_Monday, April 6
7:30a.m.
_
The commute from Ally's West Village place to the CitiSpace office in
SoHo was normally a twenty-minute brisk stroll, and she brought
Knickers with her a lot (the boss's prerogative) since her office was
arguably homier than her home. (Knickers loved to wander around and--she
thought--guard the computers and drafting tables.) This morning, though,
Ally had an appointment for her at Pooch Pros, the dog groomers near
her office. A wash and a trim and plenty of pampering. Betty and Misha
always fussed over her shamelessly, and she gloried in it.
But now a pounding rain had just come through, which meant no walk for
either of them. Knickers would show up looking like a bedraggled mop.
Definitely the moment to take the car.
Alexa Hampton liked to say that she wasn't really an auto person. Hers
was a four-year-old Toyota, light blue, and its modesty befitted her
needs. In New York, hopping around SoHo and the Village, it made a lot
more sense to rely on a bike or on cabs, or just plain walk. Garaging a
car in New York cost the equivalent of a studio apartment rental in
most normal places, and the bottom-line truth was, she resented the
Toyota's presence in her life. But there were moments when cabs weren't
the answer, and this was one of them. Fortunately, the parking garage
she used was just around the corner, so she and Knickers got there
before being totally soaked. Knickers loved riding in the Toyota, and
she always seemed to know what was coming the minute they turned the
corner for the garage. This morning she gave a gleeful "Woof" and
started panting, a sure indicator of joy.
As they drove the few blocks downtown, the rain was easing up but the
streets were still shiny. Ally reached into her bag and took out the
personal card of Winston Bartlett. His private residence was on
Gramercy Park. The only reason he could possibly want to meet her there
was if he did indeed have a job. She decided she would call him from
the office and confirm the appointment, assuming he still remembered
it. Then she'd get Jennifer to help her assemble a portfolio of their
work and make a color copy to leave with him.
She leaned over and rubbed Knickers' ears. Her thoughts were drifting
back to Karl Van de Vliet. At some level his stem cell technology
sounded like the ultimate snake oil. Was she about to take leave of her
common sense to go to see him, or even to consider letting him perform
some experimental procedure on her mother's mind?
On the other hand, what about him? What kind of "procedure" could Van
de Vliet have done that would stop his own skin from aging? If Grant
had merely told her that Karl Van de Vliet had finally realized the
cosmetician's dream and learned how to make human skin youthful and
supple again, she would have passed it off as just more Wall Street IPO
hyperbole. But seeing was believing, and it also seemed like there was
a lot more going on than just a change in his skin. There was something
about him, in his eyes, that felt . . . inconsistent.
She was still puzzling on that point when Knickers jumped up and
barked. They were passing a garbage truck and the guys were banging the
cans into the back.
"Shhh." She reached to quiet her. "We're almost there, baby." Then she
tugged at her leash and settled her back into the seat.
Since the rain was all but over, she decided to park the car where she
dropped Knickers off and then walk over to her office, which was only a
couple of blocks east. She found a spot right next to the awning of
Pooch Pros, and the minute Knickers was liberated from the car, she
bounded to the door dragging her leash through the puddles. Misha was
already there to meet her.
"Come on, my _kraceve_ baby, my beauty." He reached down and gave her a
big hug. Misha was a gaunt, balding, blond-haired Russian who had once
been the hero of the Soviet Olympic swim team. Now he looked like he
could stand a piroshki or two to plump him up. "You be big fluff of
cloud after we finishing."
Ally followed them in, and there was Betty. Ally figured "Betty"
assumed her made-up but totally American name was easier than whatever
she'd used in Russia, but to Ally it just felt weird Betty had dark
hair, a broad smile that wouldn't die, and approximately thirty pounds
that would have looked better on Misha. They reminded her of Jack
Sprat, et al.
"Honey, there is problem at your office. Woman name Jennifer call. Say
she try reach you at home but you leave already. And you don't answer
your cell phone."
"Shit, I turned it off. Knickers goes nuts if it rings in the car."
Jennifer was only a couple of years older than Ally, but she'd been
with the firm back when Ally's father, Arthur, ran it and she was the
mother figure of CitiSpace. She was also Ally's best friend and had
been even before Ally came back to run the firm. Ally felt like she had
known her forever. These days Jen spent a lot of effort trying to
create a social life for Ally that would include eligible men. She kept
nagging her to join some clubs, anything, just get out there.
