I returned to find him back on his bike, riding figure eights on a patch of dirt just off the ferry landing. “I was trying to keep my bulimia a secret from you.” He cracked a smile, though I could tell by the way he wouldn’t look at me that he was a little embarrassed.
I handed him the water and smiled. “C’mon.” I nudged him with my foot, then pedaled away.
Up close, the Colgate Clock was practically unrecognizable, a web of steel beams and birds’ nests. The surrounding dirt lot was parched and empty, and I would have felt unsafe if it weren’t for Louis in the distance, riding around on his bike. I walked along the clock’s base, and when I reached the end I paused to take in the Manhattan skyline. It looked so shiny and small, like a toy version of itself.
“Hey!” I shouted back at Louis, who’d been practicing wheelies and catwalks last time I’d checked. “Come here!”
He didn’t respond—all I heard was a boat horn. “Louis!” I turned around, but there was no sign of my friend.
“Louis!” I bellowed again, even louder.
From behind, somebody reached around to tap the soft spot on my throat. I felt short of breath, and my shoulders shot up like wings.
I would have screamed but I could barely breathe.
“I have come to suck your blood.” Louis was affecting his best Dracula accent.
I spun around. “Do you have any idea how much you scared me?”
“Sorry, I was just playing around,” he said in his normal voice. “Is it Creepsylvania out here or what?”
“We’ll leave soon. Just give me another second.” I walked to the middle of the platform to give the clock’s face one last look. But the only thing it was telling me was that it was 6:50. There’d been nothing to speak of.
Just then I heard a low rumbling in the distance. We had company. Louis was standing on the edge of the platform, visible to anybody who entered the lot. “Psst! Get back over here!” I whispered, immediately worried. “If someone sees us climbing on the clock, we could get into trouble.”
He made his way over to where I was standing.
“Okay, I’m just going to pretend there’s nothing weird about any of this. Is there anywhere around here to get a sandwich?”
“For the love of Julia Child, will you please shut up?” I snapped.
Louis slouched and turned away. Oh crap. He was going to leave me there.
I reached out for his arm. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to attract any attention. Please stay.”
“You so owe me,” he growled.
We remained in our hiding places behind the clock, with our bikes at our sides. When I was sure we’d been still long enough, I slowly turned my head to look through the clock’s frame. A white Mercedes had pulled up about twenty feet away.
“What’s going on?” Louis whispered.
“A car just pulled up.”
I was still peering through the clock’s latticework when a dark town car parked opposite the white Mercedes.
“Another car?” Louis asked.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What is this? Don’t people have watches anymore?”
The white car flashed its lights twice. The dark car flashed back. The white door opened and out stepped the driver, holding an envelope and a tiny brown dog. He was pretty far away, but I’d have known that white puffy jacket and itty-bitty head anywhere. Otto Soyle.
“You’re shaking,” Louis whispered. He started to take off his jacket.
“That’s okay,” I told him. I was trembling from excitement, not the cold.
Otto pulled up his sweatshirt hood as he scurried over to the dark car.
I watched the driver roll down his window and hand Otto a folder. Then Otto handed the driver a manila envelope in return. It was plump as a dumpling, and judging from what the driver removed from it, it was stuffed with bundles of cash.
“Whoa.” My stomach constricted tight as a fist.
Otto returned to his car and revved his engine. The other car started up, too, and they took off in opposite directions. By the time Louis summoned the courage to turn around and look, there was nothing left to see.
I rushed to the edge of the platform and jumped down to the ground. “I know one of those guys.”
“Which guys?”
I didn’t have time to answer his question. “He’s up to something sketchy. We have to follow him!” I straddled my bike and pushed off in the direction of the white car.
“Hey!” Louis called after me. “Wait up!”
