"No way, Lucy. Not without I talk to him. You can't move someone in to my..."
"I can do whatever I want. I own the rights to the loft and..."
"Rights my rear end, Lucy. You try moving someone in here without my permission and you'll see who's got rights." He looked up at her windows. "Don't tell me you'd planned on letting that...black...move in here."
"You mean Derek? No, actually it's his crack-smoking cousin and six members of his drug gang. And there ain't a thing you can do about it! How do you like that, Barry?"
Rosa gently took hold of her arm from behind. "Be cool, Luce," she said softly.
"Very funny, Lucy." He crossed his arms on his chest. Sweat flowed down the furrows in his face. "Only I'm not laughing, see." His frozen grin had turned into a glower. This was hardball, and he clearly enjoyed playing. They glared at each other.
"Let's finish loading the truck, Rosa," Lucy said, turning away. "Last I heard there was no law against moving furniture." Striding to the elevator, she refused to look at him again. Rosa followed. The door slid shut and they started up. "Damn," Lucy said, her anger-fueled bravado instantly gone. "What am I gonna do?"
"I wish I knew what to tell you, Luce. Where's Harlan?"
"I tried to call him when Derek came up. No answer. He could be on his way."
"No way Meyers will believe he's just here for the summer if he sees a truckload of stuff pulling up."
"What difference does it make? He's going to try to stop him either way."
"You should have lied. You should have said..." she trailed off.
"Exactly," Lucy said. "I should have said what? The guy's just not supposed to be here, Rose. And there he is, the landlord from hell, hanging on the corner. Fuck!" They arrived at the fifth floor and ran in. "Any word from Harlan?" Lucy asked.
"Nah, no calls," Derek said. "What's up with the almighty landlord?"
"His worst fear is that you are moving in," Rosa said and laughed.
"Honky dickhead," Derek muttered, not amused. "Like to kick his butt down the block." He went over to the window and looked down. "Motherfucker acts like he owns the street. So what now? What are you thinking, Lucy?"
Lucy looked over the big empty room, strewn with the last of the boxes, a broom and dustpan, dirty white phone on the floor; her anxious dog watched her. "You guys keep going, OK? Whatever happens I have got to get out of here today. I've only got the truck for a week." She picked up the phone. "I'm gonna try Harlan again." She got his machine again. Left the same message only more urgent. Then, leaving Rosa, Derek and the dog behind, she grabbed an envelope addressed to the landlords, said, "Wish me luck," and rode down again. She had intended to mail it on Monday morning, but maybe now was the time.
On the street the plot had thickened: pulled up to the red curb behind her big yellow truck was another truck, this one white and covered with graffiti. Two guys sat in the cab, smoking cigarettes and sucking on soda cans. Over by her truck, Chip Harlan in a white t-shirt stood with his hands in the hip pockets of his jeans, uneasily listening to Meyers, who had pumped up to epic proportions. He occupied major space. Harlan looked like a scrawny little dweeb next to the big sweaty landlord with the bulging balls, and he did not look happy.
Lucy strolled over, affecting a casual attitude. Harlan's wimp chin quivered. Clearly Meyers had scared his ass. "What's up?" Lucy asked. The blithe tone was a stretch—this looked bad.
"The man says I can't move in, Lucy," Harlan whined. "What are..."
"You told me it was for the summer, Lucy," Meyers cut in. "You lied to me."
"What's the difference, Barry? Here." She handed him the envelope.
"What's this?" he said, handling it gingerly, as if it might be a letter bomb or perhaps a subpoena.
"Open it." He did, and read a letter rather boldly introducing him to Chip Harlan, his new tenant. The letter stated that Harlan was in legal possession of the loft and that was that. The language was ever-so-polite, but...it was a final notice, and a final fuck off, that Lucy had written two days earlier, intending to send it from somewhere far away.
"What's this supposed to mean?" he said, waving the letter. His voice rose. “What, you thought you could...you decided to sell a piece of my building without even telling me!?”
"Don't yell at me, Barry. Don't you dare yell at me! Let's go up and talk about it, Chip," Lucy said. "I still live here and I can have visitors any time I..."
"You try to put any of your shit in my building and I'm calling the cops, you understand? Don't even think about..."
"Let's go, Chip," said Lucy, pulling on his arm.
