Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (34 page)

Samuel appeared at my side and wrapped an arm around my waist. He kissed my neck…then my shoulder…then my temple. Man was still hung up on the fact that the entire room believed he was gay. “Lunch?” he asked.

“I’m going to stay behind and take care of some stuff.”

“Try to rest a bit in one of the conference rooms.” He kissed me again for good measure. “I’ll bring you a turkey and Swiss.”

When the room was empty, I whipped out my phone and got to work. Forget the nap. I had roughly one hour to get my hands on a copy of that book. Instinct told me there was something in it they didn’t want Samuel to read, and they planned to put us off indefinitely. I had a feeling they were desperate to show a confident face to their client while, behind the scenes, they juggled hoops. Caroline had the right idea in dealing with Buitre—strike before struck.

Caroline…

Eh. Might as well go straight to the source. I sucked it up and punched in her number.

“The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again, or dial 6-1-1
for customer assistance…”

A minute later, the email I’d fired off to her account bounced back, too. I tapped my fingernails on the table, baffled. Then, snap—she no longer worked for The Buitre Group, did she? So kind of her to leave a new contact number.

Time for Plan B.

I called Berkshire House and worked my way through their phone system until I got Lexi’s voice mail:

“My office hours are Monday through Friday, seven thirty a.m. to six p.m. If this is an emergency, please contact me at 2-1-2—”

I quickly hung up. Dang it, I’d hoped for an out-of-office contact name—someone else I could finagle into getting me a copy of that manuscript. Did I even have a Plan C?

Yes I did.

As I dialed my former fling’s number—the critic for the New York mag—guilt crept up my throat. I was glad Samuel was out to lunch, so I wouldn’t have to explain. Mr. Avant Garde answered, his tone playful.

“Kaye, two calls in one weekend. Are you sure you aren’t looking for a hookup? Maybe a little phone fun?” he teased.

I pursed my lips, stifling a chuckle. “I told you, I’m happily taken. But I do need another itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny favor from you.”

“Whaddya need?”

“A name and number. The assistant to Lexi Rogers, Editorial Director with Berkshire House. You know her?”

“Sure. I know her assistant, too. I met both of them while rubbing elbows at a book launch several weeks ago. Berkshire House knows how to throw a party for their authors.” I wondered if it was the party Samuel bailed on when he fled to Colorado. “Her assistant’s name is Robin something-or-other. Here’s the number…”

I jotted it down, then half-promised Mr. Avant Garde a cup of coffee to get him off the phone. I punched in this Robin person’s number, praying she’d answer.

“Robin speaking.”
Craaaaaap.
The voice was confusingly androgynous, and I realized “Robin” could be either a squeaky man or a woman who’d kick my tail.

“Robin, hi. This is Kaye Trilby—Samuel Cabral’s publicist.” I heard a quiet gasp on the other end. Still no clue as to gender. “Listen, I’m in a bind. I need an advance read hard copy of a book sent to me ASAP, but I can’t get a hold of Lexi. Lyle Togsender’s
BrownStoners: A Houseful of Famous Pens and Crack Pipes.
It’s absolutely imperative Mr. Cabral receives it this afternoon, you understand.” I kept talking, not giving him/her a chance to object. “Now, I’ll need you to write down this address. Are you ready?”

“Ms. Trilby, I’m not even in the office—”

“Are you in town?”

“Yes.”

“Well, like I said, it’s an emergency. You’ll find it in Lexi’s office.”

He/she sighed. “Go ahead.”

Yes. I rattled off Samuel’s apartment address, reminding Robin once again I needed the book couriered there immediately.

“Okay. I’ll give Lexi a quick call.”

Wait. Call Lexi? No!

He/she mumbled a good-bye and hung up, leaving me slack-jawed and freaking out. For five minutes, I bit my nails and stared at my phone, terrified Lexi would call me back and ream me. When it finally did ring, I exhaled. Robin again.

“Ms. Trilby, I couldn’t get a hold of Lexi, either. She typically won’t take calls over lunch. And according to her schedule, she’s in a meeting all afternoon. I can try back this evening—”

“No!” Dang it, desperate times called for desperate manipulation. Hoping Robin was a dude, I mustered my best pathetic, sniffly girl voice. “Robin,
please
. I really, reeeally need that book now, or I’m as good as sacked. Mr. Cabral is absolutely livid he didn’t receive a copy of the book. I mean,
livid
. Eyes-bulging, hand-flailing, hair-pulling
L–I–V–I–D
. I even heard him mumble something about a rival publishing house.”

“
No
,” Robin gasped.

“
Yes!”
I exclaimed. “I know Lexi would send a copy if she could. I really don’t want Berkshire House’s most acclaimed author upset with her, you know? No telling what he’d decide to do…”

“Say no more. I’ll get Mr. Cabral a copy as of yesterday, Ms. Trilby.”

I polished my nails on my shoulders. Oh yeah, I was good. “Thank you so much, Robin,” I said sweetly. “I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Cabral how helpful you’ve been.”

I probably should have felt like a manipulative ho-bag for scaring the kid, but for now I’d won, so it kind of voided the ho-baggish feeling. But I could see how, if you moved in this playing field long enough like Caroline had, you could grow used to manipulating people and situations to get what you wanted. I’d have to tread carefully.

Before long, Samuel’s crack-shot team filtered back from lunch, and we dived in again. He slid into the seat next to me and plopped a deli bag under my nose.

“Did you rest?” he asked, smiling down at me.

“Enough.” I returned his smile, crossing my fingers that Robin wouldn’t disappoint.

Chapter 11

First

New skydivers should be aware
that every time they utter the word “first,”
they must buy veteran skydivers a case of beer.
To avoid this particularly expensive pitfall,
it is in the first-timer’s best interest
to forget it’s the first time.

