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GENEVIEVE
The Hudson, an old hotel closer to the wrong side of the city than the upscale area, is just as I remembered it. It’s historical in many ways, but these days, the owners battle graffiti and the piss stains left on the front stonework more than anything else. It isn’t anywhere someone like Chaz would ever choose to stay, but despite the location and constant stream of tourists, the Hudson was once a grand hotel. Now, the interior is a little worn and broken down, but it’s still easy to imagine what it used to be like. That isn’t why we’re here though.
Before I became Genevieve, and before I made my first tenner, the Hudson had given me an opportunity. The owners, Julia and Nicolas, are elderly now, but the moment I stepped into their lobby and asked for them, they still recognised me. It’s been years since the last time I came to visit, and I feel guilty about that, but neither of them seemed to mind when I explained the situation. They were surprised I am alive and healthy, and remarked on my glow. They hadn’t addressed the four men with me, but they didn’t ask many more questions at all. They knew if I was showing up here and asking for a room, then something serious was going on.
I never appreciated the rules of the street more than I did when they immediately prepared a room for us and set everything up under a different name. If anyone looked at the registry, they’d see the name Birdie D, but nothing else.
Julia and Nicolas do more for the community and street kids than anyone I know. They are the reason I’m so passionate about giving back myself. When I’d been desperate, they’d given me jobs, allowing me to do odd things that they normally wouldn’t hire someone to do. It was because of Julia that I realised how good I was at marketing. They gave more than social workers, hostels, and police, and they still continue to give those in trouble a safe harbour. There is no judgement, just peace and a place to lie low. Sometimes, their helpfulness attracted the wrong clientele, but after a while, those who were considered more dangerous on the streets started to protect this place, knowing it was needed. It’s an unwritten rule that you don’t fuck around here.
Once we are led up to the room and settled in, we make our plans. Archer sits against the window. The desk he uses is wobbly, one leg shorter than the others, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he pours over the files we took from Chaz’s home. There was plenty there to use as proof, and while we have every intention of using it to our advantage, Archer is making sure there’s nothing we need to keep copies of or that the guys’ names are mentioned. I don’t blame him. Chaz had been their inside man for a while. The only thing that seems to have saved him from naming the four of them was that he didn’t actually know much about them, only that they arranged hits and Chaz would get a cut after each one. Otherwise, he only knew there were four of them.
“Should we call the police?” Eric asks. “You can do your big reveal.”
I’m shaking my head a moment later. “No, too easy. The news stations would be here too fast, and Chaz would have plenty of opportunity to run. Right now, he doesn’t know what we took. He’ll likely be too proud to admit we got one over on him and still continue on as normal.”
“He’s not that stupid, surely,” Booker comments, but when he thinks about it, he shrugs. “Never mind. He’s probably that stupid.”
Over on the other side of the bed, Gage lies spread out, scrolling through his phone as he searches news outlets for any hint about Chaz and the heiress, who we now know is named Clementine Fitzpatrick. I hated to leave her tied up like Chaz, but it had been necessary. Despite her clear arousal at the display we made and her anger towards Chaz, I couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t immediately run to the police. Of course, Archer made sure not to tie her bonds as tightly as Chaz’s. My only hope is that she escaped her ropes and then left Chaz there in his own chair.
A knock on the door draws all of our attention. When Eric stands and palms his gun, I scowl. “It’s probably room service, Eric. Don’t scare them.”
He grins. “You like the way I handle my weapons.”
I point at him. “You’re not wrong, but still. Don’t scare them.”
Leaving the gun at the small of his back, Eric leans in and looks through the peephole. When he doesn’t draw his gun and instead unlocks and opens the door, I know I was right.
“Mrs. Julia told me to bring you the whole kitchen,” the kid says the moment Eric opens the door. “We couldn’t really do that, so we made you one of everything.”
The kid is young, probably around the same age I was when Julia took me under her wing. He’s most likely an ex-gang member or a kid of a woman who got in too deep with bad people. Smiling gratefully, I stand and gesture for him to bring the cart in. “That’s Julia, always giving as much as possible. Do you accept tips?”
The kid nodded enthusiastically. “We accept tips, but you don’t have to. Mrs. Julia said it was on the house.”
I smile. “Of course she did.” I gesture towards Eric. “Give him some money, please.”
Eric, understanding exactly what I mean, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. Without looking at the bills, he pulls out every note he carries and shoves it into the kid’s hands. There has to be a couple grand there with how thick it is, and the kid’s eyes widen in surprise and horror, but I smile gratefully at Eric.
“I-I can’t accept this,” the kid stammers.
“Nonsense,” Eric counters. “Consider it payment for your silence. You never saw us here.”
“Of course. Absolutely. I would never say anything.” He bites his lip and looks towards me. “Mrs. Julia told me you used to work here, but now you’re rich.”
“She’s not wrong.”
“How did you do it?” His eyes flick around the room. “I have three younger sisters, and my parents aren’t around much. I’d like to give them something better.”
He’s well-spoken and determined, a kindred soul. Smiling gently at the kid, who can’t be any older than eighteen, I stand and walk over to him. “Are you any good at anything?”
“I’m pretty good at math,” he admits. “Even better at memorising patterns and equations.” He blushes. “Or so my teachers tell me when I have time for school.”
Taking his hand, I say, “What’s your name?”
“Joseph,” he answers. “Joseph Maine.”
“Have you finished your GCSEs and A levels, Joseph?”
“I have.”
