five-dollar tour.”
Bauer looked ready to drape an arm around his shoulders so Ruben walked back toward the hall.
“Living room, obviously. The big silver spiral thing heads up to the bedrooms. Powder room and access to one set of fire stairs.” Bauer turned too fast and a slosh of white wine spattered the couch. “Shit.” He righted the glass. “Again. Liliana will kill me.” He touched it absently.
Ruben glowered at the stain. “Girlfriend?”
“Housekeeper. Serbian. She’s very house-proud.”
Ruben added her name to the journal, and started counting entry points. “Lotta nice things.”
“I just sign the checks.” Bauer shrugged. “I hired my mom’s decorator. I want things comfortable.”
Ruben couldn’t imagine being comfortable in a place where a slip or a spill cost the average annual income. Everything here was for show. Instead of dwelling on his irritation, he pivoted and advanced along the main hallway.
Bauer spoke from behind him, explaining the chain of rooms on the right. “Den. Dining room. Kitchen’s around there with breakfast area.” A hallway branched east toward the terrace. “Guest suite down there. And this is the office.”
Ruben stepped into a double-height office at the far north end of the duplex, directly opposite the living room. Two desks. Shelved walls. Three plasma screens on cantilevered arms displayed a stock market crawl.
“Library really, but it’s just me and Hope in here so I can spread out.” Bauer paused to turn. “My assistant.”
“Lotta TVs.” He added Hope to his list. Charles could run checks on the staff.
“Sorry. Broker’s delight.” Bauer pushed the floating screens back against the walls before perching on the messier of the desks.
Ruben smiled in spite of himself. “Not what I expected.” It wasn’t. A low couch and a scatter of chairs. Reading nook with a lamp. Unpretentious even with eighteen-foot ceilings. Sliding doors opened onto the terrace from another wall of windows. Wow. “Great room, man.” Without meaning to, he smiled right at Bauer for the first time.
Bauer’s blue-gray eyes gleamed. “Oh. Oh! Thanks.” His grin spread and set.
He wants to be liked.
Bauer bobbed his head. “Spa out that way. And shower.” He pointed at the staircase folded upward on the right wall. “And then upstairs, my bedroom, dressing room, and two guest rooms. Laundry. I spend most of my time down here though. I love this room.”
“I can see why.” Ruben ran a calloused hand over the desk’s satiny wood. Even though they were equally high, the north-facing windows let in a soft platinum light.
“And this right here is my total favorite thing.” Bauer grasped one shelf on the west wall and tugged. “This is the only feature I asked for. Panic shelf!” To Ruben’s surprise, the lower half of the bookcase swung back, books and all, to reveal another service door hidden behind. “That one leads to the service access and the other stairwell too.”
“Awful lot of doors.” Ruben frowned. “Front elevator opens right into your foyer. Besides that, you got two separate stairwells and a secondary elevator that all feed into the apartment. Doors, doors, doors.”
“Upstairs too. Fire safety, right? But the doormen control the elevator.”
“The main one. Not the service. And you got those staircases. This is nuts.” Ruben put his hands in his pockets, watching Bauer look over his office with undisguised pride. “Mr. Bauer, I think you should consider having a full team in here. An alternate, at least. Empire is not equipped to handle—”
“Andy, please.” He turned. “Have to disagree with you there.”
“Okay. I just wanted to be clear. Any direct access from the terrace?”
Bauer shook his head then stepped close to Ruben and sniffed.
Uhh. Ruben froze. Freaky.
“I smell tobacco. You don’t smoke?” He didn’t move back.
Embarrassing. “Very occasionally. Socially, I guess. Y’know, clubs or whatever. My rule is, I don’t buy them, I just light ’em.” Ruben followed Bauer down the office stairs and into the hall.
Bauer frowned a little as he punched for the elevator. “Outside only, okay?”
