“Well, actually-” she started to say, but Mary Lou interrupted her.
“Still, you’re going to drive yourself into early menopause slaving away for that show. Anyway, listen…”
With a ding the elevator doors opened, and Meena and the countess stepped inside to begin what would, for Meena, anyway, be the eons-long ride up.
Mary Lou then proceeded to give Meena a long description of the castle in which the prince spent his summers in Romania. Mary Lou was intimately acquainted with it, because it was near the castle where she and her husband summered for two months every year-two blissful months during which Meena was able to ride the elevator countess-free.
By floor five, Meena was wondering why she’d never gotten a feeling about Mary Lou’s or her husband Emil’s impending demises. It was odd, really.
On the other hand, it was possible her power to predict death, which had shown up when she’d reached her tweens, was starting to wane now that she was approaching thirty (a girl could dream).
More likely, however, given Meena’s luck, it was morphing into something else…look at the strange feelings she got around Leisha and her baby.
By the tenth floor, Meena had heard all she could stand about Saxon architectural influences.
“Oh, would you look at that,” Meena said when the elevator doors finally, and mercifully, opened at their floor.
“Oh, Meena,” the countess said as the two of them strolled toward their respective doors. “I forgot to ask. How’s your brother doing?”
And there it was. The Head Tilt.
The Head Tilt was accompanied, of course, by the Sympathetic Look. The countess was no stranger to Botox, as Meena well knew, since the countess had to be well over forty, but her face was as unlined as if she were Meena’s age-perhaps because Mary Lou had such an extraordinary collection of picture hats, as well as gloves, which she wore with fierce resolution to keep out the sun. Today’s was a gargantuan maroon concoction.
So it was all there, the Head Tilt, the “eleven” between the eyebrows (two crinkled lines of concern), the purse of the lips as if to say, I care. Deeply. Tell me: How’s your brother doing?
“Jon’s doing great,” Meena said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, given how many times a week she was forced to repeat this phrase. “Really great. Working out, doing a lot of reading, even cooking. He tried a new recipe last night for dinner. He made a great Chinese orange beef for me that he got out of the Times. It was delicious!”
This was an outright lie. It had actually been terrible and Meena had been furious with Jon for even attempting it. He was no great chef. Steaks on Meena’s hibachi on the balcony were his forté, not something they could just as easily have ordered in. She’d had to throw it down the garbage chute. Meena hoped the countess and her husband Emil hadn’t smelled it when they’d come home from whatever benefit they’d been attending. They were always going to-when they weren’t hosting-charity events, all over the city, late into the night, and had their names mentioned on the society pages regularly, as much for their generous gifts as for their party-hopping.
“Oh!” Mary Lou flattened her hand against the front of her Chanel jacket. “That’s great. I so admire what you’re doing, letting him live with you until he gets back on his feet. So generous. The prince just loves generous people, and so he’ll just love you. Of course…” Mary Lou brought her hand away, and the seven-or eight-carat diamond that she’d been wearing beneath the glove she’d stripped away flashed in the glow from the overhead light in the hallway. “Do bring Jon when you come over for dinner to meet the prince on Thursday night. He’s always welcome as well. Such a sweet young man.”
Meena kept a smile frozen on her face.
“Well, thanks,” Meena said with forced cheer. “But I’m not sure about our plans. I’ll let you know. Have a good night!”
“You, too,” Mary Lou said. “Au revoir!”
One thing, Meena thought as she hurried toward her apartment. One good thing could still happen to her today. She was never going to give up hope. Without hope, what did you have?
Nothing. That’s what.
She could still find the ruby dragon tote. Maybe online, used somewhere.
Except that, even used, it would still be more expensive than she could afford. It would be selfish and horrible of her to buy something so frivolous that she clearly didn’t need, especially when so many people were out of work and could barely afford food and had horrible people like Yalena’s boyfriend preying on them.
She was never going to buy the bag, of course. Not even used. But it was important to have hope.
Chapter Eleven
6:30 P.M. EST, Tuesday, April 13
910 Park Avenue, Apt. 11B
New York, New York
HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO JOIN THE NYPD?
In order to be considered for appointment in the NYPD, you must pass a series of medical, physical, and psychological examinations to determine your suitability. Want to learn more about our requirements?
Jon, staring at the computer screen, shrugged, took another sip of his Gatorade, and clicked Learn more.
Applicants must be at least 17½ years of age by the last day of filing of the exam they are applying for.
“Oh, yeah,” Jon said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Meena’s dog, Jack Bauer, hearing the sound of a human voice, jumped up from his dog bed and trotted curiously over to the couch to see what was happening. Jon tilted his bottle of Gatorade in the dog’s direction in a toast and kept reading happily.
Applicants must not have reached their 35th birthday on or before the first day of filing of the exam they are applying for.
“Done,” he said to Jack Bauer. “We are so joining the NYPD!”
Jack Bauer tilted his head questioningly, sat down on his haunches, and yipped.
“Yes.” Jon put down his Gatorade, picked up the phone, and dialed. As soon as the person on the other end lifted the receiver, he said, “Dude. We’re joining the NYPD.”
“The hell we are,” Adam said. “I’m about to be a father. I may need a job, but not one where I get my ass shot off. Did you know there’s a serial killer on the loose out there?”
“I’m sure there are several,” Jon said. He put his size-twelve feet on his sister’s coffee table. Jack Bauer, inspired by this development, leapt onto the couch, where he was strictly forbidden by Meena from sitting. Jon moved over a little to make room for him. “And we’re going to catch them. Because guess what? The New York City Police Department? Hiring. All you gotta be is over seventeen and a half years of age and under thirty-five. Bingo. That’s us.”
“Also crazy. Did you read that part? How somebody would have to be crazy to apply to be a cop in this freaking city?”
“Yes, in addition to a written and physical exam, there is a psych evaluation,” Jon said, glancing at his laptop. “And you might have some problems passing that part, seeing as how you were a mortgage-backed-security trader.”
“Are you done?” Adam asked. “Because I have to go now.”
“Yeah,” Jon said. “Okay, go to the NYPD website. I really think we should do this. We can do something to make a difference, Weinberg. We can arrest perps. We can help little abused children.”
“Listen to you,” Adam said. But Jon could hear clicking in the background and knew Weinberg was doing as he’d asked him to. “Perps. Like you know anything about perps. Have you been watching The Wire again?”
“I’m serious. Think about it. What did we do at our last jobs? Sure, we made a ton of cash, for other people and for ourselves. But did we really touch people’s lives in a meaningful way? No.”
“I beg to differ,” Adam said. “I handled the Alaska Teachers’ Union pension fund.”
“And,” Jon said, “what happened to it, Adam?”