“That’s right,” I said. “Listen, sorry about all this. We’re just totally burnt out and…”
“Save it,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
We went crosstown on 114th Street, then made a right onto Broadway. I checked my watch. We’d apparently made good time, but I took no solace in that.
It had to end. There had to be a resolution. I knew Grady Larkin held some answers. The only problem was, I didn’t want him to know the questions.
Dread filled me as the apartment building came into view, memories of that night flashing in my head. Acid running through my veins like a psychosomatic warning sign. Mitch parked across the street, turning to me with a slightly annoyed look on his face.
“Well, 105th and Broadway, just like you asked. Now, would it be too much trouble to ask for some cash? Or would you rather just fall asleep again?”
I fished in my wallet and pulled out a crinkled ten. Amanda added a five.
“I’m sorry,” I said, the emotion genuine. “Really, you’re a lifesaver. It’s been a hell of a week.” Mitch nodded, picked at a hangnail.
“Right, sure. Well, listen, take care, guys. It was nice to meet you both in the eight seconds before you started drooling.” He extended his hand. I shook it. So did Amanda.
“Take care, Mitch.”
“Will do,” he said. “Be careful up here. I don’t like this neighborhood much. Always feels like something bad is about to happen.”
“I know what you mean.”
We waved as he drove off, flashing his blinker and disappearing into the night. Then we were alone.
The building stood in front of us like some vast gothic tenement. The last time I was here, nearly three days ago, I was almost killed. My life changed forever. What was once a run-of-the-mill apartment complex had taken over my nightmares.
Welcome home, Henry.
There didn’t seem to be any police activity, just a homeless man staggering around by the building’s entrance. He looked drunk, uninterested in us. I hoped looks weren’t deceiving, and he wasn’t an undercover cop. Paranoia came pretty easy when you’d been shot and hunted.
Moonlight bathed the street, and a chilled wind blew through the city.
“So what now?” Amanda asked.
“Now,” I said, “we see what Grady Larkin knows. It’s a good thing you’re in the market for a new apartment.” I explained what I had in mind.
I squeezed Amanda’s hand as we approached the front door, then pressed the buzzer for Grady Larkin’s apartment. A scratchy voice answered.
“Yeah?”
Amanda said, “Hello? I’m trying to reach the super? I need to lease an apartment and, well, I hope it’s not too late, but I’m getting desperate and I heard from a friend that you have some vacancies.”
“Are you shittin’ me, lady? You know what time it is? Office closed like four hours ago.”
“No, I’m not shitting anyone. Please?” She ad-libbed, “My boyfriend just dumped me and I have nowhere to stay.”
There was an exasperated sigh on the other end, then the buzzer rang and the door unlocked.
The lobby was cold, quiet. Not the quiet of mourning, the quiet of fear. Our steps echoed through the hallway. We were trespassing on dangerous ground, and the building seemed anxious to protest.
We took the stairs down to the basement. The tiling looked bright, fresh-scrubbed. Larkin must have cleaned up after the police had left the crime scene. A complete one-eighty from the grimy textures last time I was here.
We arrived at apartment B1. I looked at Amanda, mouthed the words thank you.
You’re welcome, she returned.
I took the thick black marker out of my pocket, purchased at Union Station for ninety-nine cents, and placed it on the floor by the doorjamb.
I stepped around the corner, out of view of Larkin’s apartment. I felt steam on the back of my neck from the nearby boiler room. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I heard Amanda knock on the door.
I heard the creak of hinges that hadn’t seen WD-40 in many moons, then a throaty voice said, “So you need an apartment?”
“Yeah, um, my friend said he heard about a few vacancies here, and I was hoping I could look at whatever’s available. I’m in the market to lease, like, ASAP.” Her voice was girlish and naive, like a child asking for a cookie and expecting a slap on the wrist. Grady Larkin cleared what sounded like a pint of phlegm from his throat.
“You say your boyfriend dumped you?” I could almost picture Larkin leaning against the doorframe trying to sound seductive, arms folded as he pushed out his biceps. Amanda must have been trying pretty hard not to laugh.
“Yeah. Can you believe it?”
“No, I definitely can’t. Stupid prick.” I could almost sense his eyes feeling her up, and it made my skin crawl.
“I got a few openings, maybe a few more’ll open up soon. Had a few, how you say, incidents here recently.”
“Oh, yeah?” Amanda said. “What kind of incidents?”
“S’not important,” Larkin replied. “But I think I can fix you up.”
During our journey I’d grown protective over Amanda, despite the inherent irony. Since we’d met, she’d done nothing but help me survive, risking her life and future in the process. She believed in me. I only hoped I deserved it. And it hurt like hell to stand in the shadows while a creep like Larkin tried to play the young Marlon Brando.
“So let me see here,” Larkin said. I heard the rustling of papers. “I got an apartment just opened up on the fourth floor and another one on the first that’ll be available at the end of the month.”
“Do they have cable and Internet access?”
“They have anything you want,” he said, a sly tone to his voice. “Come, let’s have a look-see.”
I heard the stairwell door open, footsteps ringing on the steps, voices fading away. I waited, praying the trick would work. After a moment I heard a soft thud. That was my cue.
I held my breath as I stepped around the corner. I exhaled when I saw the plan had worked. As Larkin opened the door, Amanda had subtly wedged the marker between the door and the doorframe, preventing the lock from catching. They were in the stairwell before Larkin had a chance to notice. I pocketed the marker and slipped inside Grady Larkin’s apartment.
The home was dark, stale, and smelled like I was trapped inside a filthy ashtray. There was a small bedroom in the back, brown sheets thrown haphazardly across the bed. A worn paperback book lay on the floor. A picture of a heavyset woman holding two small children stood on a nightstand. The woman’s smile looked authentic, joyous. Larkin’s mother, no doubt. I bet she was really proud of her son.
A dirty old computer sat on the desk. Above it hung a calendar of half-naked women posed on a motorcycle next to-were my eyes deceiving me?-G. Gordon Liddy. Something told me Larkin didn’t throw many parties.
A steady hum came from a large copier in the corner. A rusty gray filing cabinet caught my eye, each drawer with dates in chronological order.
I pulled out the top drawer and found a shockingly neat collection of files, organized by tenant and month, dating back to 1999. Opening this year’s “May” file, I found a copy of Luis Guzman’s most recent rent check, made out to Grady Larkin. Sixteen hundred dollars my ass, that fucking liar.
Luis Guzman’s most recent rent check was for a measly three hundred dollars. Either someone else was subsidizing his rent, or Luis Guzman would never find a career as an accountant.
Three hundred dollars for a month’s rent in Manhattan for a two-bedroom apartment. Not only was that uncommonly low, it was impossible.
My fingers flew through the entire file. I found twenty more checks written by Luis Guzman, all addressed to Grady Larkin. As I went farther and farther back in the file, I realized this was more than an anomaly, but it actually had a precedent.
Contrary to everyone else who’d ever lived in New York, Luis and Christine Guzman’s rent had actually
