Her trembling fingers scrabbled through the documents for answers. She didn't care if he woke up and heard her tortured sobs. Her tears rained down on the papers. She tugged one out, an official-looking letter from a lawyer.
“Blah, blah, blah...due to your irresponsibility and recent refusal to go back to the rehabilitation facility in Idaho for your alcoholism and heroin addiction, your parents have decided to suspend the trust fund which has been issued you since your eighteenth birthday...blah blah blah...” Her eyes wildly sought the date. Dates were becoming very important to her. Two months before she had met him!
She threw the letter to the floor and stomped on it. She tossed the notebook at the wall. It fell to the floor and lay there like a dead thing. Which she supposed it was. Just like her relationship.
Gretchen knew now she could never hitch her star to this idiot. This 34 year old idiot. She scuttled over and picked up the notebook. She placed all the papers back in the box, and the passport as well. She placed the notebook on top, as it had been when she opened it.
She closed the lid, slipped the tip of the knife into the lock, and was delighted to see it clicked shut. He would never know. She would bide her time.
These would be her secrets, just as Nickel and Dime had been his. She had been naïve then, but she now had learned to be conniving, just as conniving as him. She needed to be to survive without a breakdown. Only attack and counterattack. That was all that mattered now. Revenge would be hers.
CHAPTER EIGHT PART TWO NINE MONTHS AGO
ON THE FLIGHT TO SOUTH Dakota, an engine had malfunctioned, then caught fire. They'd had an emergency landing in a cow pasture. They'd had to deploy the slides, and one had accidentally inflated in-plane, but thankfully it was in the steats section, which had been empty, so there were no injuries or deaths from that. But a woman had been trapped in the lavatory, the slide blocking the door, for three hours. After the crew had been checked out by the EMTs on the scene, the passengers wailing and shrieking and needing shock treatment all around them, Nickel and Dime had sent a bus to take the crew to an airport, where another plane flew them home.
So Gretchen was approaching her front door exhausted, emotionally raw, and two days early. Yet she still had had the presence of mind to buy toilet paper at the bodega before she climbed the stairs. When she came home from trips, the roll was always empty. Maximus—Mike now in her mind—never bought any and always seemed to use the last of it. She shuddered to think what he used in the interim. Maybe having a dirty ass was louche. How would she know? She wasn't a creative type.
As she tugged the keys out of her pocket, the first thing that alarmed her was the smell of, maybe, marijuana in the hallway. The second was the female laughter coming through their door. She froze. But Mike could have female friends, couldn't he? That was possible.
As friendly as he was (to strangers), she hadn't met any of his friends. Now perhaps she knew why, what with the rehab and all. So, female or not, if she could pull someone aside and quiz them about his past life, that might not be a bad thing.
She was struggling to get the key to turn in the lock when Mike wrenched open the door. He was beaming, hair blown out Bee-Gees-style, wearing a form-fitting jumpsuit like Abba circa “Arrival.” Apparently it was 1977 in his mind, which she supposed was better than 1877, as some of his odd clothes seemed. He was blocking the living room. And the woman in it.
“Hi, Gretchen! You look happy today.”
“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?!”
“Oops. Now you don't.”
She tried to push past him. He held her there.
“Uh, I just wanted to let you know, an old friend of mine dropped by.”
Gretchen screamed as a wet black nose and mangy brown fur materialized between his legs.
“Maximus! It's a dog!”
He smirked.
“Yes, it's a dog.”
“But—”
“Come on in, Gretchen, and meet Louise and Nebuchadnezzar.” The dog whimpered and disappeared. Mike hissed in her ear as she barged past him, “And be nice.”
A girl perched on the edge of the sofa, holding back the collie, which was whining and clawing the air to get at Gretchen. Friend or foe, she didn't know. That included both. The girl was young, younger than Gretchen, and much younger than Mike's new age, maybe 23 or 24, and was like a Miss Universe winner. Gretchen wrapped her arms around her suddenly inadequate breasts. The dog was slobbering, smiling that strange smile dogs with big snouts could, and it seemed like it was sneering at her. You fool, it seemed be saying.
