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I took the man’s story with a grain of salt because systemic poverty is much more complex than hand-outs and government aid. But to be safe, I moved my vehicle to the far side of the street and told myself that from now on I would always bring another man with me, just in case.
Fat chance. Of course, Tommy, my partner for this job, got busy for whatever reason. It’s probably his divorce again. That guy has to be at court hearings at the drop of the hat, or risk losing his kids to his bitch of an ex-wife. What can you do? I guess I’m on my own for the time being.
Leaning forward in the driver’s seat, I stare at the building in front of me. It looks to be in bad shape, with multiple walls painted in graffiti and a saggy roof. About a third of the windows have been boarded over, and there’s a big mound of dog poo right by the front door.
Shit. This isn’t going to be great, but this is why I still go out on calls. As a CEO, my primary function is to sit at a desk and manage spreadsheets. However, it’s important to stay in touch with the street because my repo guys are my front lines. How can I build a team if I never do the work myself? Thus, my presence now.
My gut twists a bit as I step out of the truck. I pause momentarily, noting the dimples pocking the walls here and there. Those are the remnants of stray bullets, mark my words. Then, I head toward my target, my steps determined. Not a single tree or shrub graces the scene; it’s all concrete here.
Fortunately, the front door to Cabrini East is unlocked, and I take the stairs to apartment 5B. The rickety staircase has got to be a fire hazard because at each landing, the windows look glued shut. Finally, I reach the fifth floor and pound on a peeling door.
“Repo man,” I call. “Open up!”
To my surprise, a beautiful but skeezy-looking woman opens the door. She has long curly blonde hair and is wearing a tight dress that emphasizes her luscious curves. I can’t help but notice huge breasts spilling over the top of the cheetah print fabric. Plus, her glossed lips match her pink fingernails which shine against her tan, oiled skin. To top it all off, the woman bats long eyelashes at me, like she’s expecting a visitor.
“Well hello, handsome. How can I help you?” she purrs. I remain firm and professional.
“I’m looking for a Henry Marx. Is he around?”
She pretends to think.
“Hmm, I believe he just stepped out. Why don’t you come on in and wait for him? We can share a drink,” she says with a telling wink. Twenty-year-old me would have leapt inside, but now after years of experience, I know better.
I follow her carefully. Her hips twitch and sway, but I’m not tempted. For one, this woman isn’t cute. Her features are too exaggerated, like a Bratz doll come to life. Second, hooking up with random women is no way to conduct business. Marley was a special exception because I felt something there. I wouldn’t do that with just anyone looking to keep possession of their property.
Now, I trail the woman inside the apartment so that I can get a sense of what Henry Marx has. When he gets back, I’ll be taking his stereo system as well as the huge flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The rest of the furniture is pretty shit, and there’s nothing else worth loading onto my truck.
But when I turn the corner into the living room, the woman steps aside, and there are three large men looming just beyond the door frame.
“Hey,” I greet, but it’s too late. They charge towards me and then a brass covered fist connects with my face. Stars burst before my eyes as my cheek goes numb, and then my legs wobble and I tumble to the ground. The floor rushes up at me and indistinctly, I hear someone laughing as my world goes black.
8
Marley
As I walk back to my car after teaching this morning’s yoga class, I call Justin but all I hear is a distinct beep and then his voice.
“You’ve reached Justin at NYC Repo. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Ugh! Voicemail again. I haven’t heard from Justin in almost a week, and I’m bouncing back and forth between worry, anger, and the harsh reality of rejection. What the hell? I tell myself there is a reasonable explanation, but deep down I don’t believe it.
I try to not think about where he might be, but it’s a long drive back to Hell’s Kitchen and my mind keeps going in circles. Where is he? Is he ghosting me? Who even does that? I deserve better after all. While I thought things were going great between us, maybe I was wrong. Maybe Justin doesn’t want to spend time together, which is heartbreaking. But at least man up and tell me! Just disappearing is such a malicious trend.
