Taylor continued her pursuit even when Dudley hit Twelfth Avenue, near the river, and turned south, where the streetlights grew sparser and the neighborhoods were deserted, abandoned even by the hookers.
Then Dudley stopped so suddenly, catching Taylor in mid-thought, that she had to jump into a doorway to avoid being seen.
The concrete reeked of sour urine. Hugging the shadows, she felt nauseous. When she looked again Dudley was gone. Taylor waited for five minutes, breathing shallow gasps of cold air, listening to the sticky rush of traffic on the West Side Highway. Then she walked toward the spot where Dudley had disappeared: the doorway of a small two-story building. There were no lights radiating from the windows; she saw they were painted over. An old sign, faded, read, West Side Art and Photography Club.
W.S. on his calendar. So, a place, not a person.
He'd come here on Saturday night and then--possibly--gone to the firm around the time the note had disappeared.
But was there a connection?
Or was this just his hobby? Taking pictures or attending lectures on Ansel Adams and Picasso?
She cocked her head and listened. She thought she heard something. Wait, wait. Taylor tried to block out the rush of the cars and trucks and believed she heard music, something syrupy, full of strings, like Mantovani. Standing in the doorway, her feet stinging from the unaccustomed exercise in very unsensible Joan and David heels, she leaned against the stone and watched a cluster of intrepid rats browse through a garbage pile across the street.
He goes in, she figured, he's got to come out.
Forty minutes later he did.
The door swung wide. Taylor caught an image of pink and lavender. Soft music and softer light spilled out into the street. A radio cab--owned by the company that the firm used--pulled up. Dudley vanished immediately into the car, which sped away.
The question was, what would Mitchell do?
No, that wasn't the question at all. She knew what he would do. The question really was, did she have the guts to do the same thing?
The grapevine says you've got balls.
Yeah, well ... Taylor walked to the front door and pressed the buzzer.
A handsome black man, large and trapezoidal, opened the door. "Yes?" he asked, poised and polite.
Taylor said, "Um, I'm here...." Her voice clogged.
"Yes, you are."
"I'm here because a customer--"
"A member?"
"Right, a member referred me."
The bouncer looked past her and then opened the door. Taylor stepped inside.
It was like the lobby of an exclusive hotel. Smoky pastels, brushed copper, leather furniture, a teak bar. Three Japanese men, all in dark suits, sat on a plush couch, smoking furiously. They looked at Taylor briefly--hopefully--then, when she met their gaze with chill defiance, looked away fast.
A woman in her forties, wearing a conservative navy suit and white blouse, walked silently up to her. "How may I help you?" The smile of a maitre d'.
"I had a little time free tonight. I thought I'd check the place out."
"Well," the woman said, now playing tour director, "the West Side Art and Photography Club is one of the oldest art appreciation clubs in the city. Here's some literature." She handed Taylor a glossy brochure. There were programs of music, art shows, classes.
But how could she find out who Dudley met here?
Taylor nodded. "Ralph can't say enough good things about you."
"Ralph?"
"Ralph Dudley's a friend. I was going to meet him here earlier but--"
"Oh," the woman said quickly, "you just missed him. You should've said you knew him." She took back the brochure and tossed it in a drawer. "Sorry. I didn't know he'd referred you. ID, please."
"I--"
"Driver's license or passport."
What was Alice to do?
Play by the rules of topsy-turvy, what else?
She handed the license over and crossed her arms as the woman compared face and picture then went to a computer and typed in some information.
Apparently favorable results came back and the woman returned the license. "Can't be too careful, you know. Now, our membership fee is one thousand, and the hourly fee is five hundred per model. If you want a man, he'll have to wear a condom. Oral sex is completely up to the individual model; most do, some don't. Tipping is expected. The fee includes any standard toys but if you want something special it can probably be arranged. Will that be cash or charge?"
"Uh, American Express?"
"It'll show up as art instruction on your statement. One hour?"
"One hour, sure."
