“And I’ve turned down his request nicely,” said Smithy. “He wants to come at me in other ways, that’s up to him, but fair warning, I don’t appreciate being pushed around.”
“I know. I’ve read your psychological profile.”
“Good for you. Now, if you don’t mind, it has been a long day and I’d like to get home.”
Muroe looked around. “You’re throwing me out here? But we’re not even at Lincoln Center.”
“Sorry, lady. I’m no longer for hire.”
“So be it.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and took out a card. “Here are my details. My cell is on there. Think about it. I’m available 24/7. I really do think you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face here.” She held it out, but Smithy didn’t take it. “OK.” She tucked it into the seal on the plexiglass. “It’s there if you change your mind.”
She pushed open the door and shook off her umbrella. “Say hello to Cheryl for me.”
“Wait. What …?”
The door slammed and Muroe was gone, walking away in the opposite direction. Smithy watched her red umbrella bob out of view in the rear-view mirror.
After a moment he slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Damn it!”
Chapter Twelve
Sometimes you just know.
As soon as Smithy got into the hallway, he could feel something was wrong. The apartment he shared with Cheryl was at the far end of the hall and nothing looked off, but still he knew. He was panting heavily, having just run up four flights of stairs because the elevator was too damn slow. It was a good building overall, but the elevator sucked. There were ongoing arguments between the landlord and the tenants because, in the landlord’s skinflint opinion, the thing still moving meant it was working, despite the fact it took two minutes to crawl up four floors.
Still, it was a nice place, down at the still-unfashionable end of Brooklyn. A lot of people seemed to share the perception that there wasn’t an unfashionable end, but that’s because they never got past the hipsters up in Williamsburg. Brooklyn was still Brooklyn. You could tell which ethnic groups were thriving just by checking out the shelves in the grocery stores and the new restaurants. Smithy loved that. The place itself was alive, ever evolving. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but Brooklyn is the one that never stands still.
His friend Pedro was a walking-tour guide and one of the true believers who maintained Brooklyn never should have given up its city status to become subservient to New York. He’d convinced Smithy to sign his petition to reverse it. It was pointless, and Pedro knew it too, but he possessed the zeal of the true believer and Smithy could respect that.
Smithy tried to exercise restraint and walk down the hallway slowly, getting his breath back as he went. All the way home, he’d been attempting to reassure himself. That Muroe woman mentioning Cheryl was probably her way of letting him know that they’d been taking a good look around at his life. That was all. Probably. Almost definitely. Still, once the thought had taken root in his head, there’d been no shifting it.
As he moved down the hall, he could hear an Ani DiFranco song he recognised coming from their apartment. Cheryl liked to listen to her when she cooked. The woman was as smart as hell, funny and compassionate, not to mention all the other stuff. She was a catch and a half. Also, her cooking wasn’t worth a damn. It was amazing how bad she was at it, and how much it seemed to annoy her. It drove her crazy. It wasn’t like either of them believed it to be the “woman’s role”, or any crap like that. It was something she couldn’t do, and that pissed her off. In the weird equilibrium of their relationship, it meant Smithy couldn’t cook either. He wasn’t allowed to. She would master it if it killed her, or killed him first.
Cheryl had come to New York to study dance, only to have her dreams dashed by an ankle that couldn’t take the strain. She’d bounced around a few dead-end jobs before ending up working as a pole dancer. She all but unionised the workforce, drove out a couple of sleazy club owners and ended up managing the Pink Slipper on behalf of its new female ownership. While she was at it, she became a certified Krav Maga instructor. There was a plan to open her own dojo, but she kept putting it off. Not that she was afraid of the challenge, but she worried she would miss the girls too much.
The door to the apartment was slightly ajar. Smithy examined the lock. Smashed in. He closed his eyes for a moment. Fearing the worst and being confronted with the reality were two very different things. He couldn’t hear much other than the music coming from inside, and could see nothing past the sliver of light.
Sneaking in seemed pointless – they knew he was coming. When somebody is expecting you to come through a door at any minute, the only advantage you can gain from doing so is by doing it a lot faster than they expect you to. He stepped back against the far wall. It wasn’t much of a plan – hell, it could be more accurately described as a wish – but it was all he had.
He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the wall, slamming through the door and rolling across the carpet, before coming up to his feet in a fighting stance. The berserker scream died in his mouth.
Two men he’d never met before were on their couch, in front of which lay the shattered remains of their coffee table. Cheryl loved that table – it had featured a portrait of Lenny Bruce painted by a friend of hers. One of the men – big-framed, fifties, with a nose that had been broken too many times ever to sit right – sat there looking calm, despite having his wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. He was holding a bag of frozen peas to the side of his face.
The other man, who had dyed-blond hair gelled up into a mohawk was lying face down on the couch, hogtied, with tape across his mouth. He looked less content with his lot. At least the colour of the couch meant that his nosebleed wasn’t going to stain it as badly as it could have.
Smithy looked around. A lamp was smashed, a chair was turned over, and there was a large indent in the plaster of a section of the wall. It looked a lot as if it had been caused by somebody’s head. Amidst it all, Cheryl, red hair tied back and apron on, was standing by the stove, cooking.
“Oh, hi, honey.” Her voice had an affected, cheery air to it.
“Are you OK?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Smithy walked towards her, glancing back at the two men as he went. He noticed Nogs the dog sitting over in the corner, happily chewing on the former leg of the coffee table. As he got closer, he saw there appeared to be bruising around Cheryl’s eye.
“Seriously, are you—”
She picked up the lid of a pot and slammed it down again without looking in it. “I’m fine. I’m a little annoyed, though, seeing as you didn’t tell me we were expecting company.”
“I didn’t know. I tried ringing you …”
“Did you? I’m afraid my phone got busted when it collided with somebody’s face.” She held it up for Smithy to see the smashed screen.
Standing beside her now, he noticed the gun sitting on the counter.
“Jesus.”
“So,” said Cheryl, “when were you going to introduce me to the fellas?”