A T
IDE
O
F
P
EOPLE
washed us underground like autumn leaves down a gutter, and into a passage that led from the neon chaos of Times Square to the Port Authority. The stale tunnel hadn’t breathed fresh air in eons. Mucky-white tiles blurred as we hoofed it to catch the northbound A Train. Ball cap brim tugged down, Samuel secured my hand in his, releasing it only to drop a few bucks in a busker’s guitar case.

He insisted we take the subway, determined to cure me of my aversion by tossing me headfirst into big, scary NYC. I begged for a cab, brain-weary after a long day of what The Buitre Group called “lateral thinking” (the rest of the sane world called it problem solving). I wanted to get to Samuel’s apartment as quickly as possible to see if Robin followed through.

When I’d last been in the subway, I was a twenty-year-old kid blindly stumbling through a foreign city. I was still stumbling, but not alone. Samuel was beside me, guiding me to his park-side home in Inwood with all the tenderness and hope and fear of a new lover. He was anxious to please me. I didn’t want to let him down, either.

Now I just had to master the stupid subway turnstile.

I swiped the flimsy card and pushed the bar again with my hip (there was no way I was touching that germ haven with my hands). It didn’t budge, for the third time.

“Swipe it the opposite direction,” Samuel said.

The monster machine beeped at me.

“Try it again, a little slower.” Samuel was a picture of patience, but the man behind us was not.

“Come on, crazy woman, what’s the holdup? It’s not that hard!” Apparently harder than saying Huitzilopochtli.

Samuel swiveled to face the guy, body tensing. “There are four other turnstiles—” he gestured to them “—so lay off, man.”

“Yeah, packed with people.” The guy smacked a weathered hand over an equally weathered Yankees cap, challenging Samuel’s Red Sox cap.

Ignoring him, Samuel shifted the brown package under his arm and asked for my MetroCard. All it took was one swipe, and so went my life.

We found a corner in the subway car, cozy against the press of people making their way home to West-Side neighborhoods. A woman reeking of alcohol hovered over me, a picnic basket at her feet. I subtly turned my nose into the soft cotton of Samuel’s shirt, breathing in his scent. It didn’t seem to bother him. He was used to the mix of stench and sweet, grunge and color—a dissonance that strangely made sense in the city.

Ever an observer, Samuel was enthralled by the stories around him. My eyes drifted, seeing what he saw. Advertisements on bludgeoned walls, rough-and-tumble people clinging to poles, swaying with the subway. To the left, a raven-haired woman peeled blinding-yellow polish from her nails and let it flutter to the floor. To the right, a man with temple locks flipped through the latest suspense novel. A little further into the car, a bum sprawled on a seat, slurring a Sinatra song between plaque-darkened teeth. So many stories.

He drew my attention when his warm breath hit my ear.

“There’s a sort of unspoken subway etiquette you pick up if you spend enough time in the city,” he said. “First, stay to the right of the stairs unless you’re in a hurry.”

“We did that.”

“Let everyone off the train before you get on. Don’t touch someone’s hand with your sweaty palms when you’re holding a pole. Give up your seat for pregnant women and the elderly. Also—never,
never
eyeball the homeless.”

“Oh.” Whoops.

“And, under
all
circumstances, avoid completely empty cars on an otherwise full train.”

My eyes widened, thinking of stabbings and crime scenes. “Why?”

Samuel grinned. “Because there’s shit in the car and everyone knows it.”

I wrinkled my nose. Several people around us chuckled, probably because they’d been there before.

Gradually, the car emptied with each stop as we rattled north to Washington Heights, until there were only a handful of people remaining. Samuel thrummed his fingers against the package resting in his lap, nervously describing all of the places he wanted to show me. Central Park, the Met, the Morgan Library, Chinatown…

“And The Dakota, of course. If we go to Graceland to pay our respects, we have to lay it down for Lennon. Do you remember the class project I helped you with when you were twelve, about the assassination? Angel told you the shooting was a government conspiracy engineered through a complex code in newspaper headlines, and I had a terrible time convincing you otherwise. You were such a stubborn girl, still are. Of course, the way that Lennon treated his son Julian was quite shameful, so it’s difficult to pay respects and not remember that aspect. Everyone has their personal failings, I suppose…”

He rambled on, and I began to get that “off” feeling again. His chatter wasn’t like the over-enthusiastic manic-babbling of LA. Rather, it seemed as though he did it to focus his mind so it wouldn’t stray—namely, to Caroline Ortega’s betrayal. He’d had such faith in her, but even he couldn’t deny she’d played some part in this mess.

And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was an eggshells day…

“Samuel, did you take your meds?”

His story about John Lennon’s spectacles ground to a halt. His eyes went cold. “Kaye, did you wear clothes today?”

The rest of the ride was chilly and silent.

The train slowly pulled in to the 190th Street station. Samuel ground his teeth as we left the platform and stepped into an industrial elevator, brusquely nodding to the attendant.

But the odd discomfort melted away when the doors opened and we stepped into a world of green, green, green. The picture Samuel sent me weeks ago didn’t do the place justice. Some brilliant city planner made wondrous use of the naturally hilly terrain, and what emerged was a fairy-tale blend of stone arches and shady foliage. As we climbed higher into the Fort Tryon Park, I caught a glimpse of the Hudson River far below, gray and hazy.

“Are you sure this is Manhattan?”

“Oh yes, we’re on the edge of Washington Heights. Take a jaunt south down Broadway and you’ll hit the Dominican neighborhood, follow the merengue. But these bluffs…I always feel as though I’m walking through a Thoreau poem when I’m here,” Samuel murmured. “‘Give me thy most privy place, where to run my airy race…’ The park’s still something of a secret. Or it seems that way, to me.”