The woman took the card and asked, "Do you have any special requests?"
Taylor said, "Actually, I was thinking about something a little unusual. Could I have the, uh, model that Ralph Dudley sees?"
The hostess, trained to be unflappable, didn't look up from the charge voucher but hesitated for a millisecond. "You're sure?"
Thinking she'd never been less sure about anything in her life, Taylor Lockwood gave a slight smile and said, "Positive."
"There's a premium. Double."
"No problem." Smiling, Taylor took the credit card slip and a pen.
See the steadiness of my hand as I sign for the two thousand Jesus Christ what am I doing dollars....
The hostess disappeared into the back room. Muzak played quietly, a guitar rendition of "Pearly Shells." She returned a moment later with a key. "I've talked to her. She hasn't been with too many women but she's game to try."
"Good."
"I think you'll find her quite nice. Up the stairs, last room on the right. Liquor's free. Coke we can give you at cost."
"That's okay." Taylor walked into the cool corridor.
Topsy-turvy ...
She knocked on the door. A voice called, "Come on in."
Taylor took a deep breath, exhaled and pushed into the room. She stopped, total shock in her eyes--an expression that perfectly matched the one on the face of the girl who stood, topless, in the center of the room.
It was the teenage girl she'd met in Dudley's office, Junie. His granddaughter.
The garter belt in the girl's hand fell to the floor with a dull clink. She said, "Oh, shit. Like, it's you."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"You gotta, like, close the door," Junie said, regaining some composure. "It's a rule. Johnny, he's the bouncer, comes around and gets pissed, you don't."
Taylor stepped into the room, shut the door.
Junie said darkly, "Like, Ralph isn't going to be so happy this happened, you know."
Taylor whispered, "You're his granddaughter?"
"Like, helloooo. Whatta you think? Of course not. That's only what he tells people."
The girl was heavily made up, with dark streaks of brown and blue eye shadow that made her face sleek and serpentine. She retrieved the garter and began untangling it. "What it is, he's one of my oldest customers." Then she laughed. "I mean one of the dudes I've been seeing for the longest time. But, you know, he's one of the oldest, too. Probably, like, the oldest."
Taylor looked at a plush armchair. "Can I sit down?"
"It's your hour. Have a drink, you want."
Taylor poured sparkling wine into a crystal champagne glass. "You want any?"
"Me?" Junie looked horrified. "I can't drink. I'm underage, you know."
Taylor blinked.
The girl laughed. "That's, like, a fucking joke. Of course I drink. Only they don't let us when we're working."
Taylor said, "You mind?" as she eased her shoes off. A swell of pain went through her feet then slowly vanished.
"Mind? Usually people take off a lot more than their shoes."
"So tell me about you and Ralph."
"I guess I oughta ask why."
"He could be in trouble. I need to find out whether he is or not."
The girl shrugged, meaning: That's not a good enough answer.
"I'll pay you."
&n
bsp; This was a better response.
"I guess I oughta see the duckets."
"The what?"
The girl held her palm out.
Taylor opened her purse. She hadn't brought much of Reece's bribe money. She wadded together about two hundred dollars, keeping twenty for herself for cab fare home.
"I get that as a tip for a blow job," Junie said. "If the son of a bitch's cheap."
Taylor handed her more money. "That's all I have."
Junie shrugged and put the money in a dresser drawer. She pulled out a T-shirt and worked it over her head. "So, Poppie--that's what I call him--he likes girls my age. He came to the house last year and we had a date. It was like totally bizotic but we kind of hit it off, you know?" She whispered, "We started meeting outside the club. They get really pissed, they find out. But we did it anyway. He brought me some totally def clothes. Nice shit, you know. From the good stores. Anyway, we did some weird things, like, he took me to this art museum, which was a real bore. But then we went to the zoo.... Like, I've never been there before. It was way wild. We just kept hanging out more and more. He's lonely. His wife died and his daughter is a total bowhead."
