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“Mr. Moore lives alone,” the doorman responds. “Move along or I’ll call the police.”
“You’re going to what?” I sputter. “I’m serious. Here, look at my driver’s license.” I reach over and fumble for my purse.
The man barely looks at my license before handing it back. “Where’s your key?”
“My key?”
“Yeah, your key. If you live here, you have a key.”
I stare at him blankly because I do not have a key. Four years ago, I woke up to a frantic Leka who hustled me from my bed to the car. He’d packed my stuff and it didn’t include a key to the apartment. Mrs. M has a key, though. She let herself in and out of the apartment when she came to sit with me after school and before Leka would get home.
“Mrs. M knows me. Call her.”
“I don’t know any Mrs. M. I’m sorry, miss. You need to leave.” He steps back onto the curb and makes a show of pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Is he really going to call the police on me?
I gape in disbelief until the sound of a siren spurs me into motion. Fine, I think as I jam the gear stick to drive. I’ll go, but you’re going to look damn stupid when I waltz in here tonight with Leka.
I have no choice but to go to Marjory’s. It’s probably where I should’ve gone in the first place, but I kind of hate that place ever since I saw Gerry get his throat sliced there. Not to mention that Marjory’s is a symbol of all that keeps Leka and me apart. He carted me up to the Boone School for Girls and left me there because whatever he did for the people at Marjory’s was too dangerous for me to be near.
And now I’m rolling up in my ten-year-old Mercedes, the car that Leka abandoned with me in Vermont. Leka will probably have it repossessed and crushed when he finds out I’ve come to Marjory’s, but it’s the afternoon. Going to a restaurant seems safer than sitting like a stalker outside the apartment where I’m fairly positive the doorman is itching to arrest me. I know Leka wouldn’t approve of me cooling my heels in the park until he got done doing whatever it is he was doing.
And, frankly, this is his fault. He should’ve answered the text I sent nine hours ago. By some miracle, I find on-street parking a block away from Marjory’s. I throw on my puffy jacket, stick my phone in my wallet and head down the street for the restaurant.
There’s a tall, slender boy wearing a green apron under a wool coat at the front door of Marjory’s. He gives me a once-over, eyes clocking the red goose label on the sleeve and the Dior Leka sent me a month ago, and decides I’m not some random tourist looking to use the bathroom. He pushes the door open.
I give him a weary smile in return and thank him for holding the door. Inside, I blink a few times until my eyes adjust to the light. A figure halfway across the room moves in my direction, but it’s not until she’s standing in front of me that I recognize Mary Shaughnessy. The last time I saw her, she had just finished slicing a friend’s neck open, and while it’s only been a few years, her face is wearing at least a decade’s worth of time. Is that what killing a person does to you?
“Hey Mary,” I say, wondering if she recognizes me. I’m different, too. I’ve lost a bit of my baby fat in my cheeks. I’m an inch taller. She still towers over me since I’m wearing tennis shoes and she’s got on six-inch red-bottomed platforms.
“Why if it isn’t young Elizabeth. Although, what does Leka call you? Bitsy, right? Only you’re not so young anymore, are you?” Like the boy in the front, Mary inspects me from head to toe, but she’s not evaluating whether I’m here to spend money. She’s looking at me as if I’m a…threat? Leka has never liked her. I wonder if that’s changed.
“Where have you been all these years?” she asks.
“School.” I force a smile on my face and hide the unease that’s tickling the back of my neck. Mary’s the type to take advantage of every weakness, but most especially fear.
“You didn’t say where.”
“No.” If she doesn’t know, it means she’s not supposed to. I don’t volunteer any new information. I just keep smiling. She knows why I’m here. There’s only one person I’d be waiting to see.
“Leka’s not here,” she says.
“I know,” I lie.
“He might be a while, but that’s good for us.” She smiles back and threads an arm around my stiff limb. “We have a lot to catch up on. I’ll introduce you around. The nice young man out front is Mason. Isn’t he delicious? He started working a year ago for us. I haven’t had a taste of him, but the girls in the stable say that he’s very good in bed. You should try him out.” She gives Mason, who is thankfully out of earshot, a little wave. Innocently, he returns it. Mary swings me around, past the few tables filled with patrons and into the back.
