“A hangover?”
Suzy nods, uncertain what to say.
“I can run to the pharmacy next door and get you a bottle of Bacchus. Or maybe they can fix up something even stronger. One shot of it, you’ll feel as good as new,” says the younger woman, who is now staring at Suzy with concerned eyes despite her tough-girl talk.
Suzy declines, finally taking the glasses off. Bacchus. It’s been years since she’s heard that name. A sort of miracle cure, like those tiger balms in Chinatown. Except Bacchus is a tinybottled drink, used mostly for hangovers or indigestion or anything to do with stomach troubles. Mom used to send Suzy to pick up a box of a dozen on mornings when Dad lay sick from soju the night before. Strange, the way Korean pharmacies just give out whatever they consider a cure. Prescriptions are never really an issue there. If you get sick, you just describe your symptoms to the pharmacist, who fixes up a concoction with whatever he has available behind the counter. It is a leftover habit from a Third World country, where prescription drugs were not carefully monitored. Although Korea has long since risen above its Third World status, the people never seem to have gotten over their easy access to antibiotics such as mycin, which, as Suzy recalls, Mom used for everything, from a common cold to a sore. The whole thing sounds dubious, even terrifying, but for Suzy it brings back yet another bit of her childhood. Illogical, yet sadly familiar.
“Hey, now that the glasses are gone, you look less like your sister.” Leaning close, the young woman squints her eyes theatrically. “That’s funny; if you really look, you don’t look like her at all.”
The spell of the good soup is over. Suzy asks instead, “So why did you follow me?”
“He was so nasty to you. I felt bad.”
“To tell me that?”
“Also, I thought maybe you’d want to know that your sister’s in some sort of trouble.”
Suzy puts down her spoon.
“She called last week to liquidate her assets. Stocks, real estate, everything. Bae’s furious, ’cause he’s been playing the market and she pulled out all of a sudden. I don’t understand why it’s such a letdown, after she did away with all that cash just a month ago. I saw it coming. Between you and me, I smell drugs.” The young woman lowers her voice, as if suddenly aware of the people at other tables.
Stocks. Real estate. Was there more money than Suzy knew about? Whose money is this? Her parents’? Has Grace been investing her inheritance? Suzy is not sure what to say, but the young woman makes it easy by talking constantly. She may be one of those people who talk in order to fill the silence.
“She was supposed to come by Monday to sign the papers, but she totally flaked out. Then I find out her phone’s been disconnected,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t think liquidation’s a good idea right now.”
Is Grace in some kind of debt? Is that why she has vanished? Selling off everything for cash is what people do when they are planning a drastic move—not a wedding. Last Friday, Grace called Detective Lester out of the blue. Later the same day, Grace showed up in Montauk looking for a boat. Then, on Sunday night, she called Ms. Goldman to say that she was getting married. On Monday, she failed to turn up at the accountant’s. If Grace had planned to take the money and run off somewhere with her new husband, why did she not follow it through with the accountant? Was the wedding a sudden decision? What is it that Ms. Goldman said? A secret from everyone, more like eloping, because they wanted to do it quietly, especially with her parents gone.
“How much?” Suzy asks, reaching for the glass of water on the table.
“How much what?”
“How much a month ago?”
“A hundred grand. In one shot.”
Something must have happened to Grace a month ago. Something changed. The guy. But he didn’t sound as if he were in need of money.
“She won’t sell the house, though. That, she won’t touch.”
“Which house?”
“Your parents’ house, of course.”
“Grace never sold it?”
“She won’t even charge rent. Maria Sutpen lucked out. I need a friend like your sister!”
Maria Sutpen. Suzy has never heard of that name before, but, then again, she knows virtually nothing about Grace’s life.
“Maria’s totally useless for an emergency contact. I called like a hundred times this week, but she’s never in. I got so frustrated that I almost went there myself. After all, the house is not too far from mine.”
“You live in Woodside too?”
“No, in Jackson Heights. But it’s just a couple of stops on the Number 7.”
Jackson Heights. Woodside. The Queens neighborhoods where the Korean population makes up nearly 50 percent, where a woman named Maria Sutpen has taken over her parents’ house.
“How long have you lived in Jackson Heights?”
“Since I was seven; why?” the young woman asks, glancing at the waitress who is heading over with a tray.
“No, nothing, it’s just I’ve lived there too…” Suzy mumbles, studying the lipstick smudge on the rim of her glass. She lets a few minutes pass before asking, “So why are you telling me all this?”
“’Cause I’m an only child, I guess.” The young woman shrugs. “I don’t get it when sisters don’t talk to each other. I think that’s like way twisted.”
“So you thought to run down here and warn me about Grace’s financial problems? So that I might track her down and convince her to keep Mr. Bae managing her money?” Suzy says quietly, meeting the other’s eyes.
“No!” the young woman exclaims, her face turning bright pink.
“It’s okay, nothing wrong with trying to help your father, or uncle, or whoever he might be for you. He seemed like he could use it,” Suzy says with a smile. “Honestly, though, I have no idea where she is. And you’re right, it’s really twisted that she won’t talk to me.”
The younger woman looks sullen, pretending to be having difficulty splitting apart her wooden chopsticks.
“Listen, if you don’t hear from her by Thanksgiving, call me,” says Suzy, writing down her phone number on the girl’s napkin.
Give it a few days, she thinks. If Grace turns up to sign the papers, then all must be fine. If she doesn’t, Suzy will be notified. That is, unless Suzy finds Grace first. Then, rising from her seat, Suzy asks, “And one more thing, what’s the name of that famous pool hall in Jackson Heights? Used to be a big deal in the eighties. Is it still around?”
The young woman looks up, befuddled. “You mean East Billiards on Roosevelt Avenue? Sure, they reopened a couple of years ago. Why? You play pool?”
16.
THERE IS NOTHING REMARKABLE about the brownstone at number 9. A two-story family home. The hexagonal living room protrudes with a fake-Victorian charm. Bright-pink lace hangs across each bay window. The only notable feature is the stoop. Seven steps in total, with newly painted railings. Shiny black layered with white stripes, like a zebra or a snake. It’s not a house but a zoo. A miniature animal-farm, right here in the heart of Queens.