"Hehlo? Izzis Henry?"
"Yes, Mya," I whispered, watching to see if Amanda would wake up.
"Where are you?"
"At home."
"Why are you at home?"
"I was sleeping."
"Why are you sleeping?"
"Because I have work tomorrow." I waited. She said nothing. "Listen, Mya, you need to stop calling me."
"Oh, stop it," she said, and I could picture her waving her hand dismissively. "You're not sleeping now. It's early, silly.
Come out for a drink."
"Mya, there's no way…"
"Who is that?" I felt Amanda stir, her eyes fluttering open.
"Is someone on the phone?"
"It's me," I said softly. "Go back to sleep. It's Mya again."
"Again? Does she think you deliver pizza or something?"
Amanda said through a yawn. "Tell her to call Domino's and get out of our life."
I waited a moment until Amanda's breathing evened.
"Listen, Mya, I'm going back to sleep. Please. Stop calling."
"I miss you, Henry." Her voice had changed, choked up. I closed my eyes. Tried not to think about the last time I'd hung up on Mya late at night. I couldn't do it again. She had to choose to let it go.
"Come on, Mya, I'm with someone else now. You know that. Please. Hang up the phone. Go back to your friends."
"I have no friends. Please, Hen. I really want to see you."
"Good night, Mya. I have to go. You should go."
"Fine," she said, and then I heard a dial tone.
I swallowed. Felt Amanda stir. Wished Mya hadn't gotten so screwed up after the whole mess last year. Wished she could be happy.
And then the phone rang again. Amanda bolted upright.
"Don't bars in this city have a closing time? I swear you need to get a restraining order. If you answer it you're sleeping on the couch."
"I don't fit on the couch."
"Then you get the refrigerator. I have an eight-thirty tomorrow. It's hard to convince a child that their future is in good hands if their counsel shows up looking like Morticia Addams."
I pressed Answer. "Mya, I told you I'm with someone-"
"That's none of my business or concern, Henry, but if it makes you feel better Jack asked me to blow you a kiss."
Crap. It was Wallace Langston, the editor-in-chief of the
New York Gazette. My boss. And he definitely wasn't calling because he missed me. Wallace was a good man, had hired me out of college, but I learned quickly that New York had a way of chewing up and spitting out its good men. Few newsmen were more respected, but readers didn't care much about professional courtesy. They wanted juice, gossip, and sadly often the lowest form of both. And that was one thing
Wallace refused to give.
I'd gotten used to late-night calls from the office. Jack
O'Donnell-my colleague and professional idol-was prone to doing it just for kicks. Like Mya, sometimes late at night
I could smell the Seagrams on his breath through the phone.
Jack worked late. He was unmarried, had no children. He just needed to hear a friendly voice, I supposed, because there weren't many in his life. So I didn't mind. And thankfully
Amanda slept like wood.
"Wallace, what's up?"
"I need you at Thirteenth and Eleventh. Right away."
"I'm guessing this isn't so we can spend nine bucks on a beer at one of those clubs in the meatpacking district."
He ignored me. "Just get in a cab. There's been a homicide at some swanky shindig called the Pussy Club, I need you to cover it. I'd send Jack but he hasn't set foot in anything but an Irish pub since the seventies."
"Pussy Club…you mean the Kitten Club?"
"I mean it's 2:33 a.m. and if you're not here in ten minutes, we're going to get scooped by the Dispatch, the Observer and those crummy papers they give away for free on the subway platforms."
"Why me? Who's on night shift?"
"You're the only guy who's even remotely young enough to even understand this stuff. Now get dressed."
"What stuff? I don't follow."
"Athena Paradis was shot to death this morning. Looks like it might have been some sort of execution. Single shot, from a distance. I'm going out on a limb and saying you're more familiar with her, er, resume than Jack is."
I was stunned. Athena Paradis. The world's most famous socialite. Famous for, well, something. She averaged three page ones a month at the Dispatch. Wallace refused to give her that kind of coverage unless she cured AIDS or something. But murder changed all that, I guess.
"On my way," I said.
"I was never a fan of hers," Wallace said, offering more information than he needed to. "But the way it looks down there…she didn't deserve what this monster did."
3
The New York night was muggy. Even at two-thirty in the morning, when the sun, like most of the city, is hibernating and waiting for the start of a new day, something kept the air thick. It was early May, and humidity already choked the streets. Late night revelers all wore shirts soaked through with sweat, foreheads shiny, content for the sun to never show its face again.
My cab slowed down and then stopped as we approached a tangled mess. I could see flashing lights nearly three blocks away. Kids lining the streets with worried looks. It took a lot to ruin a good night. I could only imagine what had happened here.
I walked the last few blocks to Thirteenth, wading through honking cars and loaded partiers screaming on cell phones. I couldn't help but hear the panicked voices.
"Man, there was blood everywhere. I was right near her, man!"
"She…they think she's dead. Oh God, does that mean her album won't come out on time?"
I saw Wallace Langston talking to a cop and jotting down some notes on a spiral pad. Wallace didn't get out of bed for many stories. He left that to his city desk. But this wasn't just
New York front-page news, this was a national headline. The kind of tawdry story that Paulina Cole and the Dispatch would be sopping up with a biscuit and squeezing dry.
I hadn't seen Paulina Cole in months, and I prayed she wasn't here tonight. I didn't need any distractions. Paulina
Cole had once been a top reporter at the Gazette but left after penning a series of controversial yet shockingly popular articles where she insinuated that my murder accusation was merely the next story in a succession of young journalists whose names always ended up in brighter lights than their stories. Didn't matter that my murder rap was bogus. The articles enabled Paulina to jump to the New York Dispatch, the Gazette' s biggest rival. She got more money, more perks, and of course the chance to hoist her name among brighter lights.
Covering Athena Paradis's murder would be tricky. If we played catch-up to Paulina and the Dispatch's muckraking, they would dig a grave and bury us in a pile of our own moral righteousness.
Above the Kitten Club was perched a gigantic neon sign in the shape of a kitten. And not just any run-of-the-mill kitten, the kind of kitten that apparently wore a halter top and stockings and every few seconds tipped back some sort of pink cocktail that probably cost more than my pants and contained less alcohol than a glass of seltzer. Appearances. Atmosphere. That's what Kitten Club patrons came for. And last night they got it. In the form of Athena Paradis, world-famous socialite, erstwhile fashion model, nubile actress, soon-to-be recording artist, and, depending on who you asked, either your personal hero or the bane of your existence.
I had nothing against Athena personally, but a few weeks ago a colleague forwarded me a leaked demo of her first single. Not even three straight hours of Bruce and Dylan could rinse that stain off.
You'd think my generation would have more to offer. I'd like to say they do, but lying to yourself is pretty pathetic.