"Hey, I'm sorry, man," Harlan said to the landlord. "I didn't know...I thought that..."
"Come on, Chip," Lucy said. "Let's go upstairs. You can't talk to this..."
"Come on over to my office when you have a minute, Chip," said Barry, shifting gears with a greasy grin. "Maybe we can work something out."
"Yeah, sure, OK," said Harlan. He went over and said something to the guys in his moving truck, and then followed Lucy to the elevator.
"Just don't try moving in, get it?" Barry called out. "I am not going anywhere, Lucy, so don't think you can wait me out."
"Damn," Lucy snapped as the elevator door slid closed. "Jesus, Chip, you can't negotiate with that creep, don't you understand that? Christ!"
"It's his damn building, Lucy. What was I supposed to do?"
"Stop whining, for one thing. It's his building but it's my loft. We'll call the lawyers soon as we get upstairs, OK? They'll know what to do. What'd you tell your movers?"
"Go to lunch. They're costing me fifty bucks an hour, Lucy. You didn't tell me the guy was..."
"I didn't expect to see him here today. For god's sake, why do you think we are doing this on a Saturday? The guy's supposed to be home, or..."
"Well, he says he's gonna call the cops if I move in so I don't know what to..."
"Let's talk to the lawyer, all right?'
"Find a lawyer on Saturday? Good luck, Lucy."
They went in. "Bad scene," she said to Rosa.
"Hey Chip," Rosa said. "How goes it?"
"He's talking about calling the cops," Harlan whined. "I've got everything I own in a truck down there and..."
"Here," Lucy interrupted, handing him the phone. "Call Schultz. Now."
He punched in a number. "Hi Dick this is Chip Harlan. If you're there please pick up. I'm over at the loft with Lucy Ripken and the landlord's here and says I can't move in. We need your help. Bad. Call ASAP, 966-4583." He turned off the phone, and handed it to Lucy. "I told you he wouldn't be there. So now what?"
"Lemme call my guy." She punched in a number and waited.
"What?" Jack Harshman, irked. Lucy had known him since she was 24 and he was 30, eleven long years litigating against the landlords, from court to loft board and back to court. Lucy had won every fight, but it had cost her.
"Hi...Jack? Is that you? It's Lucy...Lucy Ripken."
"Hi Lucy. What's up?"
"Hey Jack, thank God you're there. Listen, you know today's the day I'm leaving and Chip is moving in, only one of the landlords showed up and he says Chip can't move in. What should we do?"
"He's there now?"
"Right downstairs."
He thought it over for a few seconds. "Listen: we transferred ownership to Harlan in that meeting last week. He signed the contract, he owns the place. So this is what you do: get your shit packed and get out of there. This is not your problem. It's his job to deal with the landlord. Just pack up and go."
"What about..."
"Just get out of there. Let him handle...who is it, Lascovich?"
"No, Barry Meyers, the other one."
"Well, it doesn't matter. Did Harlan talk to Dick Schultz?"
"He's not there. It's Saturday."
He hesitated. "Well...like I said just get the fuck out of there."
"What should Chip do?"
"I don't know, I don't work for him. He should move in
. I gotta go. Bye." He hung up. Lucy turned off the phone.
"What did he say?" Harlan asked.
"He said we should get on with it. I move out, you move in. It's legal. There's nothing..."
"What if he calls the cops, Lucy?"
She took in his forlorn yet hostility-tinged expression. "I guess we'll cross that bridge, Chip." She picked up a box and headed towards the elevator. "If we have to. Meanwhile, it looks like we're down to the last load here. Let's do it."
They spent twenty minutes loading the last of her stuff in the elevator. Lucy put Claud on a leash and they all went down together. Barry Meyers stood by the truck cab, still lording it over his corner. Only now there were two large, uniformed cops casually jawing with him. "Oh, shit," Lucy said. Claud started barking at the cops. He had a thing about uniforms. "Shut up, Claud," Lucy hissed as they walked over to get on with the discussion. Lucy had her copy of the contract she and Harlan had signed four days earlier. Harlan, at her side, looked as if he'd swallowed his own chin, like a turtle peering out from a place deep in his shell. Behind them, Rosa and Derek played back-up, keeping an eye on things while moving stuff from the elevator to the truck. "Here's the contract, Barry," Lucy said, waving it at him. "The whole thing's perfectly legal," she added, half-addressing the cops.
