by Kyra Davis
My heart is pounding against my chest so hard I’m sure Travis can hear it. It can’t be this easy, can it? Can he really be on the verge of revealing some felonious secret that I can use against him?
I so want to believe that . . . but . . . why would he give a veritable stranger that kind of power? It doesn’t make any sense. So if he isn’t giving me the tools to take him down, then it’s possible I’m being tested.
Or maybe it’s worse than that.
I know her identity.
The things Lander had accused me of—they had been stupid, banal things, all easy for me to spin and explain. But what if he really does know my identity and he’s the one misleading me . . . again?
If so, did he share that information with his brother?
And if he did that . . . is this the beginning of some kind of setup?
My hands are shaking, but I hide it by busying myself with making space for the envelope in my purse.
Of course I could just hand the envelope back to Travis . . . and lose my job. And then my whole plan falls apart.
I steel myself and zip up my purse. “Shall I go now?”
“You don’t have any other questions?”
I meet his eyes, hold his gaze. He looks so much like his brother . . . but he’s so very different.
“No,” I finally answer. “You’ve told me all you want to tell me. My job is to do what’s asked of me.”
When he doesn’t respond, the room dives into silence. I can feel the chill of the air conditioner. With Lander I’m constantly having to remind myself that he’s the bad guy, but with Travis no reminder is necessary . . . and I can’t even put my finger on why that is. Is it simply because Travis is mean to his wife? I hate his wife. So what do I care how he treats her?
Although how he treats her highlights the fundamental truth about his nature. Travis is very successful and he’s reportedly very smart.
But underneath the money and the intellect, he’s just a bully . . .
. . . a bully who might be setting me up just like he and his family set up my mom. If he’s figured out who I am and what I’m trying to do . . . well, that would be motive enough.
The money is probably only adding a few ounces to my purse, but its significance is heavy enough to make my shoulder ache.
I think back to the blood on my mother’s clothes the night she was taken away from me. I’d give anything to go back in time and stop her from walking into Nick Foley’s house.
I wish I had never seen that blood. Or, at the very least, it would have been better if the blood that stained my mom’s pink shirt was the blood of a man who actually deserved to die.
The envelope is so damn heavy.
“When you’ve completed this errand you’ll come right back here.”
I nod, step backward. “I’ll see you a little later then, Mr. Gable.”
“Till then,” he says and turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. He’s done with me. I’m dismissed.
I feel unsteady as I walk down the hall, past the receptionist, and toward the elevators.
My mind is still awash with memories of my mother crying, memories of the blood. I’ve spent years turning my mind and body into a weapon in order to seek justice through cleaner means.
Despite my earlier willingness to act, thinking about my mother’s ordeal also makes me never want to see that kind of violence up close again.
But if Travis is setting me up . . . if violence is the only option left for me . . . isn’t it worth it? That’s always been my plan B, and isn’t that fair? Wouldn’t that at least resemble justice?
I get on the elevator thinking about Lander, and then Mercedes, Travis’s daughter. Mercedes, who is still innocent and who still seems to love her parents.
The elevator door opens after descending two floors, letting in strangers, just random employees of this dreaded bank. They don’t acknowledge me as they press the button for the lobby.
I nervously rub my left thumb over my right palm. After a moment I realize that I once saw my mother make this same jittery motion after she found Nick. She was trying to scrub his blood off her hands.
And Lady Macbeth had scrubbed her guilt-ridden hands and asked: “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
It’s a quote from one of Lander’s favorite plays, one that resonates with me. I switch my purse to my other shoulder, hoping to balance the weight. I’ve daydreamed about hurting the Gables for so long . . . but if I literally end up with their blood on my hands, how will that affect me? When it comes down to it, how far am I willing to go? Could I actually shoot Travis? Could I watch him die?
More people come into the elevator. I press myself against the wall to make room. The elevator slides down to another floor and then another. One of the men leans over and whispers something into the ear of a female colleague, who barks with laughter. The soft and loud sounds only serve to make the space feel tighter. Feeling claustrophobic, I think about the last time I laughed. It was with Lander, the brother of the man I’m thinking about killing.
The elevator reaches the lobby and everyone swarms out, moving in one direction like so many salmon.
I wipe my guilt-ridden hands on my skirt and follow them out, my purse adding weight to every step I take.
chapter three
I catch a cab to Brooklyn rather than take the subway. No need to make this process longer or more dangerous than it needs to be. Still, I have the cabbie drop me off a block from my destination . . . just in case.
The address is on the outskirts of Brooklyn Heights, and as I close the cab door and listen to it drive away, I assess the street. It’s nice. Nothing to fear here but conformity and Chihuahuas.
And yet it’s not far from where Nick Foley was killed, in his three-story town house with a pretty view and expensive furnishings. The security systems, the prestige, the money—none of it had kept out the bloodshed.
I glance around the area again. There are a handful of pedestrians, lots of yellow cabs and town cars flying by. Two are double-parked, probably waiting for their fares to pay them.