The streets of Jersey City were dark and barren, and in the distance fluorescent light streamed through the window of a Dunkin’ Donuts. Otto never showed any sign that he suspected he was being followed. After about ten minutes, he turned his car into a parking lot whose sign read RUMPS AND HUMPS STEAKHOUSE. The sign reminded me of something you might see outside a down-at-the-heels motel, with loose black letters set on a white background lit from within. Under the restaurant’s name, somebody had spelled out BACK IN BIZNESS! PRIVATE PARTY 2NITE. A reference, I presumed, to the kitchen “accident” that the Shuttleworths had engineered a few weeks ago. I crouched on a concrete ledge behind a parked van and motioned for Louis to follow.
He obeyed me, but not without protest. “What is this, the new ‘it spot’ you read about in one of your fashion magazines?”
“Don’t say I never take you anywhere,” I whispered back.
Otto’s car door slammed, and I watched him approach the restaurant with the envelope tucked under his jacket sleeve. He turned in our direction and I veered to the right, motioning for Louis to follow.
“Hand me your glasses,” I told Louis. I was afraid somebody I knew might spot me, and I removed my bobby pins and shook my head. I never wore my hair down. It was like my mother’s, only instead of curls I had poof.
“Whoa,” Louis said. “You look so different with all that hair.”
“And you’ll look different without the glasses that you’re going to give me.”
“Huh?”
“Trust me, I’ll explain later. Now take off your glasses. Ooh, you look handsome.”
Louis was so caught off guard by my compliment that he didn’t flinch when I asked him to fork over his heavy coat. In return I gave him my itty-bitty green Courrèges jacket. It didn’t look bad on him, even if the sleeves were way too short for his gangly arms.
As I walked over to the restaurant, it occurred to me I might look a bit insane in my chunky spectacles and man-sized coat. My fears were confirmed when I pulled the heavy door open. “We’re closed for a private party,” the maitre d’ told me through a wild sneer.
The room was full of loud old men and bikini-clad women passing out trays of bacon-wrapped scallops and pigs in a blanket. Thanks to the HAPPY BIRTHDAY LAZARUS banners that had been tacked to the walls, I figured the party was for Otto’s father.
The maitre d’ cleared his throat and shot me a “Get out of my restaurant” look. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed to the public tonight,” he repeated, a bit louder.
“I beg your pardon?” I played deaf as I stared over his shoulder and scanned the room. There had to be something in here for me, I knew it. Just in time, I caught a snatch of one of Otto’s multicolored basketball sneakers moving up the stairs. Hanging over the landing was a BATHROOMS UPSTAIRS sign.
The maitre d’ picked up a pen from the stand between us and stabbed at the crease of the reservation book, clearly at the end of his very short rope with me.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I said in my best corn-fed naïf voice. “I just need to use the bathroom.” And then, disgusting as it may have been, I made a little show of crossing my legs tight. “I was riding my bike over to my friend’s house and I thought I could hold out until I got there, but the thing is I drank this huge iced tea and—”
He rolled his eyes and turned his face slightly. Bladder issues, apparently, were his breaking point. “Upstairs, first door on the right. But make it…”
I did
n’t hear the rest as I loped up the stairs. Once I was safely tucked away in the bathroom, I looked in the mirror. I barely recognized myself, and not only because of the hair and specs. I was used to my reflection showing a startled duckling, not a kick-ass detective who was a hairsbreadth away from getting into huge trouble. Kiki had been right—this adventure stuff was good for the complexion.
Just in case the maitre d’ had his ear pressed to the door, I flushed the toilet, like a good detective would. I came out to an empty corridor, and I could make out murmurs coming from the end of the hall. The smell of cigar smoke grew stronger with every step I took. I felt a flutter in my stomach when I reached the doorway, and I nervously raked a chunk of hair over my face, hoping to better disguise myself.
Not that I needed to. When I poked my head in the room, nobody turned to look at me. The walls were painted with tiger stripes and the floor was carpeted by a huge faux tiger rug, fake head and all. Eeew. An older man was making a toast, and the other two dozen or so revelers—Otto and Rye included—watched him with their glasses held up in the air.
