“Hello, Mr Reed.” Pamela’s voice came from the speakers in the ceiling. Lou could make and receive calls anywhere in the penthouse.
“How the hell am I supposed to open this thing?”
“Ummm, what exactly?” asked Pamela.
“What? The crate! The crate from Springsteen! It says on the side that it is a dishwasher.”
“Right. Of course. Sorry. Do you want me to send somebody over?”
“No. I want … Wait a second.” Lou spotted something on the floor. “It looks like they left a crowbar. I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Lou took off his suit jacket and tossed it on the marble counter. Then he took a long, hard look at the crate.
“Do you have any idea why he would send you a dishwasher?” Pamela asked.
“Well, it’s a gift. Obviously.”
“It’s kind of odd, though.”
Lou looked around the crate again. “Musicians are odd. We booked Bowling for Soup a few years ago and they sent us a crate of Fresca. Did Hiroshi’s people call back?”
“Not yet, but—”
“Call them again.”
“It’s five thirty in the morning there now, boss.”
Lou stopped and glared at the ceiling. “Did I ask you what time it was in Tokyo or did I ask you to make a call?”
“Yes, Lou. Sorry, Lou.”
He placed the tip of the crowbar under the lid of the crate and rested his weight on it. Unexpectedly, it offered little resistance, as if it had been held in place only loosely. Lou stumbled messily as it flew off.
Then he looked up.
His scream, carried by the speakers, echoed around the apartment.
“What is it?” asked Pamela. “Are you OK, sir? Lou? I’m calling 911.”
Lou fell to the ground and stared up at the kitchen ceiling in horror. “B … B … Balloons!”
Pamela’s voice was a mixture of confusion and terror. “I’m … Lou? Do you need …?”
“He …” Lou was breathing hard. “He sent me fucking balloons! What kind of monster sends somebody balloons?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Right. That’s … weird. Are they … ordinary balloons?”
Lou looked up at the ceiling as the balloons bobbed there ominously. “They’re balloons, Pamela. Big, fucking creepy balloons. What can you possibly not understand about that?”
“Right. Maybe he thought they’d be” – her voice lowered, as if she was already regretting starting the sentence, but she couldn’t avoid finishing it – “nice?”
“Nice?” said Lou, as he crawled out of the kitchen on his hands and knees. “Nice? Are you out of your fucking mind? Everyone knows I hate balloons. What a sick bastard. Jesus Christ, Pamela. Get over here now. I need you to get rid of them.”
“Right. I’ll send somebody.”
Lou, having reached the hallway, placed his hand on the wall and dragged himself back to his feet. “No. You. I want you.”
“I can’t, Lou. Remember, we discussed this. I’ve got to take Michaela to the doctor’s about her throat.”
“Cancel it.”
“I … I can’t do that. It took six months to get that appointment.”
“Fine.”
“I’m sorry. I could come after? Or …”
“No, no – it’s fine. If you’re not dedicated to your job, then that’s not a problem.”
“Look, I’ll send someone else.”
“No,” said Lou firmly. “Nobody else. I don’t want strangers. Not now.”
“The building’s concierge, then?”
“No. He’s new. He tried to talk to me on the way in. I don’t want him. It’s fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Yes. I’ll just have a room in my home I can’t use because you can’t fix a simple problem.”
“I can come over after the—”
“No,” said Lou as he walked through to his bedroom, pulling off his tie and tossing it on the floor. “I need a shit.”
“OK, I’ll leave you to—”
“Take me through my schedule for tomorrow.”
“I … Right.”
Lou went into his bathroom and proceeded to drop the kids off at the pool while Pamela took him through his agenda of meetings for the following day. He was straining to push out a particularly big one when he heard a whooshing noise from the bedroom.
“Goddammit, Pamela. You said the guy had been round to fix that problem with the doors.”
“He did. He came yesterday morning. He assured me it was fixed.”
“Well, it isn’t. Get him back first thing tomorrow. Christ. Can’t anyone do their job around here? I’ve got a stressful week ahead. The last thing I need is doors opening at random in the middle of the night. It freaks me the fuck out! I’m a light sleeper.”
“Right, sorry, I’ll—”
“Samantha, end call.”
“Sorry, Lou, can I just—”
“Call terminated,” came the automated voice from the ceiling.
“Wah, wah, wah,” Lou whined in a mocking tone. “Like it’s my fault your kid is sick. Samantha, place a call to Steffon Birch.”
As he wiped his ass, Lou informed his company’s head of human resources that his PA wasn’t working out, and that he’d need yet another new one.
Having unburdened himself of both lunch and his useless PA Lou walked back into the bedroom. “Samantha, how come nobody can do even simple things right?”
“Sorry,” said the automated voice, “I do not have that function.”
No, he said to himself, you don’t. He walked into his closet and changed into slacks and a sweater, leaving his suit on the floor for the maid to deal with in the morning.
When he left the bedroom, he passed the glass enclosure of the kitchen. Since he’d bought the place, he’d had the kitchen redesigned three times, which corresponded to the number of times he’d used it to cook an actual meal.
“Samantha, darken kitchen glass to max.”
He watched with satisfaction as the glass tinted until it was impossible to see into the room. It was a useful feature, allowing him to move around his apartment in privacy while the maid cooked his breakfast each morning. Lou liked to go clothes-free for the start of his day.
He needed to take his mind off the balloons. Fucking Bruce Springsteen, trying to play some kind of sick and twisted joke on him. People were weird.
“Samantha, TV.”
Lou sat down on the couch and placed his feet on the coffee table as the floor-to-ceiling windows darkened and the twelve-foot screen descended from the ceiling.
Chapter Six
Smithy felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. That must have been about the tenth or eleventh time now. He reached down slowly, careful not to disturb any of his cuddly friends, and took it out of his pocket, cupping the screen with his hand so that the glare wouldn’t reflect off any of the windows. He looked at the array of unread text messages.