Walking toward the address, I wish I had worn different shoes. These high heels limit my speed and agility. Studying the addresses as I proceed down the block, I spot the one Travis wrote down. It’s a small apartment complex with a bank of individual buzzers by the front door. I reach out to press the one that corresponds to the apartment I’m meant to visit. But then, before I can actually press the button, I stop. Something’s amiss, I can sense it . . .
Someone is watching me.
I step back, look both ways. A woman with a designer bag and a screaming child in tow marches past me without a glance. Across the street there’s a couple strolling easily, holding hands. Farther down a man almost runs into a lamppost as he tries to walk and text at the same time. No one seems to notice me . . .
. . . but I could have sworn.
My hand goes into my bag and I feel the outlines of the envelope. I could leave right now. Call it a day.
And then I would have to walk away from the whole game. And after all I’ve done to get here, if I do that, I deserve to be set up. If I do that, I’m the one who deserves to die.
I press the button next to the number: 555.
“Yeah.” It’s a male voice, heavy with a Brooklyn accent, not exactly the norm here, in Brooklyn Heights.
“Hello, is this L.J.?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Travis Gable sent me.”
There’s a grumbling and then the sound of a buzzer as I’m let in.
Yeah, what of it? I consider the phrase as I take the tiny elevator to the fifth floor. It’s cliché tough-guy talk. So cliché I’ve never actually heard anyone who isn’t in a movie say it. When the doors open, I see a man dressed in ripped jeans and a T-shirt featuring a rapper who was popular about a decade ago. The man’s eyes are moving left and right as if he’s checking for unwanted company.
It’s
suspicious . . . in a cartoonish kind of way. All he’s missing is a puffy jacket and a gold tooth.
“You have something for me?” he asks, his eyes again darting up and down the empty hall.
“Yes.” I start to reach into my bag but he stops me and steps backward, opening the door to the apartment behind him.
“In here,” he instructs.
I don’t move. Looking through the doorway, I can tell the space beyond is in mild disarray. Boxes are stacked up against the wall. The only furniture is a beat-up couch and a crate serving as a coffee table. On a built-in kitchen counter is an old pizza box, a few used paper plates, plastic cups, and a scale.
As far as I can tell there’s no one else in there, which means I’ll be alone with this man.
“Are you coming in or what?” L.J. snaps.
I take a deep breath. “Can’t you just give me the package here?”
His eyes light with condescension and disgust. “You scared, little girl? You think I might bite?”
“I just think—”
“You do look like you’re worth a nibble,” L.J. interrupts, laughing at his own joke. “But I don’t got time for that shit. Just get your hot ass in here so we can get it done.”
I still don’t move. It’s as if my feet are tethered to the floor.
“Fine.” L.J. shakes his head. “You go tell Travis that you were too scared to do what you been told.”
He turns to walk in himself, but my hand automatically shoots out and grabs his arm to stop him. “No, of course I’ll come in.”
Stepping past him into the stifling room, I think about my gun sitting uselessly in my desk, neglected and aching to justify its existence. I clench and unclench my fist, thinking about the comfort that weapon could provide.
L.J. comes up behind me, presses himself into me. His hand moves up to massage my breast. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do if Travis asked?” he grumbles, his breath hot against my neck.
In a flash of movement, I jab my elbow into his solar plexus and demurely step away as he falls to his knees.
“So, do you have a package for me, L.J.?” I ask calmly as he gasps for air. “Or am I going to have to tell Mr. Gable that you failed him?”
He raises his hand, silently requesting that I wait while he struggles to regain the ability to speak.
I step around him so I can peruse the room. Pieces of foam peanuts can be found tucked in random corners and under the sparse furnishings. The boxes that aren’t sealed are already halfway full. I wonder if L.J. is moving up or down in the world. I turn back to look at him, and he’s on one knee now as he struggles to get to his feet. This is not a man who has ever called the shots.
“All right,” he says, and coughs as he drags himself up. “You got the money?”
I take the envelope out of my purse and hold it up.
He nods and moves behind the counter, where he pulls out a brown paper bag. “I’m gonna need you to see this measured out.”
“No, I don’t want to see what’s in the bag.”
L.J. looks up sharply. “Listen, bitch,” he says, his voice still raspy. “If you think I’m going to let you leave without you and me agreeing on what it is you’re buying, you’re out of your fucking mind.”
I look away but it’s too late. From the paper bag, L.J. takes out a large plastic bag of white powder and puts it on the scale.
I also see that L.J. is regaining his strength too rapidly.
He walks across the room and grabs my arm, yanking me toward what I can now see is cocaine. “Look, can we both agree that we got a clean ounce here?” He gestures to the scale.
“Yes,” I hiss, and he throws me aside so I have to balance myself on the counter to keep from falling. I watch as he puts the merchandise in question back into the paper bag.
“The money?”
I put the stack down on the counter and he snaps it up. He counts out the bills silently, his face red with discomfort and embarrassment.
“Grab it and go,” he says once he’s done.
I hesitate only a moment before gingerly taking the paper bag.
