So Pretty It Hurts

“Like I told you before, Devon was a real mind fucker. Who knows what she was thinking?”

“Did that make you mad?”

“Mad? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, she was kind of toying with you. That couldn’t have been much fun.”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with you. I had plenty of action last weekend.”

“By the way, did you know Devon had a miscarriage around the end of last year?”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly taken aback.

“Well it wasn’t mine. Like I said, we didn’t get down and dirty until February. Besides, I don’t do kids. Can’t stand the little bastards. . . . Look, I thought you wanted to have a nice friendly conversation. You’re starting to sound like a cop or something.”

Suddenly there was the discordant sound of electric guitars being tuned in the back. Tommy craned his neck in that direction.

“I’m sorry if I’m tossing lots of questions at you,” I said, attempting not to lose his interest. “But there’s a reason for it. I think someone might have caused Devon’s death—by aggravating the symptoms of her anorexia.”

That had his attention. He spun back in my direction.

“Is that what the cops are saying?”

“No. It’s just a theory I have. Any ideas?”

“Read my lips,” he said. “I don’t know anything about eating disorders or any shit like that. As far as I’m concerned, I’m never hooking up with another model. I want a chick with some meat on her bones. That redhead didn’t have a clue what to do in the sack, but at least there was something to hold on to.”

“Okay, so you don’t know anything about eating disorders, but Tory might. Do you think she wanted Devon dead? Because Devon was after you again?”

He started to do the shoulder shrug again, but I saw the idea snag in his brain. He took a long swallow of his drink, staring into the glass.

“You’re gonna have to ask Tory that,” he said. “But keep it short so she can understand what you’re saying.”

“I—”

“I gotta get back there. I’d ask you to stay, but you don’t seem like the type who can just chill and listen to music.”

“One more thing,” I said, as he slid off his stool. “Do you know Sherrie Barr?”

“Devon’s old lady? Yeah, I had the unfortunate experience of meeting her once—and I’m really not looking forward to watching her slur her words on Saturday. Look, I really need to get back there.”

He started off and then unexpectedly turned back to me, his gray eyes boring into me. “Be careful getting home,” he said. “It gets a little sketchy down here late at night.”

Oh, thanks, I thought. Mr. Chivalry. I snaked my way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cold night air.

Though the bar had been mobbed, the street outside was deserted and most of the lights in the converted tenement buildings were off now. With no traffic at the moment and none of the usual hip crowd spilling out into the street, it wasn’t hard to imagine the pushcarts and carriages that had once rumbled along here.

What I needed at the moment, though, was a cab, not a pushcart, and I could sense right away that it was going to be tricky to find one. I gave it a minute, though, hoping there might be some canvassing the area even at this hour, but no such luck. Stupidly, thinking I’d be out for only a short time, I hadn’t even bothered to wear gloves, and my fingers would soon be freezing.

Just as I was about to bag the location for another, a gypsy cab pulled up, the kind that patrolled late at night when there was a scarcity of regular taxis. Gypsy cabs were unlicensed car services, but because they fulfilled a need, there was a live-and-let-live attitude toward them. I’d taken them on several occasions when I was desperate, but I didn’t feel that desperate at the moment. The driver made eye contact and raised his chin, as if asking if I needed a ride. I shook my head, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and started to walk, headed north.

The first intersection I passed was Rivington, and there was no sign of a cab there. I walked another block north to Stanton. It was a relief to see a few more people in the area, but they seemed to be looking for cabs too. I had no choice but to head another block north to East Houston. I already had that sinking sense you get when a little voice in your head tells you that at least as far as tonight goes, there’s no way in hell you will find a taxi.

There was a ton of traffic on Houston, but it was all just regular cars barreling along. Ten minutes passed with my hand in the air and me flicking my head left and right, searching futilely with my eyes.

I stuck my hand back in my pockets just to warm my fingers. I could hoof it home, I realized. It would take about a half hour. But I’d be freezing cold by the time I arrived. And I didn’t feel comfortable being alone at this hour on the deserted downtown streets. I also didn’t feel like hopping on the subway this late.

Suddenly I heard a car come up slowly behind me on Ludlow, and instinctively I spun around. It was another gypsy cab. Or, rather, the same gypsy cab I’d seen outside the Living Room. The driver was obviously having the same amount of luck as I was. He made eye contact again and cocked his head. I nodded my head in response. This time I felt desperate enough to hop in.

“Ninth and Broadway,” I told the driver once I was in the back seat. The car, to my disgust, reeked of cigarette smoke.

“Twelve dollars,” he told me, not bothering to turn around. Gypsy cabs didn’t have meters.

“How about ten?” I said. Twelve seemed outrageous.

He nodded, again without looking back, and put the car in drive. I leaned my head back, exhausted. I’d barely slept last night, and my insomnia was catching up with me now. I closed my eyes, just resting them. I heard Beau’s words from earlier echo in my head suddenly: “Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.” Was he going to end our relationship? I wondered.

I opened my eyes again, feeling miserable. I was too churned up right now, and I couldn’t think any more about it. When I gazed out in the darkened Manhattan street, I realized something wasn’t right. We were back on Houston Street, headed east, not north. The driver was going the wrong way.

Chapter 16

“Wait,” I yelled, jerking my body forward. “I said Ninth and Broadway.”

For one brief moment I actually thought the driver had misheard me or had arrived in America six days ago and had no freaking clue where he was going. But he never turned around, just gunned the motor so that the car sped even faster. I realized that after I’d closed my eyes in the backseat, he must have circled back to Houston. It was suddenly clear: he was abducting me! My heart hurled itself against the front of my chest, like it was trying to leap off a cliff.

“What do you want?” I called out. My voice was squeaky from panic. “Do you want money?” But the driver ignored me.

I glanced toward the door. The lock was still up at least. I had no choice—the only escape was for me to leap out onto the road. Yet the car was moving so fast, I couldn’t imagine how I’d pull it off.

I reached for my handbag and searched frantically until I found my BlackBerry. My hands were shaking as I punched in 911.

“A cabdriver kidnapped me,” I yelled to the operator. “Uh—a gypsy cab. We’re going down Houston Street. East.”

“Miss, what is your name?” the woman asked.