Meyers didn't even look at it. "Like I was telling you," he said to the cops. "I own the building, she rents from me, and she tries to sell the damn apartment like she owns it. It's crazy!"
"It's a perfectly legal transaction, officer," she said, handing the cop the contract. He glanced at it and handed it to his partner. "It's..."
"I don't know about any contract, lady, but he called us, he says its his building, and if that's true this guy can't move in without his permission. I'm afraid I have to..."
"It's his building but it's my loft, officer. I have a right to sell the fixtures. Call my lawyer...call the loft board...you ever heard of the loft board?"
"Hey, I'm sorry...Barry," said Harlan. "I didn't know...she didn't tell me you were not going to..."
"Shut up, Chip," Lucy snapped. "Just..."
"Don't tell me to shut up, goddammit, Lucy," he said. "You never told me the..."
"Oh, be quiet," Lucy snapped. "Didn't you even read the contract you signed? It's your job to move in here, not mine. Shit. Never mind. I'm sorry, Chip. Look..." By now a dozen people had stopped to watch the fray. Rosa stepped out of the crowd.
"Hello, officer," she said. "I live in the neighborhood and I know for a fact that it is perfectly legal for her to sell her space to this man without the permission of the landlord. That's the way it works in SoHo."
"I never heard of it," said the cop.
"Me either," said the other cop. "Hey, listen, sorry lady, but the guy owns the building, the guy says he..." he pointed at Harlan..."tries to move in its trespassing. So I gotta stop him or arrest him, way I see it. And keep that dog away from me, lady."
"Damn," Lucy said, after a moment. She didn't know what to do. "I can't believe it. So you guys are saying he can't move in here? In spite of this contract?"
"Looks like he and the landlord will work it out, lady. Why don't you just..."
"Sure they'll work it out, you...oh, never mind," Lucy said. "What a nightmare," she added, addressing Rosa. "Can you believe it? My last day...my last hour!...in New York, and...and this! Let's go, pup." She started back towards the elevator, then turned to Harlan, and spoke calmly. "You do what you have to do. But just remember, Chipper, you have owned this place since last Tuesday, so this is your problem." He said nothing. "And don't forget you owe me ten thousand bucks!"
"Don't worry, Chip," said Barry blithely. "Why don't you come over to my office? Let me talk to my partner. I'm sure we can work something out." As they walked around the corner Barry muttered snidely, exaggerating his disbelief, "Did you really agree to pay her ten grand?"
Lucy seethed on the ride up the elevator. She burst in and ripped the phone jack out of the wall, then kicked a hole in a closet door.
"Whoa, Lucy, whoa!" said Rosa. "Take it easy."
"Yeah, yeah," Lucy said, "OK." She grabbed her bag, then paused, taking a moment to empty herself of anger. She walked the room, absorbing a last look at the place she'd lived in for eleven years. She shook her head. "Damn," she said softly. "Way it started, I guess I should have known it would end like this." She turned her back on the place and boarded the elevator with Claud and Rosa to head down for the last time.
They went back out into the heavy mid-day light. Chip's truck was gone, and there on the street by her big yellow truck, where before had been cops and landlords, stood Jake Jones. Mr. Wonderful, once upon a time. He was as handsome as ever, the blue-eyed blonde devil from the west side of Los Angeles. He wore expensive, cool guy weekend clothing and held a small, gift-wrapped package in his hands.
She hadn't seen him in maybe four years or spoken to him in six months. Back in the bad old days of the 1990s they had hung together for three years, wearing black, snorting coke, drinking expensive vodka, and writing neo-beat poetry, pretending Bohemian Manhattan still existed. It was a good time, a parent-financed version of the downtown New York dream, until one day Jake's yuppie genes kicked in and he tired of sponging off dad to support their genteel urban poverty. He went to word-processing school, landed a temp job at Merrill Lynch, and discovered he had a talent for management. This led to a rapid rise through the corporate ranks and the even rapider demise of his relationship with Lucy. Now he lived in Greenwich—Connecticut not the Village—on a million a year, had a jumbo mortgage and a wife and two kids and hadn't written anything but memos for the last seven years. He claimed to write brilliant memos, but Lucy had never gotten one. He was always in a meeting when she called, and though he professed undying post-romantic love for her, their relationship had been reduced to a call or two a year and the exchange of Christmas cards. Lucy liked to think she still loved him, but mostly, he served as a focus for her generally unfocused sense of regret. Until Harold Ipswich had waltzed into, and out of, her life, Jake had been the one that got away, the love of her life that would have made it all make sense.