“Sure! Of course. That smell never comes out. This jacket is my brother’s, like I said—”
“Or you could quit. Don’t even need twelve Steps.” Bauer flashed the dimple. “Cheaper and healthier besides.” Bauer rubbed his shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip until Ruben shifted away.
Jerk. And why did his new boss keep touching him like a carpet salesman?
Bauer grinned and patted at his cowlick. “I think that’s everything. Let’s go down and get you logged in with the staff. Photo, fingerprint.”
Only half joking, Ruben countered with, “DNA sample?”
“If you want to leave a specimen, I’m sure a couple guys’d be willing.” Bauer’s small dimple made an appearance.
“I probably look weird to them.”
“Everyone looks weird to them. All the doormen are models. Literally. The building hired its guys from Elite and Ford. At least you’re handsome; I look like a slipcover.”
“C’mon.” Ruben scoffed. “A couch, maybe.” A guy with a face that says welcome, which assholes use to wipe their feet.
“Nice. Fuck you.” But Bauer laughed. The sound made him seem likeable. “We just need some clothes. That jacket is doing you no favors.”
“Fair ’nough.” He tried not to feel insulted. It’s a job.
“Oso, what you look like doesn’t matter to me.”
Ouch. Ruben’s vanity reared its ugly head. “’Cause all your friends dress like shit?”
Bauer blanched. “That sounded crappy. It’s not—” Swallow, grimace. “More like Upper East Side camouflage.”
Ruben blinked and kept his face impassive. What did he care what this rich ragdoll thought? Being broke sucked, but there were worse options. All of this was for show. If Bauer wanted to buy him a few costumes, why not?
“This morning you said blending would make things easier. I’d rather you feel comfortable around the office.”
Office, nothing. Ruben had always been snobby about clothes. Women appreciated a man who took care of himself: Gym. Tan. Threads. Even the smallest effort could land the ugliest idiot knee-deep in C-cups and enthusiastic anal sex with ladies who tried on di
ck like shoes.
Slick temptation coiled around him and squeezed.
Ruben always knew the price tag, always had a plan, but he’d never been able to afford the stuff he saw in magazines. He wasn’t a label whore, but given the means he’d be happy to learn. Bauer could afford all that noise and didn’t give a what-what. Ruben never got a credit card bill without worrying about how he’d cover it.
Even now, he had loans out the ass, credit card payments, a Kendall storage unit full of shit he’d already forgotten, and no bed to call his own. He couldn’t imagine a life when he wasn’t thinking about covering his rent and beating the bank. Andy Bauer was a bank.
Ruben scrubbed his teeth with his lips. “Better clothes will probably keep me out of fights.”
Bauer laughed. “Y’don’t seem like the kind of guy who picks fights.”
“I got a face picks fights for me. Fucking bull’s-eye.”
“How do you figure?”
Ruben favored his boss with a skeptical glance. “I look like every drug lord on every show.”
“C’mon.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“You do scowl a lot.” Bauer smiled. “You’re scowling now.”
“I’m not scowling.” Fuck you. He stopped scowling.
“Well, optical illusion, then. Black eyebrows, Roman nose. Five o’clock shadow. Probably good for this security gig, huh? Nobody messes with you.”
“Everybody messes with me. My whole life. Teachers. Cops. Guys take a swing ’cause I’m drinking from the same kinda glass as their girls.”
“Nah.” Bauer clenched his square jaw in that Sears-dad smile he’d worn this morning at Empire Security. “You look like a badass. I look like the neighbor who drops in to borrow a rake.”
“Right.” Ruben shook his head. He didn’t say anything about Bauer’s face picking a different kinda fight. They weren’t friends.
“Just, people in this neighborhood pay a lot of attention to the, uhh, externals.”
Ruben tried not to feel self-conscious in his baggy jacket. “A lot of my stuff is still on the way.”
“S’not a problem.” Bauer leaned over his desk to make a note. “Don’t sweat it. Cómo se dice expense account?”