“Which one is Louise and which one is Nebuchadnezzar?” Gretchen asked.
The girl, blonde with ironic Mary-Tyler-Moore flips and rectangular glasses with thick black frames was staring at her in a silent-horror-movie peasant-woman-sees-something-moving-in-the-graveyard-at-midnight sort of way, as if Mike had prepared her for the wretched girlfriend's arrival, told her to brace herself for the biggest bitch in the world. Which he no doubt had. Gretchen tried as best she could to smile at them while her brain raced in three different directions at the same time.
“I'm Louise,” the girl explained through a fixed and totally fake smile. “This is Nebuchadnezzar. Shush, Nebu! Calm down!”
“And I'm Gretchen,” Gretchen said. Oh, she was so exhausted, all she wanted was to collapse into bed after the taxing day she had endured. “D-do you want some tea, maybe? I'm going to make myself some. Chamomile.”
“No, I'm fine. Tea's for old people.”
Mike hovered between them like a referee. But he had no need to. Gretchen was too tired for jealousy. And why would she be jealous now, anyway? Let Louise have him! She didn't want him anymore.
She pushed through a row of pink suitcases and a skateboard, unease creeping into her falling heart at the sight of them. She filled the kettle at the sink and for a moment the suitcases and what they might mean was forgotten. She stared, amazed, at the drying rack. There were enough dishes, glasses, spatulas, silverware, pots and pans drying there for a three course meal. Had Mike made Louise Beef Stroganoff? Gretchen surreptitiously opened the garbage can and looked inside without looking like it. She calmed. There were empty spaghetti cartons and sauce cans and other detritus. She closed the lid and looked down at the sink, water still filling the kettle. She couldn't believe what she saw. They had cleaned the dishes of their three course meal, which was unbelievable in itself. But she was shocked to see they had left the knife Gretchen had used to butter her English muffin that morning. So she could clean it herself. The tiny sliver of butter had congealed on the tip of the blade.
Knowing Mike's secrets had made her stronger. And she was relishing the thought of revenge. But this was so petty, so adolescent...for a 34 year old man! Anger swelled through her. The kettle clattered to the sink. She grabbed the knife and waved it, shuddering with rage.
“I see you washed everything except this knife!”
Mike gave Louise an embarrassed look that seemed to say, “I told you.”
He shrugged.
“It was your knife. You used it. Why should we have washed it?”
“What about...we're a couple, we share everything, your money is ours?” He had said it often enough. “Isn't this dirty knife also ours?”
Gretchen couldn't believe she was standing there waving the knife at him like a lunatic. She threw it back into the sink, pushed past the dog who was trying to hump her leg, and grabbed Mike by the arm.
“Let's go into your Room of Dreams, Maximus, dear.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Back in a tick!” Mike said to Louise, shuddering his hands in the air with fake fear, then mock-biting his fingernails.
Louise gave him a look that said, “I see what you mean.”
Gretchen cornered him up against the desk. He looked like he was holding back laughter.
“I—I can't speak!” Gretchen croaked, rage simmering.
“I know. She's so beautiful, right?”
/> “No, I mean, my throat...it's so tight! You know I'm allergic to dog dander!” And saliva and urine. “Why did you allow that dog in here? It's cute, but couldn't she have left it at home? And who is that girl? What's she doing here?”
“She's my ex-girlfriend.”
“I thought Peggy was your ex-girlfriend?”
“She's really nice. They—”
“Now it's they? Who is they? Louise and Nebuchadnezzar?”
“Louise, Nebuchadnezzar and Carly Rae.”
“Who is Carly Rae?”
“Her sister.”
“And where is she?”
“In the bathroom.”
Gretchen thought back, wondering now if she had heard the squelch of a syringe into a vein as they passed the door.
