The Dollhouse (23 page)

“I'm heading back to the hospital as soon as work is over. I need to be there as much as possible. Even if he doesn't know who I am.”

“I'm sure he senses something.”

She sighed. “Between the dementia and the sedatives, I'm hoping he doesn't sense much at all right now.”

A coworker dashed into the room. “Tyler wants all of us together.”

Outside his office, Tyler shook hands with the men in suits and then headed into the conference room. WordMerge employees popped up from their cubicles like meerkats, shuffling in behind him, amid whispers and stifled laughter. Rose and Jason hovered near the back.

Tyler rubbed his hands together. His pants were fashionably short and tight.

“I'm happy to announce we're exploring a new paradigm here at WordMerge.” He enunciated the company name carefully, the only way to say it without sounding like you hailed from the sticks. “Our audience has made it clear what they want: short, sharp pieces that can be shared on social media. You'll be getting more details in the next couple of days, but for now I want everyone to start thinking in snappy visuals. Lists, photos, funny, smart, you know the type of thing I'm talking about, because it's what you seek out every day.”

“You've got to be kidding,” murmured Rose.

Jason shook his head. “I don't do snappy.”

Rose raised her hand. Tyler looked annoyed. “Yes?”

“Does that mean we're no longer doing in-depth pieces? I thought that was supposed to be WordMerge's brand.”

He sighed. “The financials are difficult right now. We need to take a detour, get the page views and get the advertising.”

Another editor raised his hand. “What about the stories we're currently working on?”

“Keep on working.”

He answered several more questions in a manner that was more vague than comforting, and closed the meeting. As Rose and Jason headed back to her desk, Tyler called them both into his office.

“Sit, sit.” He motioned to the chairs opposite his desk. “I'm killing the Barbizon story.”

Rose took a deep breath. “Why?”

“Too complex. So many story lines. It's not for us.”

Jason spoke up. “I wish you'd let me walk you through it. There's a narrative arc you might have missed, a compelling one.”

“The key source is returning to town in a few days,” added Rose. “And I have reams of notes. There's a lot of gold in there.”

“Reams?” Tyler made a face. “So old school. And that's the problem. If we're going to survive, we have to shift gears.”

Frustration welled up. After all their work, all her digging. She imagined the looks on the women's faces when she told them their histories hadn't measured up. “Let me at least put together a rough outline for you. We've found out some shocking twists, heroin rings, identity switches. This is a killer story.”

“For
The New Yorker
, maybe. Not for us.”

She dug in. “When you hired me, you told me you were creating a multimedia version of
The New Yorker.
”

“That was then.” He turned to Jason. “I have a new assignment for you. You'll work with Cheryl on a list of top ten narcoleptic dog videos.”

Jason spoke up. “I have to say I agree with Rose. The Barbizon story is good. It deserves a platform.”

“Sorry. I am, really. Check in with Cheryl, please.”

Rose nodded at Jason. Maybe if she could speak with Tyler alone, he'd be less defensive.

After Jason left, she tried again.

“Tyler—”

He cut her off right away. “Look, Rose, I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you signed up for, I get that. But I have to ask you to go along with this. The kids out there look up to you. If you're walking around pissed off because your story got killed, it's not going to help morale.”

She sat back, stunned. “First of all, I don't walk around pissed off. I've had stories killed before and sucked it up with no complaints. I'm more worried about the shift in focus of the site. You'll be like everyone else.
Don't you want to stand out? Isn't that why you formed the company in the first place?”

He bit the side of his thumb. “If you don't like it, you should just leave.”

The realization of what he was doing hit her hard. Her salary, though paltry, was bigger than any other journalist's at the company. He wasn't killing anyone else's story, only hers. Because he wanted her out.

“Tyler, would you prefer it if I left WordMerge?”

“Of course not.” The expression on his face remained unchanged. “Unless, of course, you don't feel you'd be happy here. You might find the work slightly tedious.”

“Then you should let me go.” How much severance could she get? Four months, maybe?

“Oh, no. Of course I'd never fire you.” He'd probably figured out the cost of her severance as well. And didn't want to pay it. “When you first came here, I was glad. But things have changed.”

Her jaw clenched. She refused to spend the few remaining days of her father's life putting up with Tyler's nonsense. “If I go, I'm taking everything to do with the Barbizon story with me.”

“You can't do that, it's the property of WordMerge.”

She lowered her voice, better to threaten him. “You don't want that story. I do. I get everything and I don't go to Gawker and tell them you're floundering. You know they'd like nothing better than dirt from a notorious journalist.”

He went white. “Okay, fine, take your story with you. You can have it.”

“Thank you.” She stood, grabbed the ball that hung above his desk and yanked it so hard it came loose from its tether, then threw it into the trash can. “In that case, I quit.”

