“You can say what you want, honey, but we don’t have vans for pick-up and drop-off in Manhattan until”—moreclick-clacking—“Sunday afternoon. I can do 1:30 or 3:00 p.m.”
“That won’t work.”
“That’s what I got.”
“Come on, Pauline. This is one of my oldest customers.”
“Then they should know the routine,” she said, with that Drescher voice crack.
“The guy’s got more money than Vanderbilt and Astor combined. He doesn’t give a shit about routine.”
“Is he married?” Her brutal Queens accent made it sound more like “maah-reed.”
“We’ve talked about this—no flirting with my customers.”
Pauline offered a disappointed whine.
“Isn’t there any way you could bump someone else’s delivery to another day?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Whatever happened to customer service?” I tried next. “I’ve been using you guys for years.”
“Have your husband drive it. That’s what husbands are for.”
“Are they? I thought they were big, beautiful trophies to ogle.”
She snickered. “That too, honey. But after they make deliveries to Fifth Ave.”
“He’s working today.”
“I’m sorry, but all’s I got is Sunday.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded absently. “Okay. I’ll figure it out. Thanks anyway.”
“Bye-bye. And don’t forget to call and ask me how I am now and then.”
“I will.” I hit End, gripped the phone in both hands, and squeezed. “I need a ride.”
Max shrugged. “Don’t look at me. Public transport all the way.”
I turned toward Beth, who’d approached the counter while I’d been talking to Fran—I mean, Pauline.
“As if I’d own a car in the city,” she said with a snort.
“Don’t you have a business to run?” I countered.
Beth shrugged. “I’m on a coffee break.”
“Call an Uber,” Max cut in. “It’ll be here in five minutes.”
I shook my head and pointed the phone at the packaged statues. “These are extremely valuable. I need a driver I trust.”
“Neil,” Max said next.
“He barely lets me breathe on the Beamer,” I answered. “Besides, it’s a coupe—I don’t think they’ll fit.”
We looked at each other and came to the same conclusion at once.