An enormous stuffed tiger was standing on its hind legs by the door. I slid behind it and peered from under a claw until I spotted Lazarus, the short dark-haired man I’d seen on my Google search. He looked even more pinched than he did in pictures, and he’d tanned himself to the color of a penny. I fought my nerves as I reached into my bag for my digital camera. I made sure the flash was off, brought it to eye height, and ducked another centimeter to make sure the frame was free of any tiger limbs.
“And that was the first time little Lazarus got the shit kicked out of him,” the old man was saying. “To Lazarus Soyle, everybody’s favorite son of a bitch! Happy birthday!”
The group erupted into loud cheers, and a ginger cat jumped out from behind a curtain and scuttled across the floor.
Everybody crowded around the birthday boy. Meanwhile, Otto grabbed Rye by the elbow and pulled her over to the fireplace, closer to where I was. She was fawning over him, playing with his earlobes and placing kisses on his cheek. It was strange—with Andy she always seemed to be the epitome of ladylike composure, but in Otto’s presence, she was like a tacky girlfriend you’d see in a shopping mall food court. Immune to her charms, Otto kept a straight face and produced the sheet of paper from the folder.
I was about to press the shutter when I heard the sound of somebody coughing behind me. The creepy maitre d’ was standing on the other side of the tiger. Zut! What was I going to say if he found me—that I was a Winnie-the-Pooh freak and I’d found my friend Tigger? Much to my relief, he didn’t notice me and floated off to have a word with the bartender.
Without a moment to spare, I pressed the shutter. Then I stuck my camera up the sleeve of my trench coat and kept watching the young lovebirds.
Rye nodded at something Otto was whispering. Then she examined the paper from his folder and wrote something on a napkin. He studied what she’d written, shook his head, and balled the napkin up, motioning for her to start over. My heart palpitated as I stared at the mantelpiece; the rejected napkin sat next to a bowl of peanut shells, just begging me to sneak out and snatch it.
Double zut!
The napkin was only a few feet away, barely within reach, but it might as well have been in Louisiana. I couldn’t just step out of my hiding spot and say hi. They’d serve my rump for dinner.
And then I noticed the maid in the back corner. She was making her way around the room, placing any and all detritus on her tray. Maybe she could do my work for me? When she approached Rye and Otto, I stared at the napkin, trying to psychically alert her of its existence.
My hands slick with sweat, I dug them deep into Louis’s pockets. Every passing minute felt like ten. The maid picked up an ashtray, an empty glass, and then—yes!—the napkin. Finally, she carried the full tray back toward the door. Heart thumping, I waited for her to pass the tiger statue. At the perfect moment, I tossed a balled-up Kleenex that I’d found in Louis’s coat pocket toward the back of the room. The maid stopped to look in the direction of the mysterious flying white blur. And I reached and plucked the napkin ball off the tray.
Mission accompli!
Still crouched in my hiding spot, I straightened out the napkin and squinted at it. It looked like a messy architectural blueprint, with dotted lines and mysterious shapes. I wouldn’t have been able to figure out what it was supposed to signify if it hadn’t been for a rectangle labeled DF7X. Which had to be shorthand for Dassault Falcon 7X, Becca’s dad’s favorite plane. I knew that the plane was kept in London, the same city where Rye would find herself the following weekend. I was overwhelmed by a dueling sense of disgust and satisfaction. I remained in place for a minute or so, concentrating on steadying my breath while I waited for a man who was lingering against the doorjamb to make up his mind and move one way or the other. And then, when the coast was clear, I stole out into the hallway.
Just as I reached the stair landing, I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Oh, there you are.”
I turned around to face the maitre d’. He was looking at me darkly, and I wondered if he’d seen me slip out from under the hulking stuffed animal. “Did you get lost?” he asked with a curiosity that was in no way gentle.
I pulled the belt of my trench coat tighter. “N-no. I was just admiring your restaurant.” I decided to pull from my training with Kiki. “I entertain quite a bit, and you have some beautiful rooms.”
I could feel the beads of sweat forming under my arms. He let me go with a brisk nod, and when I made my way into the cool of the parking lot and back to my friend, I collapsed against the back of a car.
