by Jason Starr
“Here they are, just like you like them.”
Charlie was holding a plate with four rare burgers.
Within a few seconds an entire one was on its way down Simon’s throat.
FOURTEEN
Had Stephen Tyler played the whole Alison Burns thing perfectly or what? He’d laid the crap on big-time, telling her how he was different from other PIs because of his background in psychology—how hadn’t he lost it then?—and how he really cared about his clients. Seriously, sometimes he didn’t know how he could say this stuff without coughing up puke. But it worked—oh, man, had it worked. Alison seemed to trust him big-time, and one thing Stephen had learned in the PI business—getting a vulnerable divorcing woman to trust you is the same thing as taking her panties down.
Yeah, Stephen knew it was only a matter of time before he scored with Alison, and what would that be? The seventh client of the year he’d banged? And it was only November. After he was through with Alison he still had a month and a half and could easily nail a couple more, especially when Christmas came around, when the cheated-on women got particularly vulnerable. If he could nail ten clients this year, that would beat out his previous best record of nine clients, which he’d set two years ago. All in all, since he’d gotten his PI license four years ago he’d banged twenty-seven chicks. And if he was including blowjobs, the number would have to be double that. This was so much better than online dating and going to bars. Someday he was going to write a book about his life as a PI and it would sell millions of copies, he was sure of it.
The beauty of Stephen’s womanizing was that the women didn’t even realize they were being womanized. As far as they were concerned, Stephen was doing them a service. He was providing them the truth about their lowlife, scumbag husbands so they could break away from their miserable marriages with peace of mind, and then, as a bonus, he gave them an opportunity to get revenge. Not violent revenge, emotional revenge, which was so much more satisfying. Seriously, what better way to break away from a guy who screwed you over than to go out and screw somebody else? And Stephen wasn’t just anybody else—he was the guy who had given them their freedom, so having sex with him wasn’t just to get back at the ex, it was to give back to Stephen. Yeah, they were paying him, but they wanted to do more, to show him how truly appreciative they were, so what was Stephen supposed to do, stop them? They were getting what they wanted and Stephen was getting what he wanted, and the best part? Nobody got hurt.
Alison Burns wasn’t reeled in yet, of course. She was nibbling on the line, though—tonguing the worm, getting set to bite the hook. The bite always came suddenly—a rush of emotion when Stephen presented the damning evidence. At the moment when everything the woman had once believed was perfect about the world blew up in her face, she’d clamp down on the hook and it would be a done deal. That was why location was so key. They couldn’t be in a public space because Stephen had to seize the moment. There was a ten, fifteen-minute window when a woman was at her angriest and most vulnerable, and Stephen had to make sure he seized it. His office wasn’t good because there were too many people around, but even a private office wouldn’t work. No, he had to deliver the goods on the woman’s turf, preferably in her apartment, where she felt most comfortable and, more important, most in control. He’d call her, say he needed to talk to her in private and that it might be a good idea if the kids—if there were any kids—stayed with a sitter. That was perfect because it showed the woman, subliminally, that he was a sensitive guy, that he cared about her feelings, which made her even more likely to want to hook up. Bottom line, Stephen knew if he was alone in a room with a scorned woman in a fifteen-minute window, there was practically a zero percent chance he wouldn’t get laid or at least get a blowjob.
And the best thing about the Alison Burns case was that it was so damn easy, such a slam dunk. Her husband, Simon, sounded like a real freakazoid, thinking he was a werewolf. That was Stephen’s only real slip-up, when he’d laughed when Alison had talked about that; he should’ve been more composed, but how was he supposed to keep a straight face? But any guy who was making up werewolf stories had to be hiding something—Stephen didn’t have to be a shrink to know that. Alison had said Simon had spent last night somewhere and Tyler was willing to bet it wasn’t at a hotel. He was staying at his girlfriend’s place and at five P.M. today he was going to lead Tyler right to the love nest.
Stephen spent the rest of the afternoon organizing his new office space and making follow-up calls for other active cases, but mostly he was fantasizing about Alison Burns. That was the best part of a score—the fantasizing, the buildup. You meet a woman and she’s cute, yeah, you want to nail her, but what does she look like naked? What is she going to do in bed? Stephen had a feeling Alison was going to be a total animal in the sack, because the ones who didn’t look wild were always the wildest. Stephen loved how proper, how put together Alison was. She had the short bob haircut, stylish clothes, totally had that whole kind of Upper West Side, working woman, cougar thing going on. If her marriage weren’t about to blow up, Stephen wouldn’t have had a chance with her.
Deciding that some thanks in advance were in order, Stephen texted his old college bud Vijay:
Thanx for sending over the tang. I owe you one, man!!
Stephen and Vijay had always—well, since they were frat brothers at Colgate—had a thing going on where they would try to one-up each other with women. It had toned down when Vijay got married but had picked up again when Vijay got divorced. Whenever one of them was dating a new chick, they’d send pics back and forth, compare war stories. For a while, Vijay had been doing better than Stephen because he had that whole doctor thing going on. Vijay cleaned up with patients, nurses, hospital staff, but his big wheelhouse was drug reps. This had been another near slip-up with Alison—when she’d mentioned she worked in pharmaceutical sales. A pretty woman in pharmaceutical sales; it made Stephen wonder, had Vijay gotten to her first? Not that he was opposed to taking sloppy seconds from an old frat bud, but still.