In truth, and Lucy knew this now—Harold hadn’t waltzed out of her life. She had pushed him out, breaking off their tentative engagement the same day she decided she had to get out of town. Now it felt like she was being punished—like Jake showed up here just to let her know she’d screwed things up again by running out on Harold.
Jake had bailed on her. He'd bailed on her for a sedate beauty who used to be an artist but willingly gave it up for the house in the 'burbs, the kids, the Swedish stationwagon, and the family dog with a pedigree. All the stuff Lucy once swore she would never want, and now suspected she would never have.
His black leather jacket and boots reeked of money casually well-spent. So did his haircut. He offered her the gift, and kissed her on the cheek. "A going-away item, Luce," he said, pleased with himself for being there to give it.
"Great," she said, taking it. "Just what I need, another piece of junk to drag across the USA." She shoved it in her pocket without a glance. He looked hurt, and she discovered she was still a sucker for Jake looking hurt. "I'm sorry, Jake, I just...the landlord showed, and now I don't what's going to happen..."
"I thought you might have time for lunch, or..." He shifted his cool blue eyes out of hurt mode and gave her what appeared to be a newly-minted, married variation on The Look he used to give her when he wanted to have sex. What did this mean? After eight months of silence he shows up when she's in a crisis on the street and he wants to go to lunch, or have an adulterous fling? Are things getting boring up there in leafland? No way to give him any kind of an opening here, even if he was the best lover she'd ever had.
"Jesus, Jake, I'm..." Goddamn! How could she be flustered by this unreliable clown? "It's been what, four years since we spent more than five minutes alone together, and I'm out of here and suddenly you want to do lunch? Come on, man, get serious." She pulle
d the gift out and tore off the wrapping paper. Christ, he'd bought her a pen! She opened the box. On a little velvet bed, a black and gold fancy Cross pen. "Hey, nice. Thanks," she said.
"Well, you're a writer, you oughta have a good pen I figured."
"Actually, these days the only things I don't write on the computer are checks, but I will be able to sign them with a flourish now, won't I?" She stuck it in her pocket.
"When you're out of gas halfway to Seattle, pull out that pen and think of me," he said.
"Yeah, sure, Jake the Rake," she said. She hesitated, then grabbed him. They hugged. "Hey babe," she murmured, "You figure out yet that you never shoulda left?"
"Every time I see you, Luce...but then every day I look at Julie and my kids and my house, and I know I did the right thing."
"Well, what the hell." She broke the hug. "It has been a few years, hasn't it? And now you're rich and I'm not and I'm heading west all alone and you've got a fine, happy family up there in Greenwich, so I guess I shouldn't be so self-righteous, should I?"
The Look again. "Lucy, if I had the guts, or the patience, to live the way you do, I would." He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips, briefly but passionately, then gazed into her eyes, all sincerity. "But I like money too much. You take care of yourself, darling." The way he said it she wanted to cry. "Have a good trip." He turned and walked away.
"Bye, Jake," she called after him. He lifted a hand and waved without looking back. Some guys just had her number, and he was one of them. The son of a bitch.
Men fucked up. Fucked her. Fucked her up. Fucked things up. Betwen Barry Meyers, Jake Jones, and Harry Ipswich, the man of her most recent dreams, lay a million miles of attitude and style, yet they all left her feeling just the same, when you got right down to it. Fucked over. "I thought that boy was way gone from your life," Rosa said, sidling up.
"That makes two of us. And he ain't no boy, that's for sure. Whatever it means to become a man in America, he seems to have done it. Big fat house with a big fat debt and a nice little wife and a gas-powered lawn mower. You see that jacket? Musta cost eight hundred bucks, and he wears it Saturdays, shopping for sofas and suits. And he doesn't even sweat in this heat! What a guy. Hey, speaking of guys, where's the D-Man?" Lucy asked, wondering if she sounded bitter.
Utah: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 7) Page 2