"Junie ... is that really your name?"
"June. I like June."
"June, last Saturday night, was Ralph here?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Around ten or eleven, I guess. We had our regular appointment, you know. I'm his on Saturday night. Sorta a tradition."
"Then what?"
She fell silent. Shrugged.
"Another two hundred."
The girl said, "I thought you don't have any more money."
"I can give you a check."
"A check?" Junie laughed.
"I promise it won't bounce."
"That was, what, five hundred, you said?"
Taylor hesitated. "You have a good memory." She wrote the check out and handed it to her. Mitchell, you're going to see a very weird expense account for this project.
Junie slipped the check into her purse. "Okay, but he didn't want me to tell anybody.... He went to your company."
"The law firm?"
"Yeah."
"What was he doing?"
"That's the thing: He wouldn't say. I'm, like, what're you going there for this time of night? I mean, it's midnight or whatever. He said he had to--something about a lot of money. But he wouldn't tell me what. And he told me never tell anybody."
At least anybody who didn't pay her seven hundred dollars.
Taylor asked, "Has he ever mentioned a company called Hanover & Stiver?"
"Naw, but he don't talk--I mean, he doesn't talk about his business too much. He's always correcting what I say. It's so mundo-boring."
Taylor stood slowly, slipped her swollen feet back into her shoes. She walked painfully to the door. She paused.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen. And I've got a driver's license."
"I've had fake ones too, honey."
"Okay, I'm sixteen. But I tell Ralph I'm fifteen. He likes it that I'm younger."
"Do you go to school or anything?"
A laugh. "Where're you from? I made sixty-eight thousand dollars last year and have a hundred Gs in a, you know, retirement fund. Why the fuck would I want to go to school?"
Why indeed?
Taylor let herself out into the hallway, through which echoed a cacophony of voices and sounds very different from those she was used to at Hubbard, White & Willis.
At lunchtime the next day, her feet only marginally recovered from their abuse the day before, Taylor Lockwood was sitting across from a diminutive young man in a West Village diner: Danny Stuart, Linda Davidoff's former roommate.
The menu of the place, which had been Stuart's choice, was heavy on foods that had swayed in the wind when alive, and light on main courses that had walked around on two or four legs, the latter being by far Taylor's favorite.
"So," she asked, "you know Sean Lillick too?"
"Not at all really. I met him through Linda and went to some of his shows. But he's a little avante-garde for me."
"You're an editor?"
"That's mostly a hobby. Some of us put together an alternative literary magazine. I'm a computer programmer by profession."
Taylor yawned and stretched. A joint popped. The walls of the place were badly painted, swirls of dark paint didn't cover the lighter enamel underneath. The decorations were a la Mother Jones and Woodstock. But the space, she knew, had been a Beat club in the fifties. William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg had hung out here--the ancient floor felt spongy under the chairs and the wooden columns were carved with the initials of hundreds of former patrons. What these walls have heard, she thought.
Danny ordered sprouts and nuts and yogurt; Taylor, a garden burger. "Bacon?"
"No bacon," the waitress replied through her pierced lips.
"Ketchup," Taylor tried.
"We don't have ketchup."
"Mustard?"
"Sesame-soy paste or eggless mayo."
"Cheese?"
"Not your kind of cheese," the waitress responded.
"Plain'll be just fine."
The woman vanished.
Stuart said, "I think I remember you from Linda's funeral."
Taylor nodded. "I didn't know many people there, except the ones from the firm."
"You a lawyer?" he asked.
"Paralegal. How did you meet her?"
"Just a fluke. You know, your typical New York story. You come to New York from a small town, look for a place to live, you need a roommate 'cause the rents are so high. The guy I was rooming with got AIDS and moved back home. I needed to split the rent and Linda'd been staying at some residence hall for women. She hated it. We roomed together for, I guess, about nine or ten months. Until she died."
"Did you know her well?"
"Pretty well. I read some of her pieces and did some editing for her. She wrote reviews for us and I was hoping eventually to publish some of her poems."