Less than a minute after he’d sent his text, Vijay wrote back:
HANDS OFF!!!
Stephen smiled. Ooh, so Vijay hadn’t gotten to her first. Stephen was surprised Vijay had sent over a chick he liked; didn’t he know who he was dealing with?
Stephen texted:
Don’t worry, doctor, I’ll be gentle with her
Then Stephen got:
I’m serious!!!
Right as he was sending:
I’m kidding, I won’t tap her, I won’t tap her
Stephen sent the text, then added:
I promise
Vijay didn’t respond. Stephen knew there was no way Vijay believed that I won’t tap her crap. Poor guy was probably regretting big-time sending Alison over to him, but it wasn’t like there wasn’t enough to go around. After all, they’d shared women before. Stephen would be Alison’s shoulder to lean on, and then Vijay would step in. What was the problem?
At four fifteen, Stephen freshened up—well, put some extra Speed Stick under his arms and around his crotch—and then walked up Madison to Grand Central Station.
It was early still, just past four thirty. Stephen didn’t want to be an easy mark in case Simon suspected it was a setup and was scoping the place out. Stephen doubted this was the case. Cheaters usually didn’t think too far ahead and were cocky as hell too, believing they could get away with anything.
Stephen bought a copy of the Post. At a few minutes before five he positioned himself at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Cipriani, the bar/restaurant in the west balcony of Grand Central’s main concourse, and acted like he was waiting for somebody, or for a train, and was reading the newspaper. He read the lead story about that fireman who’d finished ninth in the marathon yesterday. It was weird how some nonprofessional runner had run so fast, and Stephen wondered if it was going to come out that the guy was on steroids, or took a subway and jumped into the race when the cameras weren’t on. There had to be
something going on that people didn’t know about.
He skimmed the rest of the paper—looked like some woman NYPD detective had messed up big-time, pulling a protection order on a woman in Washington Heights—and the Knicks and Rangers had both lost. Then, at five almost exactly, Simon Burns walked right by Stephen and headed up the stairs. He didn’t look much like the picture Alison had given him—if the guy was growing a beard, why hadn’t she mentioned that? He also looked leaner, more muscular than he had in the photo. He was in jeans, a black T-shirt, and what looked like a new thin black leather jacket.
Now it was just waiting time. It could take a half hour or longer before Simon realized Alison wasn’t showing and he decided to bail.
Simon was looking around, checking his cell, glancing over at the big gold clock above the information booth in the middle of the main concourse. He seemed extremely antsy and agitated, more antsy than he should have been. Well, Alison had said he had a mental disorder; maybe this was one of the symptoms.
At a quarter after, Simon seemed more restless, and he texted somebody—probably Alison. Stephen didn’t want to be noticed, so he left where he’d been at the bottom of the steps and walked to the information booth in the middle of the terminal. There were hordes of rush-hour commuters, but from Stephen’s position he could still see Simon clearly at the top of the stairs. He was pacing, checking the bar area, and then he made a call. After no one picked up, he lowered the phone. He still seemed unusually agitated, and then, suddenly, he walked away to Stephen’s left, toward the entrance to the Campbell Apartment, another bar at Grand Central. The problem was there was an exit over there, out of Stephen’s view, and when Simon couldn’t find Alison he might just take off through that exit and Stephen would lose him.
Stephen pushed his way through the crowd, nearly knocking down a few people, and then rushed up the stairs. He was heading frantically through the bar of Cipriani, feeling like an idiot for letting Simon get out of sight, and bumped into a waiter who said, “Watch it, sir.” Then Simon was walking toward him—he was sweating badly and seemed distraught; there was definitely something wrong with him, something medical. Stephen ignored Simon, looking straight ahead, as if he were trying to find someone himself. Then he stopped near the bar and watched Simon return to the supposed meeting spot with Alison.
After Simon checked his phone a couple of more times for texts and made another unsuccessful call, he headed down the stairs to the main part of the station and Stephen discreetly followed, staying a good twenty or thirty feet behind, but making sure not to lose him in the swarm of people. Was Simon going to look for Alison in another part of the terminal? Maybe he thought he had the wrong location somehow? Nope, he continued out to Forty-second Street—it had gotten dark out but the street was mobbed with rush-hour crowds—and stood on the curb, leaning over with his hands on his hips, as if trying to catch his breath. Was he having some kind of anxiety attack? That was what it seemed like.
Stephen stayed inside the terminal, holding up the Post but watching Simon through the doors. He expected that Simon would walk away, but instead he suddenly had his hand out, hailing a cab. Stephen cursed as he rushed outside the terminal. Simon was in the cab and it was starting to pull away. Stephen darted out to the street—barely avoiding a collision with a speeding bike messenger—and tried to hail a cab. Meanwhile, the cab Simon was in was stopped at the light under the Park Avenue Viaduct.