“Tell Travis that if he’s going to send you here again you better be ready to make up for that little elbow move. I mean I’m gonna expect you bare-assed and ready to bend over my knee for a little corporal punishment. You tell Travis that, got it, baby?”
“Got it,” I say distractedly as I put the bag into my purse. “You want Travis to force me to let you touch me because you’re not enough of a man to get laid without his help. I’ll be sure to tell him.” Not waiting for his response, I stride out of the room and head straight to the elevator. When it finally arrives, I enter and lean against its wall as the door closes.
I know getting caught with narcotics is never a good thing. After all, I got this job by setting up Travis’s last personal assistant for drug possession. Perhaps Travis knows that. Maybe he believes in poetic justice.
But when I set up the assistant it was only with a very small amount of meth—a misdemeanor. But this is not a small amount of cocaine. In fact, there’s so much cocaine in this bag it wouldn’t be unreasonable to accuse me of dealing, not buying.
The elevator opens and I glance around, checking to make sure that there are no police waiting to haul me in. But the lobby’s empty, so I quickly exit to the street.
There aren’t quite as many pedestrians around now. I make some quick calculations as I walk. In New York, carrying this much cocaine is considered possession in the third degree. I could serve up to nine years in prison, and even if I didn’t, any felony drug conviction means I will no longer be eligible for welfare or public housing or any of the other things I’ll need when employers start rejecting my job applications due to my felony record.
I walk a block, then two, wanting to get as far away from that building as possible before hailing a cab. I try not to appear conspicuous, refusing to look over my shoulder even though I’m still haunted by the feeling of being watched.
Maybe this is a legitimate errand . . . Well, not legitimate, socially speaking, but maybe it’s what it seems to be on the face of things. Maybe Travis actually uses cocaine. Or . . . well, okay, maybe he and fifty friends use this much. Or it’s possible that he’s trading the coke for some kind of favor. If either of those scenarios is true, he’s just handed me the fuel I need to put my plan into overdrive. With a few added creative flourishes I’ll be able to take him and the rest of his family down within a week . . . two weeks tops.
But Travis just doesn’t strike me as the user type . . . at all. And while I can see him loading his wife up on Zoloft and Ambien, I can’t imagine him giving her cocaine. The last thing that man wants is a hyped-up wife with chemically induced narcissism.
I hail a cab, and as I slide into the backseat I finally allow myself to look back for the first time. Everything seems normal. A few scattered pedestrians, a few cabs . . . not a cop in sight.
I tell the cabbie to take me to HGVB Bank and then shut down his attempts to strike up a conversation as he starts our journey out of Brooklyn.
Clenching my teeth, I open my purse and peek inside. I run my fingers over the brown bag without taking it out and think about something Lander told me over a recent dinner, something about the bullies in his world:
“There are plenty of those, and they all look and dress like me . . . Many of them are so subtle in their aggression that you don’t know you’re a target until you’re already down for the count.”
So if that’s true, what’s Travis playing at? Am I a target or does he take me for an ally? Or perhaps something in between?
God, there are so many possibilities, I can’t keep them straight.
I stare out the window, watching as New York rushes past me, from the Brooklyn Bridge to the more industrial areas to the coldly sophisticated architecture of the Upper East Side.
The taxi pulls up in front of the HGVB Bank building. The meter flashes the fare.
I’m about to walk into a ma
jor American bank with a bag full of cocaine.
I pull out my phone and find the voice recording app I’ve recently downloaded. I’m not sure if recording the impending conversation with Travis will help or hurt, but I want to be ready, just in case.
As I get out of the cab, walk into the lobby, and pass the security guards, I find myself wondering exactly how this fucked-up day will end.
Travis has a cup of coffee in one hand while the other lazily pecks away at his computer. By his bemused, somewhat bored expression, you’d think he was flipping through the blog pages of OMG! rather than uncovering new ways to manipulate the world’s economy.
“You have something for me?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.
Without a word I pull the brown sack out of my purse and put it on his desk. I’d like to turn around and see if there’s a cop there, an undercover officer ready to kick my plan into a violent new direction.
But I keep my eyes on Travis. Again I remind myself of my poker metaphor: I can’t see Travis’s hand, but I know how to bluff.
Travis picks up the bag. “Did you look inside?”
“Your guy took it out of the paper bag before I could stop him.”
“Hmm, I’ll have to give him a call and talk to him about that,” he says distractedly as he pulls out the plastic bag filled with white powder. With slow, lazy fingers he feels the edge of the Ziploc, but then his fingers stop . . .
I watch as his fingers now follow the path of a strand of hair caught—or more likely, placed—in the bag, which I failed to notice earlier. It’s longer than L.J.’s, but even from where I’m standing I can see it’s a different color from mine.
Again he looks up at me, and the hard line of his mouth softens a little. It even turns up at the edges into something that might, in dim lighting, be mistaken for a smile.
“You didn’t open the bag.”
I shake my head. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Gable?”
He responds by raising his eyebrows . . . again, looking a little too much like his brother. For some reason their resemblance disturbs me.
