The Darkness Part 9

She finished by pointing at the dorm on the right.

"Thanks very much," Paulina said, and waited until the girls left. She walked up to the entrance, a gla.s.s door leading into a small atrium that was also locked from the outside. She took out her cell phone, pretended to send text messages while she waited. Finally a girl approached the door, looking in her purse for a key. When she found it and inserted it into the lock, Paulina stepped behind her and put the phone away. The girl opened the door, and 95.Paulina caught it before it could close, following her into the atrium. The girl turned around, looked at Paulina.

"I'm sorry," she said, her young blond hair looking so tender, so naive. "We're not supposed to let strangers inside the dorms."

"Oh, I'm no stranger," Paulina said, laughing. "Do you know Abigail Cole?"

The girl's eyebrows lifted. "Why do you ask?"

"My daughter," Paulina said, shrugging. "Surprise visit."

Suddenly the girl smiled, enthusiasm radiating from her. It took Paulina by surprise. "No way!" the girl nearly shrieked. "I'm Pam. I've asked Abby so many times about her family and, well, I guess you know what she's like.

When she decides to clam up, no crowbar in the world can get her talking."

"That's Abby," Paulina said. "So you know her?"

"Know her?" Pam asked, somewhat surprised. "Hasn't she mentioned..."

"We don't talk much."

"Oh. Because we've been...I don't know, seeing each other."

"Really," Paulina said.

Pam nodded, hesitating before she spoke. "But I guess Abby didn't tell you."

"Must have slipped her mind."

"Here," the girl said, opening the inner door and holding it for Paulina. "Sorry to keep you."

"She's in room three-oh-three, right?"

"She might be."

"Might be?"

The girl began to look nervous. She brought a finger to her lip and began to chew. "She's kind of been hanging out at my place. Just for the last few weeks."

96."Is she there now?"

"Probably. She doesn't have psych until three."

"Do you mind then?" Paulina said, pointing toward the elevator bank."Oh, we're on the first floor. Follow me."

The girl led Paulina down the corridor, filled with campus notices, posters and random detritus. When they arrived at room three-nineteen, the girl knocked.

"Abby, are you decent?" she asked.

Before the door could open, a voice from inside called cheekily, "I don't have to be."

"Abby, open up," Pam said.

"All right, don't get your panties knotted." Paulina heard a latch being undone from inside, and the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a girl Paulina both recognized and did not. Those green eyes, that long, equine nose she got from her father, she'd recognize those traits anywhere. But the jet-black hair, the nose ring, the thick eyeliner--it nearly obscured the girl Paulina had raised all those years ago.

"Hi, Abby," Paulina said.

"You've got to be f.u.c.king kidding me," came her daughter's startled reply.

12.

Morgan stood outside of his apartment, his cheeks still stinging from that morning's shave. It was a good pain, though, one that reminded him of what it felt like to wake up with a purpose, to wake up knowing that the day would take him somewhere. Shaving wasn't a big deal on the surface. Lots of people liked scruffiness, women especially these days, as though there was a magnetism to the inherent laziness of it. Morgan loved the feel of running a sharp blade over his face during a hot shower, the feel of patting his skin after drying off. He knew that whenever he felt like that, things would go his way. A big paycheck. Some honey who knew he brought home the money whereas that bearded artist who spent every penny he owed on cheap paints and canvas could not.

Cleanliness. Right next to G.o.dliness. Perhaps somewhere in that equation was Morgan Isaacs.

He didn't dare bring a cup of coffee with him, or anything more than his wallet and keys. He had no idea what this guy Chester wanted, this guy with the hair so blond it nearly disappeared in the sunlight. He didn't look like he belonged in New York, this guy. His ear-length blond hair and lanky but strong build reminded him of a pro 98.surfer, maybe one of those guys you saw pumping iron on Venice Beach. Someone who took care of their body for a reason. Not a gym rat like most New Yorkers, but someone whose vocation required it.

The day was crisp, the streets quiet after rush hour.

Morgan wondered why Chester wanted to meet at one, such an odd time. Something about the whole deal smelled not quite right, but Ken Tsang was nothing if not a bloodhound for straight-up cash, so if he ended up working with this guy there had to be money involved.

Just when he was thinking about what kind of payday could be involved, a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled up right in front of Morgan, the tires screeching to a halt.

Morgan watched as a driver exited, an older white guy wearing one of those hats that said he'd probably been driving rich folks around most of his life, and opened the back door. When n.o.body came out, Morgan stepped forward. Chester was sitting inside. He was wearing a sharp gray suit and sungla.s.ses, his blond hair a striking contrast against the black leather.

Chester tapped the seat next to him and said, "Get in."

Morgan nodded and slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed behind him. The car sped off as swiftly as it stopped. Morgan turned to see Chester staring at him, smiling.

"Glad you could make it," he said. "You ready to make some money?"

Morgan smiled right back.

The car cruised effortlessly downtown, turning left onto Fifth Avenue. Morgan felt a slight lump rise in his throat as they sped by his old office building. It wasn't right that he was gone. All his life Morgan Isaacs had dreamed of making his living in finance, working for a 99.bank or a hedge fund, having a different, brilliant suit for every day of the week. He would have one of those ma.s.sive corner offices, a bar stocked with decanters filled with the most expensive liquors money could buy. He would have a beautiful young secretary, some hot girl just out of college who had no desires in life other than to work until the day she met someone like him, someone like Morgan, who could satisfy their every need and pay the bills so she would never have to work another day in her life. She would have dinner ready, shop (but not too much), be a doting mother and always have a good reason as to why Daddy came home late.

