morose. This is my life. I had become that retrograde Woman of the
Nineties: works ninety hours a week, makes ninety thou a year, weighs
ninety pounds, and thinks (pardon my French) Cooking and Fucking are
provinces in northern China. Well, the ninety-pounds part of that
obscene quip didn't fit--and it wasn't the nineties anymore, anyway.
In any case, was my apartment a place to raise a child? No earthly way.
Like Carly, I'd have to spring for some decent space, preferably with a
washing machine. . . .
A parking slot was open right in front of my building, a minor miracle
on this day of uncertain events. As I was pulling in, I glanced over to
see a man walking past, not catching the face but sensing something
familiar in the walk. He was in the process of unbuttoning a Federal
Express uniform, peeling away the top to reveal a dark suit. He
certainly seemed to be in a big hurry, carrying an unmarked shopping
bag. Maybe, I thought, his shift was over and he was meeting his wife,
or a friend.
I wondered if he'd left a package for me, and told myself to check with
the super. Not the usual delivery guy--did they come on Sunday
now?--and also . . .
Where was the truck? They always parked right here by the building.
I was still so upset over Sarah, I couldn't immediately process those
illogical observations, so I just grabbed my pink roses, dripping from
the bottom of their paper wrapping, and opened the car door. It was
definitely good to be home. I loved my Chelsea neighborhood, where you
got to know the locals, running into them in the delis, the little
restaurants, the dry cleaners. Just like a small town. If you worked at
home, the way I sometimes did, you even got to know the mailman and the
delivery guys for UPS and FedEx. . . .
Hey! That guy. I finally placed the walk, a kind of a strut. He was the
slimeball who'd been outside Paula Marks' building last week, carrying
a gun and threatening me. What's he doing here?
My pulse went off the charts. Was he one of Nicky Russo's wiseguy crew
after all? Had he come back, with his pistol, to pay me a return
engagement?
My God.
Chill out, I told myself, take a deep breath. He's leaving. Just try
and find out who he is.
Roses in one hand held up awkwardly around my face, I slowly ambled
down the street after him. I didn't have to go far. Within about a
hundred feet, he unlocked a long black Lincoln Towncar, stepped out of
the FedEx camouflage, tossed it onto the seat along with the bag he was
carrying, pulled the cap off his bald head got in, and sped away.
The license plate looked different from the usual, but I got what I
needed: DL and a string of numbers.
Uh-oh, I thought. Was he leaving a package bomb for me?
I turned back and let myself into the outer lobby, glancing around as I
did. There were no parcels anywhere, just blank, brown tile.
My apartment was 3A. The name on the bell was M. James. As I stepped
through the inner lobby--still no package--a rumpled face appeared in
the doorway just to my left. The sign on it, flaking, said SUPER.
"Oh, hi." The voice was Patrick Mooney, our superintendent, who did not
normally emerge to greet those arriving. But there had been complaints
from the building's managing agent that he could never be found for
emergencies, so he probably wanted to appear available, even on
Sundays. His voice was slurred from some midday medicinal Irish whisky.
"Thought you were home. FedEx guy was here earlier looking for you."