"Was she good?"
"She was young; her work was unformed. But if she'd kept at it I know she would've gone someplace."
"What was her style like? Plath?" Taylor had read some of Sylvia Plath's poetry and recalled that she too had committed suicide.
Stuart said, "Her poetry was more traditionally structured than Plath's. But her personal life? Yep, just as turbulent. The wrong men, always heartbroken. Too stoic. She needed to scream and throw things more. But she kept it all inside."
The food came and Danny Stuart dug eagerly into his huge mass of rabbit food. Taylor started working on the sandwich, which she decided should be named not the garden but the cardboard burger.
"How did it happen, the suicide?" she asked.
"She was up at her parents' summer house in Connecticut. The back deck was above this big gorge. One night, she jumped. The fall didn't kill her but she hit her head and got knocked out. She drowned in a stream."
Taylor closed her eyes and shook her head. "Did she leave a note?"
He nodded. "Well, it wasn't really a note. It was one of her poems. When you called and said you were curious about her I thought you'd like to see it. I made you a copy. It's dated the day before she died. It talks about leaving life behind her, all the cares.... I was going to publish it in my magazine but, you know, I haven't had the heart."
He handed her the Xerox copy. Taylor read the title: "When I Leave."
She looked at Danny and said, "I hope I can ask you something in confidence. Something that won't go any further."
"Sure."
"Do you think Linda killed herself because of something that happened at work?"
"No."
"You sound pretty certain."
"I am. I know exactly why she killed herself."
"I thought no one knew."
"Well, I did. She was pregnant."
"Pregnant?"
"I don't think anybody knew except me. She got an EPT kit? It was just a couple of weeks
before she died. I saw the kit in the bathroom and asked her about it. You know, we were like girlfriends. She confided in me."
"But why would she kill herself?"
"I think the father dumped her."
"Who was the father?"
"I don't know. She was seeing somebody but never talked about him or brought him around the apartment. She was real secretive about him."
"Breaking up ... that upset her so much she killed herself?"
Stuart considered. She thought, studying his face: poet's eyes, artist's eyes. Unlike Sean Lillick, this was the real thing. He said, "There's more to it. See, Linda had no business working at that law firm. She was too sensitive. The business world was way too much for her. She got thrown too easily. Then when her personal life came crashing down I think it pushed her over the edge."
"But you don't know if there was anything specific at the firm that upset her? Anything she might've felt guilty about?"
"Nope. She never mentioned a word about that. And she probably would have. As I said, she and I were like, well, sisters."
So, the rabbit hole of Wall Street had proved too much for poor Linda Davidoff.
Without the heart to read the girl's suicide poem, Taylor put it in her purse and continued to eat her bland lunch while she and Danny talked about life in the Village.
Her face broke into another major yawn. She laughed and Stuart joined her.
"Not getting enough sleep lately?" he wondered.
"The problem," she explained, "is that I've been living an after-hours life when I'm not an after-hours person. I'm a during-hours person."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alice was on another trip through the looking glass.
This time, in a limo.
Taylor and Thom Sebastian were speeding down the Long Island Expressway Friday after work. The driver's eyes flicked to the radar detector needle as often as they glanced at the highway.
"I'm totally psyched you came," Sebastian said with apparent sincerity. "I thought you were going to boogie in with the Big E."
"E?"
"Excuse, you know. I--"
"Get that a lot?" she filled in.
"Yeah." He grimaced. "Now let me tell you about Bosk."
"What's the story behind the name?"
"His real handle's Brad Ottington Smith. B-O-S. Bosk. I'm Sea-bastian. Sea Bass. Get it? Okay. His father and mother have been separated practically since he was born. She has a house in Boston and his father has an apartment on the Upper East Side. They kept the summer place in the Hamptons and have it on alternate weeks. They--that's the parents they--can't talk to each other without bloodshed so they have their lawyers schedule the visits to the house."