“How long are they going to be hanging out for? I've had a hell of a day and need to collapse.”
“Not long. One or two—”
“Hours? Oh, dear God, I can barely keep my eyes open as it is. Can't you cut it a bit short?”
“Well, you see, their building was infested with bedbugs. I told them they could stay here. One or two—”
“Weeks?” she asked in horror.
“And then the building was condemned. So until they find a new apartment. One or two months.”
The dog barked and scratched on the door at the sound of Gretchen's shriek.
“What?! Where would everybody sleep?”
“Pshaw! Details!” He waved his hand.
“If...if this were to happen, I'm telling you right now, I'm not taking the couch.”
“You are so selfish! You know I've got a bad back.” This was the first she heard of it. “Don't you want to be kind? Help someone in need?”
“I don't want to be rude—”
“Then don't!”
“You're making me feel bad.”
“Because you're not good.” He glared accusingly at her. “Nebuchadnezzar is house-trained.”
“Strange, because I saw a pee pad that had obviously been used laid out next to the coffee ta—”
She sighed.
“Okay. She, they can move in. At least they can help with the bills. Maybe this is a blessing, after all. If they pay half...” she trailed off, brain calculating, spirits rising.
Mike was staring at her in horror.
“Pay? I would never do that to a friend of mine! Maybe you'd do it do your friends, but I'm not cheap like you. I told them they could stay until they find a new apartment. Rent-free.”
“B-but...” Gretchen sputtered, “they'll never leave!”
“Oh, they probably will. Because if I know you, and this is something I warned them about, your constant bitching might have them fleeing to the nearest homeless shelter before a month is done.”
She knew she had power over him, but the insult still hurt. Whatever happened to her being his honeypot? Tears welled in her eyes, and she was surprised to see she was crying, her voice breaking, pleading, as she asked, “It that how you see me?
“No. You misunderstand me. That's not how I see you at all.”
She tried to find his hand through her tears to touch it and thank him for this unexpected—
“That's how you are.”
CHAPTER NINE NOW
“HI. I'M HERE TO SEE,” Gretchen looked at the card, “Darko Trajko?”
How could that be a name? She was all prepared for the receptionist to tell her he didn't exist. That's what Mike Brown had done to her mind.
The man at the desk, in a plum uniform with shiny buttons, looked at her doubtfully. Gretchen pulled her raincoat more tightly around her, and tugged her hair out of the collar, letting her curls bounce down her back. She had tied it in the back with a green bow. Now that she was going to be a teacher, she wanted to look the part. Prim. Proper. Which she supposed a bit of her was.
“Your name?”
“Gretchen Barnett.”
He held the phone to his ear like it was a seashell. He looked like he had had some work done to his face. It was all shiny.
“There's a Gretchen Barnett here who claims she's got an appointment with Mr. Trajko.”
He listened for a moment, then hung up.
“You may go up.” He sounded disappointed. “Five oh seven. Fifth floor.”
Apparently Darko Trajko was a name.
The elevator gleamed with gold. Lush red carpeting swaddled the soles of her shoes. It was a 10-story high-class boutique building on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 25th Street, half-residential, half-office.
TRAJKO THE IMPORT AND EXPORT said the engraved plate on the door in an exotic font. Perhaps she should start the lesson with the correct usage of 'the.' But...what exactly was that? She nibbled her lower lip nervously. She rang the bell. She saw the peephole darken. Someone was inspecting her from inside the office. The door inched open.
A woman who could've, Gretchen thought, been any age from a haggard forty to a sprightly seventy stuck her head out.
“You teacher.” She seemed to be saying it rather than asking, as she ogled Gretchen through lenses the thickness of Coke bottle bottoms.
“Yes, I'm the teacher.”