Ally knew she was right, but she was working too hard to take time out.
She had the idea, which she wasn't naive enough to actually believe at
a rational level, that sooner or later someone who could replace Steve
would come along. Yes, she was lonely a lot, but until this last
deterioration of her heart she'd spent a lot of evenings and weekends
outside, biking and hiking around town, and she knew plenty of people
who were interesting and kind. She sometimes thought her problem was
that she liked people, all kinds of people, as long as they were kept
slightly away, at a psychic distance. Maybe it was the getting close
part that never seemed to work out.
It had actually been that way ever since Steve disappeared. She had the
premonition that if she got too close to somebody, she was destined to
lose them.
Now she stood for a second, puzzling. She'd mentioned taking Knickers
to Pooch Pros, so that's how Jen knew where she'd be, but what could
have gone wrong at 7:45 in the morning?
Jennifer wasn't usually in this early, but she was finishing a rush job
for a marble bathroom for a couple on the Upper East Side. On days when
Jennifer did get to the office first, she'd have the coffee going and
an extra bagel for Knickers, on the chance Ally might bring her, which
she often did. But to phone Betty just to tell her to hurry? That was
odd.
"Should I call now?" It seemed pointless. She was no more than ten
minutes away. What else could go wrong in ten minutes?
"She sound very hurry," Betty declared.
Ally took her cell phone out of her bag and switched it on. The office
rang only once and then Jennifer was there.
"Ally, you're not going to believe who called here ten minutes ago,
asking for you. Winston Bartlett. My God, it's like Donald Trump
called. Well, actually it was some male secretary or something. He said
he was calling to confirm your ten o'clock appointment. At an address
on Gramercy Park East. What's that about? Jesus, Ally, where are you? I
don't know what you're up to, but this could be big. He owns entire
buildings, for chrissake."
"Did you say I was coming?"
"I didn't know what to say. He left a number to call if you can't make
it. Otherwise, he'll assume you'll be there. It's only two hours from
now."
"All right, Jen, let's put together a 'folio' of our biggest jobs. Lead
with that gut rehab we did on the building down by the South Street
Seaport. And put in those two floor-through lofts we did on that
conversion in TriBeCa. The ones with the slate bathrooms and the
stainless-steel countertops in the kitchen."
"I've already started. Do you know specifically what he has in mind?"
She paused. "How did he find out about us, anyway?"
"My creepy kid brother works for him." She sighed. "It's a long story.
Be there in a couple of minutes." She clicked off the phone.
"Betty, thanks a lot. I've gotta run." She turned and gave Knickers a
last rumple of the ears. "Be good, baby. I'll pick you up by six at the
latest."
"What wrong?" Misha was concerned, twisting a white towel he was
holding. "Big problem?"
"Nothing's wrong. Actually, something probably is wrong. I just don't
know what it is yet." She headed out the door.
The design firm her father had started and she'd kept going, now with
some architecture thrown in, was on the ground floor of an old
industrial loft building whose upper floors had been converted into
rental apartments in the early 1980s. The owner was an ex-wrestler
named Oskar Jacobi, who had turned Zen master (after a fashion) and had
a studio upstairs, on the second floor. He had drifted from wrestling
into karate during his thirties and thence into the life of the mind,
or rather the life of "no-mind," in his late forties. Now he taught
meditation as well as karate and insisted they be learned in that
order. He served as his own superintendent, mopping the halls and
setting out the garbage on pickup days.
The ground floor was zoned commercial, and CitiSpace had a lease for
all of it, which meant she had tons of space. Oskar had given Ally's
dad, Arthur, a ten-year lease, which was now a fraction of the going
rate. They both knew that, and she'd more than once offered to
renegotiate or move, but he said he didn't need any more income and,
besides, he liked having her as a tenant because she reminded him of
her father. It was a generosity perfectly in keeping with his
philosophy that excess money corrupted the spirit.
She'd done the place as a sort of Spanish desert flower, with burnt-
orange tile floors and all the natural materials she could cram in. A
lot of her clients wanted the hard-edge industrial look in their lofts,
which was fine by her, but she found it too cold for a daily working
environment. The front was unassuming, with small lettering on the
window. CitiSpace was not a walk-in business. And she had no metal
gates over the windows. What's to protect?
When she marched through the door, everybody looked up from their
coffee and computers, and Jennifer led the applause. Winston Bartlett.
Had they finally made the A-list? This could be the start of something
big.