New York City, 1952

D
arby entered the grand lobby doors of Carnegie Hall and looked about her, confused, until a man in an usher's uniform redirected her to the back entrance. She took the elevator up to the floor where the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was located, and stepped into a hallway filled with young people her age. Some were talking loudly or laughing, others singing scales. The noise level was astounding.

She stepped over two khaki-clad men sprawled on the linoleum floor, smoking cigarettes and reciting their lines out loud. Hopefully, Darby would get a chance to pull Esme aside before the next class began. She scanned the crowd for her friend's dark mane, with no luck, eager to surprise her with the news that her mother had come and gone, that the deed had been done.

Darby opened a door marked
OFFICE
at the end of the hallway, where a secretary talked with a distinguished-looking gentleman who perched on the side of her desk. The secretary looked annoyed at the interruption.

“I'm looking for Esme Castillo.” Darby was nervous, but all the phone lessons at Katharine Gibbs had paid off, for her voice remained perfectly modulated.

“Who?” The receptionist looked down at a list on her desk. “Is she a student?”

“Yes, she began studying here this fall.”

“How do you spell that?”

Darby spelled it out and waited.

“No, I'm not familiar with that name. Hank, you heard of her?”

The man was handsome in a Hollywood way, with thick, wavy hair. He seemed to enjoy being looked at and took his time answering. “No, can't say that I have. Are you sure you have the right school?”

“AADA. I know I do. She tried out last month. She's been taking classes each week.”

The receptionist giggled and the man named Hank smiled. “We call them auditions, not tryouts.”

“Right. Auditions.”

“Wait a minute.” The man froze, one hand lifted, mouth parted, as if he was teasing her or playing some kind of acting game, but then his concentration broke. “Esme Castillo?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, with so many students, it would be hard to keep track. Particularly if you were as self-aggrandizing as this guy. “Yes. That's her.”

“Does she have an accent?”

“Yes. She's from Puerto Rico.”

The secretary bit her lip and looked confused. “Huh.”

Hank cut in. “I do remember her. I can't believe I ever forgot this.” He held his hand in front of him, palm facing outward, setting the scene. “I wasn't scheduled to be on the panel that day, but Mr. Peterson was ill. This woman came in, lipstick the color of blood, shiny brown hair.”

“That's Esme, yes.”

“She was arresting, I'll give you that. She stood in the center of the room, wearing a dress that was quite revealing, and launched into a monologue from
Romeo and Juliet
. I tell you, I could barely understand a word the girl said. We sat there with our mouths agape.”

“We don't take people with accents,” said the secretary, by way of explanation.

Romeo and Juliet.
Esme had left a copy of the book in her room soon
after they'd met, saying she didn't need it anymore now that she'd been accepted. “She's not enrolled, then?”

Hank laughed. “No, of course not. But she certainly perked us all up after a long day. I remember her well.”

Anger surged at his offhand dismissal. Esme had spent weeks preparing her speech. Only to be cut down by these buffoons. “Would she have studied with someone from the school, or anything like that?”

“No, there's no room in the industry for girls who don't know how to speak properly. Sorry, but you won't find your friend here.”

Back in her room, with Mother's condemnation still echoing in her head, Darby was surprised to learn she had another visitor. Had Mother returned to drag her back to Ohio? Or maybe she regretted their harsh exchange?

Instead, Sam stood in the lobby of the hotel. Darby checked herself from running into his arms, as Mrs. Eustis was greeting some new arrivals near the front door.

“I'm so glad to see you. I was just about to head downtown to find you.”

He looked around, pulled her close, his voice low. “We need to talk.”

Darby requested a visitor's pass from the registration desk clerk, and led Sam up the stairs to the public lounge on the mezzanine level. A couple of the models giggled when they walked by, but Darby shot them a look that, to her surprise, sent them scampering away. To her relief, Sam didn't gawk at their long limbs and silky hair as she expected him to. He pulled her down onto the tufted leather sofa.

“My God, it's good to see you.”

“What's going on?”

Sam ran his hand through his hair. “We're in trouble.”

“We are?”

“Well, I am. The club, me, Esme. Big trouble.”

“I went looking for Esme at her acting school earlier, but they said she never enrolled.”

He straightened up. “Look, Darby. I think she's run off.”

“What do you mean, run off? We have plans.”

“I know this will be hard to hear, but your plans mean nothing now. I don't think she'll ever show up here again.”

What was he talking about? Darby didn't like his grave tone. “What's going on?”

He reached out to touch her, but his hand fell back to his lap, as if it didn't have the energy to finish the movement.

“Sam, tell me.”

“An article came out in the
Herald Tribune
today.” He pulled out the paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Esme did something really stupid.”

Darby glanced down. Sam pointed to the lead column and she began reading. The words swam on the page:
Puerto Rican hatcheck girl, Detective Quigley, heroin
, and the names of musicians she knew well.
The Flatted Fifth
.

She swallowed hard.

