“Works you hard, doesn’t he?”
“Mr. Fairhaven? Sure does.”
“Probably makes you work Sundays, too.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Mr. Fairhaven never works on Sunday. He goes to church.”
Smithback feigned surprise. “Church? Is he Catholic?”
“Presbyterian.”
“Probably a tough man to work for, I bet.”
“No, he’s one of the best supervisors I’ve had. He actually seems to care about us little folk.”
“Never would have guessed it,” Smithback said with a wink, drifting out the door. Probably boning her and the other “little folk” on the side, he thought.
Back on the street, Smithback allowed himself a most un-Presbyterian string of oaths. He was going to dig into this guy’s past until he knew every detail, down to the name of his goddamn teddy bear. You couldn’t become a big-time real estate developer in New York City and keep your hands clean. There would be dirt, and he would find it. Yes, there would be dirt. By God, there would be dirt.
FOUR
MANDY EKLUND CLIMBED THE FILTHY SUBWAY STAIRS TO FIRST STREET, turned north at Avenue A, and trudged toward Tompkins Square Park. Ahead, the park’s anemic trees rose up against a sky faintly smeared with the purple stain of dawn. The morning star, low on the horizon, was fading into oblivion.
Mandy pulled her wrap more tightly around her shoulders in a futile attempt to keep out the early morning chill. She felt a little groggy, and her feet ached each time they hit the pavement. It had been a great night at Club Pissoir, though: music, free drinks, dancing. The whole Ford crowd had been there, along with a bunch of photographers, the Mademoiselle and Cosmo people, everyone who mattered in the fashion world. She really was making it. The thought still amazed her. Only six months before, she’d been working at Rodney’s in Bismarck, giving free makeovers. Then, the right person happened to come through the shop. And now she was on the testing board at the Ford agency. Eileen Ford herself had taken her under her wing. It was all coming together faster than she’d ever dreamed possible.
Her father called almost every day from the farm. It was funny, kind of cute really, how worried he was about her living in New York City. He thought the place was a den of iniquity. He’d freak if he knew she stayed out till dawn. He still wanted her to go to college. And maybe she would—someday. But right now she was eighteen and having the time of her life. She smiled affectionately at the thought of her conservative old father, riding his John Deere, worrying himself about her. She’d make the call this time, give him a surprise.
She turned onto Seventh Street, passing the darkened park, keeping a wary eye out for muggers. New York was a lot safer now, but it was still wise to be careful. She felt into her purse, hand closing comfortingly around the small bottle of pepper spray attached to her key chain.
There were a couple of homeless sleeping on pieces of cardboard, and a man in a threadbare corduroy suit sat on a bench, drinking and nodding. An early breeze passed through the listless sycamore branches, rattling the leaves. They were just beginning to turn a jaundiced yellow.
Once again, she wished her walk-up apartment wasn’t so far from a subway station. She couldn’t afford cabs—not yet, anyway—and walking the nine blocks home at night was a hassle. At first it had seemed like a cool neighborhood, but the seediness was starting to get to her. Gentrification was creeping in, but not fast enough: the dingy squats and the old hollow buildings, sealed shut with cinderblock, were depressing. The Flatiron District would be better, or maybe even Yorkville. A lot of the Ford models, the ones who’d made it, lived up there.
She left the park behind and turned up Avenue C. Silent brownstones rose on either side, and the wind sent trash along the gutters with a dry, skittery sound. The faint ammoniac tang of urine floated out from dark doorways. Nobody picked up after their dogs, and she made her way with care through a disgusting minefield of dog shit. This part of the walk was always the worst.
She saw, ahead of her, a figure approaching down the sidewalk. She stiffened, considered crossing the street, then relaxed: it was an old man, walking painfully with a cane. As he approached she could see he was wearing a funny derby hat. His head was bowed, and she could make out its even brim, the crisp black lines of its crown. She didn’t recall ever seeing anybody wearing a derby, except in old black-and-white movies. He looked very old-fashioned, shuffling along with cautious steps. She wondered what he was doing out so early. Probably insomnia. Old people had it a lot, she’d heard. Waking up at four in the morning, couldn’t go back to sleep. She wondered if her father had insomnia.