at.
I kept walking north and west on West Fourth, swinging my arms, telling myself I was relaxed. If you walk as though your mind is easy, your mind believes your body and becomes easy. If your mind is easy, your body believes it and becomes easy: a basic feedback loop. I half closed my eyes, ignored the noise around me, imagined my wrists loose and my fingers relaxed. Breathe, stride, swing. By the time I turned north on Seventh I didn’t have to think about it anymore.
The ground floor of 95 Seventh Avenue South turned out to be a pizzeria, but there was a doorway to the left, and three neat black bell pushes and an intercom grille. No mailboxes. I took thin leather gloves from my jacket pocket and put them on.
I tried the door: locked. None of the buttons were identified by apartment number, but two of them had names, Jhaing and Donato. I pushed each button in turn. The grille crackled.
“Yeah?” A man’s voice, young.
“Package,” I said.
“Uh, so you could put it in the mailbox.”
“Won’t fit the mailbox.”
“Then leave it in the lobby. Jeez…”
New York, I reminded myself. “I can’t get in to get to the lobby, asshole, because I’m not from the goddamn post office, okay? If you don’t want the package, then fuck you and have a nice day.”
“Whoa! Okay, okay. Jeez. You’d think—” Whatever I was supposed to think was drowned out by the buzzer and I pushed the door open. The mailboxes were on the right, three of them, and all were labeled: Apt. A: Jhiang, Apt. B: Dutourd, Apt. C: Donato, Karp, Foster. They were locked.
The stairs were made of a glittery stone composite and didn’t creak. I stopped halfway up the first flight and sniffed: something summery and old-fashioned. Lavender. My face tightened as adrenaline nudged up my blood pressure: this was not the kind of place I would expect to find Tammy, or the darling of retail sales, Mr. Karp.
The first floor was carpeted in neutral beige. The green-painted door said it was Apt. A. The second floor was a well-finished hardwood, with a cheerful rag rug and a vase of dried flowers on a Chippendale hall table. Probably the source of the lavender scent. I kept going, and hadn’t quite reached the third floor when a door banged open above me and a slightly built man hurried along the hallway to the stairs. I went perfectly still.
He literally jumped when he saw me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Early twenties, black hair, black eyes, left ear pierced twice, and the kind of clothes that didn’t fit with the probable rent of his apartment.
“I said, who the—”
My heart was pumping smoothly. “I’m looking for Tammy Foster.”
“She doesn’t live here.”
“I’m still looking for her.”
He tensed and backed up. “You the police?”
“No.”
“My mom send you?”
“No.” Oxygen-rich blood coursed through dilated blood vessels. “Where is Tammy?”
He frowned but his shoulders came down a fraction. “Why do you care?”
My muscles were relaxed and my voice, when I spoke, sounded almost gentle. “I don’t care, particularly, but you will tell me—”
“I don’t—”
“—where she is and why her name is on your mailbox.”
“There’s no law against that. Is there?”
“We’ll talk about it inside, Mr. Donat0.” I mounted another step, lightly, easily, walking right at him, and he blinked, then gave in.
The hall smelled of old dishwater and uncleaned toilet and there were boot marks on the paintwork. He led me into the living room, where he hurriedly cleared takeout cartons, and a stack of what appeared to be bad charcoal sketches, from a love seat, looking embarrassed and about seventeen years old. I ignored the couch and stepped back into the hallway, stuck my head in the kitchen, then the filthy bathroom and the mess and disorder of the bedroom. A nice apartment, clearly beyond this boy’s apparent means, both economic and psychological. It was also clear that only one person lived here.
I kept walking north and west on West Fourth, swinging my arms, telling myself I was relaxed. If you walk as though your mind is easy, your mind believes your body and becomes easy. If your mind is easy, your body believes it and becomes easy: a basic feedback loop. I half closed my eyes, ignored the noise around me, imagined my wrists loose and my fingers relaxed. Breathe, stride, swing. By the time I turned north on Seventh I didn’t have to think about it anymore.
The ground floor of 95 Seventh Avenue South turned out to be a pizzeria, but there was a doorway to the left, and three neat black bell pushes and an intercom grille. No mailboxes. I took thin leather gloves from my jacket pocket and put them on.
I tried the door: locked. None of the buttons were identified by apartment number, but two of them had names, Jhaing and Donato. I pushed each button in turn. The grille crackled.
“Yeah?” A man’s voice, young.
“Package,” I said.
“Uh, so you could put it in the mailbox.”
“Won’t fit the mailbox.”
“Then leave it in the lobby. Jeez…”
New York, I reminded myself. “I can’t get in to get to the lobby, asshole, because I’m not from the goddamn post office, okay? If you don’t want the package, then fuck you and have a nice day.”
“Whoa! Okay, okay. Jeez. You’d think—” Whatever I was supposed to think was drowned out by the buzzer and I pushed the door open. The mailboxes were on the right, three of them, and all were labeled: Apt. A: Jhiang, Apt. B: Dutourd, Apt. C: Donato, Karp, Foster. They were locked.
The stairs were made of a glittery stone composite and didn’t creak. I stopped halfway up the first flight and sniffed: something summery and old-fashioned. Lavender. My face tightened as adrenaline nudged up my blood pressure: this was not the kind of place I would expect to find Tammy, or the darling of retail sales, Mr. Karp.
The first floor was carpeted in neutral beige. The green-painted door said it was Apt. A. The second floor was a well-finished hardwood, with a cheerful rag rug and a vase of dried flowers on a Chippendale hall table. Probably the source of the lavender scent. I kept going, and hadn’t quite reached the third floor when a door banged open above me and a slightly built man hurried along the hallway to the stairs. I went perfectly still.
He literally jumped when he saw me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Early twenties, black hair, black eyes, left ear pierced twice, and the kind of clothes that didn’t fit with the probable rent of his apartment.
“I said, who the—”
My heart was pumping smoothly. “I’m looking for Tammy Foster.”
“She doesn’t live here.”
“I’m still looking for her.”
He tensed and backed up. “You the police?”
“No.”
“My mom send you?”
“No.” Oxygen-rich blood coursed through dilated blood vessels. “Where is Tammy?”
He frowned but his shoulders came down a fraction. “Why do you care?”
My muscles were relaxed and my voice, when I spoke, sounded almost gentle. “I don’t care, particularly, but you will tell me—”
“I don’t—”
“—where she is and why her name is on your mailbox.”
“There’s no law against that. Is there?”
“We’ll talk about it inside, Mr. Donat0.” I mounted another step, lightly, easily, walking right at him, and he blinked, then gave in.
The hall smelled of old dishwater and uncleaned toilet and there were boot marks on the paintwork. He led me into the living room, where he hurriedly cleared takeout cartons, and a stack of what appeared to be bad charcoal sketches, from a love seat, looking embarrassed and about seventeen years old. I ignored the couch and stepped back into the hallway, stuck my head in the kitchen, then the filthy bathroom and the mess and disorder of the bedroom. A nice apartment, clearly beyond this boy’s apparent means, both economic and psychological. It was also clear that only one person lived here.
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