“Claire?” Louis said.
I looked up at the sky and ran my fingers along my necklace. I thought I just might cry.
“Hey, Claire?” he said again.
I could feel my chest expand with every breath. “I’ll explain all of this soon,” I told him. “I promise.”
“Okay, no sweat,” Louis said with such tenderness that I could tell he was also afraid. “But do you think I can have my glasses back?”
{ 28 }
How I Became a Fake Wife
Louis rested his head on my shoulder on the ferry ride back. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said. “I get less nauseous this way.”
“It’s not a problem,” I told him, though I doubted he heard. Within seconds, he’d fallen fast asleep.
I’d propped our bikes against the bench and was holding them steady with my arm. Outside the boat’s dirty window, the Manhattan skyline was swelling up against the dark purple sky. I could make out the black slab of the Trump Tower and, farther downtown, the silver wedge of the Citicorp Center, one of Andy’s favorites. I must have flinched, because Louis bolted up.
“You will not believe the dream I just had,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I’m hard to shock with dreams,” I said, trying to arch one eyebrow the way Becca could do so well.
“You pretended to have a school project so you could drag me to Jersey City. We hid behind the Colgate Clock while you spied on some strange transaction I won’t even pretend to have understood, and then you left me to hang around on the street by myself dressed like a girl.”
“Poor Louis,” I said in a baby voice. “You know, you looked very good in my coat.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
When we made our way ashore, the ferry landing was empty except for a ticket taker who was watching a movie on his iPod. An R2-D2-like sound came from behind Louis.
“Text message,” he said, and removed his cell phone from his backpack pocket. He made a face.
“Is it what’shername?” I asked.
He nodded. “She wants to know if an avocado is a fruit or a vegetable.”
“And you’re going to answer her after what she did to you?”
“No.” He glared at me and he put his cell phone back. “But what is the answer? Avocadoes grow on trees, right?”
“Louis Ibbits!�
� I gripped his arms and gave him a slight shake. “Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s asking you cutesy questions so she can get under your skin.”
Louis shook himself free. “Just because I’m curious does not mean anybody’s under my anything. Jeez, I’ll find out myself.”
The ensuing silence was awkward, and we both turned to look out across the water. I tried to figure out which one of the factories stretching along the shoreline was home to the Soyle tube sock empire.
“Now what? Wanna climb up the Statue of Liberty or…go get a grilled cheese?” He looked at me hopefully.
A grilled cheese sandwich had never sounded better—I hadn’t eaten anything but chocolate since my ten-twenty-five lunch. If only I could. As far as the Shuttleworths were concerned, Rye was a sweet young thing, not a Soyle stooge. I had my evidence. I needed to go home and call Becca. And according to the Colgate Clock, it was already a little after nine.
“I’d love to,” I told Louis, “but Dad asked me to come back before nine-thirty.”
“Yeah, right.” He hopped on his bike and started to fasten his helmet, then paused. “Since when did you have a curfew?”
I swallowed hard. I wanted to sit him down on a park bench and tell him everything. He might not understand, but I knew I could trust him not to tell anyone—at least, anyone who wasn’t his shrink. But Kiki would kill me.
“Hey, hold up!” I called out after he started to ride away.
“What.” By the way he said it as if it weren’t a question, I could tell he was angry.
“The avocado, it’s a fruit!”
From this far away in the dark I couldn’t really see for sure, but I suspected I’d gotten a smile out of him.
I came back to a full house. Henry and his friend Charlie W.—despite the fact there were no other Charlies in their class, he still went by his last initial—were sprawled out in the reading nook, concentrating on a game that they’d fashioned out of chess pieces, poker chips, and a grid of pipe cleaners. Douglas was nestled in one of the ratty old reading chairs, listening to Dad read aloud from his latest academic paper. I ducked into the kitchen and grabbed a jar of pickles and half of a Blimpie sandwich from the fridge.
Dream Girl Page 22
