Manny dropped his mask enough for Phoebe to see the person, not the doorman. “Nobody wants to see us, Mrs. Pierce. Hell, we work for tips; we hide deep. Now you have no more money to give, and I have nothing to lose with you, but honestly, you were never an asshole with me. There’s that.”
“That’s quite a gift.” She kissed him on the cheek, inhaling his warm cologne. “You saved me more than anyone, and I did nothing to earn it. Thank you.”
For the last time, she walked out the labyrinth leading to the rusty gate at the back. One lone paparazzi smoking a cigarette spotted and followed her as she headed toward the street a few blocks away, where Helen waited to drive her away. Determined to get out of Manhattan without being tailed, she flagged a cab, knowing a photograph would read something along the lines of “Phoebe’s Still Riding.”
Dollars ticked as she rode the short distance to the rendezvous spot Helen had chosen, a longer trip by car than by walking, not unusual in New York.
“There,” she said to the driver. “The silver Camry.”
He slid into the illegal space behind Helen’s car. Phoebe’s wallet held five hundred dollars, the last amount approved by the faceless FBI budget master—apparently the sum on which a person could begin a new life.
She handed the driver a twenty for the eight-dollar ride, waiting for her change, multiplying by twenty percent and then some for the tip. After a moment of receiving nothing, she leaned forward and angled her head into an inquisitive pose.
“Yeah?” The driver’s mustache moved under his drinker’s nose, as he chomped on an unlit cigar.
“My change?”
“Really, Mrs. Pierce?” He drew her name out as though sharing a dirty joke.
Phoebe glanced at his identification. “Yes. Really, Mr. Kane.”
“Ya know, you and your husband got plenty to make good on, but he’s locked up. And you’re here.” The scratched plastic shield separating them muted his voice. “So you can start with twelve bucks for me and go from there.”
Rage blindsided her. Months of waiting in the background, handmaiden to the most despised man in Manhattan, added to months of the press painting her as a money-grubbing accomplice to Jake’s crimes, balled up in a white flash toward this vile man.
“Give me my money.” Phoebe’s frenzy of anger built till she thought it would consume her. She could barely control her impulse to scream as an elevator of hatred traveled up her chest.
She bit her lip and forced herself to look outside, calm herself. Window boxes filled with bright red geraniums decorated the white town house behind Helen’s car.
This man.
This prick.
He thinks he knows me.
They all think they know me.
They think they know my life.
She took out her phone, switched it to camera mode, and, zooming in, she snapped a picture of his hack license.
“Hey? Whaddya doing?”
“Keeping tabs and keeping track, Mr. Kane.”
Slamming the door shut as she left the taxi, she stepped out into the August heat.
She’d lived like a mole since December and now, like a mole, she blinked, trying to take in the idea of living in the sun.
CHAPTER 34
Phoebe
Living in Poughkeepsie, New York, was so far outside anything Phoebe ever planned, that waking each morning still surprised her four months after moving there. The moment she opened her eyes, she’d look around in confusion, straining to orient herself to her new surroundings.
Poughkeepsie provided anonymity while remaining just a two-hour train ride to New York City. Her apartment complex boasted a quiet drug trade, a pool rumored to open a few weeks each summer, and carpeting that appeared to be made of recycled plastic supermarket bags.
A view of the Hudson River afforded a bit of pleasure, but otherwise her cramped one-bedroom’s only advantage was cheap rent and neighbors who didn’t give a shit.
? ? ?
Phoebe readied to see Kate. Already swathed in winter layers for the ten-block walk to the restaurant where they’d meet, she wrapped on a final touch—a scratchy but warm scarf—and then glanced in the entry mirror.
She’d hung the mirror a few weeks ago, thinking its red oval frame would detract from the two locks and chain on the black metal door and chipped mushroom-colored paint. Instead, the vivid shade played up the dinginess like fuchsia lipstick on a toothless woman. Few of her improvements made a difference in her melancholy of estrangement.
But today was different. Elation rose with a yeasty delight at seeing Kate for the first time since Jake’s confession.
She peered in the mirror more closely. The color of her hat should have been named is-this-navy-or-black?—the shade, endemic to companies who skimped on using adequate and proper dye, could flatter nobody. Her longer hair required fewer cuts. She also changed her appearance by pulling it back and up. Not becoming, but the style served her purpose: invisibility. People barely noticed women her age anyway—with her hair, she guaranteed it. When she truly needed to hide, Phoebe wore brown contact lenses. Today she applied two coats of mascara and kept her eyes blue.
Phoebe slipped on sunglasses and left the house. The street where she lived might appear threatening through her daughter’s eyes. Industrial lineage haunted the area, bringing to mind thoughts of shadowed murder and leg breakings.
? ? ?
Poughkeepsie Slices provided decent pizza, red leather booths, and a beer and wine license.
Kate waited in the back of the restaurant.
Phoebe rushed over, cognizant of not drowning her daughter in need and love, but not able to hold much back. She drank her in, absorbing her through her eyes.
“Baby.” She held out her arms. After hesitating, Kate fell into her. Phoebe enveloped her daughter, whose familiar scents overwhelmed Phoebe with sadness at the extraordinary length of time without seeing her and the joy at finally being together.
Kate’s hair no longer framed her face in perfect waves but hung lank and dry, pulled back by the sunglasses pushed on top of her head. In a year, Kate had passed from thin to scrawny. A burgundy sweater drooped in folds over her angles. Her cheekbones had sharpened to knife-edges.
They held hands across the table, taking comfort in touch before talk. Phoebe’s chipped nails matched Kate’s. Without manicures, facials, and all the other niceties they’d previously had on tap, the polished veneer of the moneyed lucky melted away mighty fast.
“How are you doing?” Phoebe dove in, needing to start somewhere. “Amelia? Zach?”
“Amelia’s almost fine, but she misses Grandma and Grandpa. Most of this goes over her head. Zach and I are holding on. He’s putting up with a lot.”
“You offer plenty. Don’t downplay your worth.”
“Look at me!” Kate wiggled her fingers as she outlined her body. “Not just me. You too. We’re mother-daughter ‘after’ portraits, except our makeovers went in the wrong direction.”
“Nothing like a scam to bring you from Saks to Target.”