The door creaked open and the woman, in acid-washed jeans, flares, and a threadbare cardigan which sagged under the weight of a sparkling elephant brooch pointed at some location within the office. “Go! You go there! That door!” she barked. Gretchen was surprised to see plumes of cigarette smoke rising from the desks. She felt like she had stepped out of a time machine into 1975.
Treading timidly on the stained carpeting, doing her best to not retch from the smoke, Gretchen made her way through a maze of chipped desks manned by Slavs in their twenties and thirties who had paused from staring at their computer screens to check her out. The men were gorgeous, the woman beautiful. Their looks at her ran the gamut from suspicion to fear to lechery.
TRAJKO said a well-polished plaque on the door. Before she got there, Darko wrenched it open and ran towards her, arms outstretched, beaming with joy.
“You come! You come! My teacher!” he sang. Gretchen tensed as he threw his arms around her and enveloped her in a bear hug and a waft of Chanel Blue. He set her free. “I introduce!”
Gretchen gave the office workers her best Nickel and Dime priority boarding smile as he rattled off a stream of what she suspected was their names in whatever language it was they spoke. Svardian, she guessed. Each person nodded or smiled, some obviously under duress. And then Darko let loose with a roar of what seemed like a very long paragraph. They turned to their keyboards and began tapping away. He ushered Gretchen into his office and closed the door.
“I have classroom here. New. For you.”
In the corner of his office, Darko had set up two schoolroom type desks, together with a mini whiteboard on an easel and markers in all the colors of the rainbow. He motioned proudly to them. He was like a little boy with a new tricycle, clasping and unclasping his hands with an unbridled excitement she found sweet, charming.
Gretchen turned and was startled to see they weren't alone; there was a woman at a desk, her back to them. All Gretchen could make out were shoulder blades and dangly earrings.
“She secretary,” Darko explained. “We not speak to her. Not necessary.”
The woman seemed to take no notice of them, as if she was used to people arriving in the office she didn't look at. Or wasn't allowed to look. Gretchen couldn't decide which. She set her bag on the desk next to the whiteboard. She suspected it was hers. Darko would face her and the board in his desk during their lessons.
“I work import-export. I make money, many money. I give you money. Big money.”
His grin gave her the creeps suddenly, but she pressed that to the back of her mind. He needs to learn English. He wants to freely speak and in a wide array of topics to Americans.
“Money here. For one month.”
He reached into a drawer of his desk, his real one, a large gorgeous wooden one, and pulled out a pile of money. Crisp hundred dollar bill
s. Gretchen was excited. All that money, just within her reach, inches away from her fingers. And all off the books! Just a few hours a day, and she'd be rolling in it, all the bills paid. Why had she wasted those years at Nickel and Dime? Well, she knew why: the hope of Oceanic Airlines and its pathway to the world. To see the places she had lied about seeing.
“You from?” Darko asked.
“All over.”
“Allover. What state?”
“No, all over the world.”
“We discuss after. Now, ID. Security for me.” He snapped a photo of her with his phone and pulled his lips into a grin. It chilled Gretchen. Should she back out now? But there the money was. And soon it would be in her purse.
“Give me ID.”
She reached into her bag, found her driver's license, and passed it to him, wondering if this were a point of no return. He took a photo of it, then handed it back. He didn't seem interested in what was on it. Perhaps he couldn't read English letters.
“You make mistake,” he said, “you not come, I know where you live.” She supposed he meant his smile to be light, his words to be humorous, but another chill ran through her. Was she making a pact with a dark force?
“Take, take!” Darko said, pressing wads of bills into her hand. “Worth one month. We see us five hour every day. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Gretchen reached out and grabbed the money. She felt snug. Now she had the money. For the rent. The electricity. The internet. She secured it in her handbag with a tremor. Under the table, black market trade, words for money. She wondered how clean or dirty the money was. Would she be a cog in Trajko The Import Export's laundering machine? She pressed all these thoughts to the back of her mind, settled herself on the chair, nibbled the top of a green marker and focused on the task at hand.
Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6) Page 13