He wouldn't be one of those absentee fathers. No, Morgan actually looked forward to having children. He wanted vacations to the Greek islands, ski trips to Telluride.

He wanted a pied-a-terre in France, a vacation home in the Bahamas. He wanted to send Christmas cards and have picture frames littering his ma.s.sive desk. He wanted everything. Right now, sitting in the back of this shiny black car, with a perfect stranger next to him on whom Morgan's future might well depend, this was most definitely not the direction Morgan had expected his life to take.

This was not too much to ask, Morgan thought. Everything was going perfectly until the economy went downhill faster than an Olympic skier and soon he was out on his a.s.s with thousands of other men just like him.

Men with GPAs in the high threes, impeccable references and several internships and jobs from which they could draw experience. Even if (and this was an if the size of the Grand Canyon) a job opened up, it would be like trying to get a drink at a hot bar at one in the morning.

Thousands of people pushing and shoving like barbarians to get the attention of one person. Was one resume really 100.better than the other? It didn't matter. But Morgan had Chester. Good old Chester.

"Anything stand out to you?" Chester said as they pa.s.sed through midtown.

"Um...it's a nice day?" Morgan said, not sure what Chester was getting at.

Chester smiled. "It is that. But look at the streets.

Notice anything?"

"Uh, not really."

"Not really," Chester said. "Exactly what I noticed."

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"These streets, they used to teem with professionals. It's lunch hour and you can count the suits on two hands. What is the financial workforce down, ten, twenty percent?"

"At least," Morgan said.

"These streets used to mean something," Chester said, his voice almost wistful, making Morgan wonder if Chester had ever held a job here. His att.i.tude and dress were corporate all the way, but he was loose enough to hang with the boys at a steak house or strip joint. Morgan's guess was that Chester was in upper management, the kind of guy everyone else reported to who could act with a little disregard. The kind of guy Morgan couldn't be...yet.

"Did you know," Chester continued, "that over a hundred thousand people have lost their jobs in this city in the last two years? I mean, Christ, think about it. Think about how many of those hundred thousand used to work here," he said, gesturing to the towering skysc.r.a.pers that housed floors and floors of seasoned pros. "Think how many of them used to walk these streets. And now think about how many of them are sitting at home right now, watching their savings dwindle, waiting for one call that probably won't come."

101.

Chester looked out the window as he said those last words, but Morgan could tell they were directed at him.

Talking about many like him. Morgan stayed quiet.

Didn't want Chester to know what he was thinking.

"Think how many of those people," Chester continued, "would give anything for the chance to replace that income." He stopped. Looked at Morgan. "And then some.

What would you do for that chance?"

Morgan's eyes met Chester's directly. Without hesitation, he said, "Anything."

"We'll see."

13.

"I, uh...I think I'll go check my mail," Pam said.

Abigail looked at her and said nothing. Paulina said, "That's not a bad idea. If you wouldn't mind giving us a few minutes."

"She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to,"

Abigail said, her eyes burning a hole through her mother.

"No, she doesn't. That's why I'm asking. And," Paulina said, digging into her pocketbook and producing a twenty-dollar bill, "I'll pay for her next beer run."

"Cla.s.sy, mom," Abigail said. She sighed, looked at Pam. "This won't take more than fifteen minutes."

"Half an hour," Paulina said. Abigail looked at her mother as though no greater torture had ever been imposed upon man or beast. Paulina stared right back.

"Fine. Half an hour. And take the money."

"I really shouldn't..." Pam said.

Abigail continued, "Trust me. It doesn't begin to cover what she owes me."

Pam reluctantly took the money and left the room, leaving Paulina and Abigail alone.

"Can we talk inside?" Paulina said. She peeked into the dorm room. It was a flat-out mess. The floor was 103.

covered in strewn paper, dirty clothes and burnt incense sticks. Their furniture was comprised of two beanbag chairs, a twin bed with a frame that looked as stable as Paulina's ex-husband, and a ratty couch that some homeless person had probably sold to them for less than the twenty she just gave to Pam. Whatever, Paulina thought.

She didn't have to live in this mess. If her daughter chose to, so be it.

"Fifteen minutes," Abigail said, checking her watch.

"Then I want you out of here."

"I don't like being here any more than you like me being here," Paulina said. "Trust me, I'll make it as quick as I can."

They nodded, and Paulina entered the room. She took a look at the beanbag chairs, then pulled out the tiny desk chair. She eased herself onto it, and watched as her daughter launched herself into a blue beanbag chair. Abigail pulled out a cigarette and lit it, opening the window slightly to let the smoke drift out.

"When did you start smoking?" Paulina asked.

"When did you start caring?" Abigail answered.

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"Is that what you want? You want me to make this easy? Sure, why not? I mean, we have all these great memories to fall back on, all these great mother-anddaughter moments we both cherish." She said the last words with biting sarcasm. "Why are you here, Mom?"

Paulina leaned forward, put her face in her hands, took a breath. "I need to ask you a few questions."

"Is this for, like, one of your newspaper articles?"

"No, it's nothing like that. Just promise me you'll answer me, and be honest. I don't care about the answers and I won't judge you. I just need to know it for safety reasons."

"Safety reasons? What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"