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I haven’t watched in nearly six weeks. The sight of his car, coming and going like nothing is wrong, started to feel like a mockery of my feelings.
“I’ll do it,” Brian says. “I see you haven’t viewed the footage in…a bit.”
I nod, looking down at the rug under my couch. “I don’t need it. I forgot to have you turn it off.”
“Gotcha. I’ll send the reel over via a secure link, just so you—”
“No. It’s fine. I don’t even need it.”
“Are you sure? You paid for it.”
“I don’t need it.”
When the link arrives despite what I told him, I delete it and clear out my email’s trash. Ten days later, I break down and message Brian.
He replies—“No problem”—and sends me the link again. I spend the next four days watching Luca’s car move up and down his long driveway. Sometimes I can see his profile. Twice, I see his face.
It has to be enough. It is.* * *Luca
MAYDuring the last two years Lamberto was around, I would go to his place when he asked Roberto to send me, and the old guy would tell me stories. Also, make me cook. He lived in a two-bedroom apartment in this building a few blocks from Coffey Park. It didn’t have a name, so people would just call it Richards Street.
Eleven stories, twelve small units per floor. Once, I asked him why he lived there and he chuckled in that wheezy way of his, and he said, “Home is home.” To this day, I don’t really get what made him stick around Red Hook. But he was old-school.
I park my S-Class by the curb outside the Richard Street Apartments a few days before Alesso’s next rendezvous with Aren and Co., and glance up at the building. Pale pink brick; used to be brown before I realized I should have it pressure washed every year and a half or so. Expose any leaky windows, you replace those and it cuts down on pests. Plus, it keeps the tenants happy. Happy tenants, less turnover: everybody’s life is better.
These units are cheap as shit, and there’s a skill share for a lot of them, so it runs a little like a co-op. Handy gal, the plumber, electrician, exterminator, janitors, housekeepers—they’re all in-house. I’ve got two plumbers since one moved in on the fifth floor a few months back, and that’s been a godsend. Shit happens. Often.
I don’t mind the Section 8. I’ve got accountants, managers just for my rental stuff, and they deal with it. I think people bitch about it too much. Takes a little longer, but you’re helping people, so who really gives a shit?
I pull my ball cap on, zip up my coat, and get out of the car, headed toward the side door. The front office is encased in glass, so Serilda smiles and waves as I walk by. When I first started the pink ops, she would come out in the hallway every time I showed up, offering to help and treating me like a VIP guest. But it’s been almost four years. By now, everybody knows the drill.
Who I’m really here to see is Ingrid, on floor seven. Seven is the floor that opened up the most when I needed space—along with ten—so that’s where I put them. It’s nine units total. They’re not always used at once, but that’s fine by me. Place like this pays pretty good stuff to a landlord. Anyway, it’s not like I need it.
When I got into this stuff—just a little at a time—I thought I’d need to up my distribution to help with the overhead. But I didn’t. Not much, anyway.
After someone’s gone from start to finish, some of them will ask if they can stick around and train the others. There’s not always room here for them, but Ingrid and Daireann, Kalin and Silver, they all came through first. They know what they’re doing, so it works out.
I step onto one of the elevators, shutting my eyes as it takes me to the seventh floor. When it stops, I stare at the door, but it doesn’t open immediately, sending a frisson of alarm down my spine. About sixty seconds later, it finally limps open. That deserves a text to Kris. I fire one off then walk toward Ingrid’s room-slash-office. She’s down on the left a little ways. I pass some other rooms with closed doors, and, at the end of the hall, outside Dr. Z’s office, I see a boy in a chair leaning over a book. He’s wearing a hoodie.
One of the doors opens. It’s not Ingrid’s, but she steps out. She’s wearing the organization’s shirt, her long blonde braid draped over her shoulder. When she sees me, she gives a shy smile. “Luca.”
I smile back, stepping toward her. Which is when my phone rings. I arch my brows and hold a finger up, turning the other way before I answer.