Sam ran his hands through his hair. “Esme had another side to her, one she didn't want you to see.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's worked for Kalai for the past year.”

Darby tried to understand why this would be a problem, but it didn't add up. “Esme sold spices?”

“Mr. Kalai has another kind of import business. He brings in heroin, other drugs on the side. He's mentioned later in the article.”

“My God, Sam! Did you know all along?”

“Yes, but I stayed out of that part entirely. Kalai's a brilliant man, and he was willing to pass down his knowledge of spices to me. His sons think spices are a waste of time—they only care about the money from the drugs. So they leave me alone and manage the heroin sales under their father's watch.”

If she had been on shaky footing when she woke up this morning, now
the ground was crumbling under her feet. “How did you get mixed up with a man like Mr. Kalai?”

“I met him through Esme. Part of her job as hatcheck girl was to act as a go-between for Kalai and his clients.”

“Why would she agree to do such a thing?”

“Money.”

Darby remembered the heaps of makeup that Esme had, the dresses that materialized out of nowhere. The strange encounter at Hector's Cafeteria. “I think I saw her once, actually. Uptown at lunch. She passed off something to a man in a suit. She said he was in her acting class.” She looked up at Sam. “Obviously not.”

“She double-crossed Kalai, gave info to the undercover cop at the club.”

“She couldn't have. She hated that guy.”

“This article includes a full transcript of an informant, an ‘Esme C.,' spilling secrets. Which means Kalai knows everything. He'll be after her; that's certain.”

Why hadn't Esme ever confided in her? All the lies and cover-ups. Still, she deserved a chance to defend herself. Darby owed her that much at least.

“I'm sure she can explain everything, Sam. Or I hope she can, anyway—there has to be a good reason why she'd do this.”

Sam blinked a couple of times. “Don't you understand, Darby? She's gone, and if she's smart, she'll stay that way. She's in serious danger now. And, by extension, so am I.”

“But why are you in danger?”

“My father told me Kalai is out of control, in a complete rage. He has his sons out looking for anyone else involved.”

“But you weren't involved. You just said so.”

“Except that it was me who convinced Kalai we couldn't toss the cops out of the club night after night. I thought it made us look too suspicious and would end badly for my dad. But now Kalai thinks I was secretly
working with the undercovers all along, that I convinced Esme to rat him out. He thinks the sting was my doing.”

“I don't understand. Can't you just explain to him that it wasn't you?”

“Kalai is paranoid. He's decided I'm to blame and so I am. My father wants me to leave right now, go out to California where my brother is.”

Darby's world was collapsing. Esme was a police informant and involved in the drug trade. Sam was fleeing New York City. Mother's harsh words echoed in her brain. She'd been blinded by her hopes and didn't see the danger they were all in.

Sam reached out and took her hands. A slight tremor shook his fingers.

“You're shaking,” she said.

“I'm angry. I'm angry at Esme for screwing everything up for me. For us.”

Darby's heart pounded in her chest, heavy with dread. “I think Esme did this for me.”

“What?”

“I think it's probably a scheme she came up with to take care of me, until we're on our feet. If she got money for snitching, it was to support me. She couldn't have known that it would be leaked in the papers.”

“She should have talked to me first. I could have helped. Now I have to leave and go where no one knows me. I'll have to start as a line cook somewhere, begin all over again.”

She couldn't bear to see him go. “Maybe it's only for a month or two. Mr. Kalai will end up in jail, and you'll be able to come back.”

“His sons won't give up the business. The money involved is too enormous. The police may get Kalai, but the organization will carry on. That's why I want you to go with me.”

Her heart stopped for a moment as she processed his words. “To California?”

“Why not? We'll take the train out tonight. I have some money saved, and we'll find my brother and start a new life together.”

“The two of us?”

“Yes. I hear California's great, no freezing winters and you can eat figs right off the tree.”

“But what about New York City?”

“It'll always be here. We'll come back in ten years, when the coast is clear and I'm a successful chef and you're a famous writer. We'll be married with a couple of kids and we'll show them where we first met and fell in love.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, Darby.”

The room closed in around her. If she chose to go with Sam, she'd be a single girl, traveling with a bachelor. No chaperone.

And no more gloves. No clunky typewriter with the
x
key that always stuck. No giraffes.

But no Esme.

“I love you, too. I'll go with you. But I have to say good-bye to Esme first.”

“You won't find her.” He spoke firmly, calmly. “I'm telling you, Darby, I promise you, she's gone.”

She thought of Daddy, what he might have revealed to her if she'd known to give him the chance. Esme deserved that as well. “I have to try. Can you give me some time? Not much. Just enough to nose around here a little bit. Her shift starts in twenty minutes. If she doesn't turn up, I'll leave a note for her at the front desk.”

“Fine, but be careful. I'll head downtown to get my things and meet you under the clock at Grand Central in two hours. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He brought his hand to Darby's cheek and smiled. “I'll be waiting.”