All the cabs were full; it was hopeless, but wait, an older woman was getting into a cab down the block toward the Hyatt. Stephen sprinted over there, holding a twenty-dollar bill out, and said to the woman, “Here.”
The woman was confused.
“Here, I’m buying your cab from you.”
“What?” the woman said.
“My wife’s in the hospital, she’s dying,” Stephen said.
The confused woman took the twenty and Stephen got into the cab.
“Follow that cab,” Stephen said to the driver, feeling ridiculous as soon as the words left his mouth.
The foreign driver said, “What?”
Stephen didn’t know if the guy didn’t hear or didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. The light at Park had turned, and Simon’s cab was moving.
“That cab, up there!” Stephen was shouting. “Follow it now!” He held up some bills. “I’ll give you a fifty-dollar tip. Fifty dollars!”
“Why you want—”
“Just do it, fifty dollars! I’ll give you fifty dollars.”
The cabbie hit the gas and said, “What cab? I don’t see no—”
“That one, right there, the one heading toward Fifth!”
“You’re crazy.”
“Here.” Stephen gave the driver two twenties and a ten. “Here’s your fifty, now just don’t lose that cab, okay? Follow it, just keep following it.”
The cab continued downtown on Fifth, then headed back to the East Side.
“I don’t know where he’s going,” the driver said.
“It doesn’t matter where he’s going, I’m paying you,” Stephen said.
“Crazy, you’re crazy,” the driver muttered.
Simon’s cab got on the FDR, heading downtown, prompting the driver to whine, “He’s taking FDR.”
Stephen ignored this.
Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. Stephen’s cab was a few cars behind Simon’s but well within view. Then Simon did something weird. He was leaning his head out the window and seemed to be gasping for breath, with his tongue even exposed, hanging from his mouth. Wow, when Alison said Simon thought he was a werewolf, she wasn’t kidding. He definitely seemed like he thought he was a dog or some kind of animal. Stephen was actually glad to see that Simon was such a psychological mess because it would make Alison even more likely to want to have some fast rebound sex. After all, compared to her screwed-up, train-wreck husband, Stephen would come off as the greatest guy on the planet.
Finally the traffic broke and Simon’s cab got onto the Manhattan Bridge.
“He’s going to Brooklyn,” the driver complained, as if Brooklyn were the other side of the world.
Stephen wasn’t surprised that Simon was going to Brooklyn. Simon had the beard, the identity crisis; maybe he was becoming some kind of hipster. Maybe he was shacking up with a wannabe werewolf chick in Williamsburg, Stephen thought, and almost started laughing out loud.
But Simon wasn’t going to Williamsburg. He took the first exit off the bridge and then into an industrial area in the Navy Yard.
“Jesus Christ, this is crazy,” the driver whined.
Okay, so maybe Simon’s hipster werewolf broad had an apartment down here. The neighborhood didn’t exactly look residential, but nowadays you never knew, there could be some renovated old building with condos in it.
Simon’s cab turned down a deserted-looking street near the river, then slowed at the end of the block.
“Pull over right here, right here,” Stephen said to the driver. Their cab had just turned the corner, and he wanted to stay a safe distance from Simon.
Stephen watched Simon get out of the cab and head toward a building. He seemed to yank on the door for a few seconds and then entered. Stephen paid the fare and then rushed along the sidewalk. He saw on the building above the entrance:
HARTMAN BREWERY
This didn’t look like a freakin’ condo. Then Stephen noticed that the new-looking padlock on the door had been busted. Was that what Simon had been doing before he entered the building? Busting the lock? No, it was impossible, the lock must’ve already been broken.
Stephen considered waiting outside to see if Simon exited with some chick but decided it was too risky. There could be another exit to the building and he could lose the tail. So he waited a few minutes until he was sure he didn’t hear anything, then opened the door very slowly and slipped into the dark, dilapidated building thinking, The hell?
The room was dark, the only light coming from the door Stephen had just entered through. Was Simon hiding
somewhere here? If he was Stephen would’ve been screwed, but at this point he had nothing to lose. He went to the flashlight app on his Droid and shined the beam around the room. No sign of Simon, thankfully—just boxes, old newspapers, paint cans, and other junk strewn everywhere. What the hell was Simon doing here, in some old run-down brewery?
Stephen shined the beam on the door. He went over and saw that it opened to a staircase leading up. This seemed to be the only place Simon could have gone. Stephen hesitated for a moment, getting a bad feeling about this, then thought, Oh, stop being such a wuss, and headed up the stairs.
Of all the places Simon had been since he’d become a werewolf, Grand Central Station was by far the most unpleasant. The thousands of human scents were overwhelming enough, but to Simon’s ultrasensitive ears the noise was like being in front of a speaker at a rock concert. He wasn’t sure why Alison had wanted to meet him here anyway. Maybe it was because there were so many people around and after their fight yesterday she was afraid to be with him alone. Well, he couldn’t blame her for that.
