somebody coming after her. Hanging on to the baseball bat she hustled back into the bedroom, grabbing her knapsack from beside the couch as she went.
She emptied her books out of the pack, strewing them across the bed, leaving only her digital camera and the makeup bag she carried with her everywhere. She went into the bathroom, loaded herself down with everything from shampoo to tampons, jammed it into the knapsack and then threw in four or five pairs of cotton underwear, two bras, half a dozen T-shirts and some socks.
She pulled and pushed herself into a skintight pair of black Gap jeans, slid on her sneakers and jammed her baseball cap on her head. A minute later she was out the door and taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. She reached the bottom a little out of breath, unlocked her bike from its place behind the stairs and pushed out into the night. She checked the glow on her Timex: quarter to two. Hardly the best time of night to be on the run, but she didn’t have much choice. Between Peter’s death and Crawley’s murder in his office she was feeling more and more as though she had a target painted on her back.
She dropped the pack into the big front basket, climbed onto the bike and pedaled herself up Fourth Street to First Avenue, got off her bike and went into the pay phone. She pulled her little black book out of the back pocket of her jeans, threw a quarter into the slot and dialed. It was answered on the third ring.
“Coolidge.”
“Is that you, Eugene?” His real name was Yevgeny but he’d Americanized it.
“Is me. Who is this, please?” He sounded a little concerned, as though the KGB or his mother were calling him.
“It’s Finn Ryan, Eugene. I’ve got a problem.”
“Feen!” the young man exclaimed. He was one of Finn’s ESL students and he had a fixation on her breasts—or her ass, whichever happened to be facing him at the time—even though he’d denied it several times. “What is this problem you are having? I fix for you, no swee-at.” Yevgeny was the night manager at the Coolidge Hotel.
“That’s
sweat,
” corrected Finn. “I need a room for the night.”
“Here?” said Eugene, horrified. Finn smiled. She’d seen the Coolidge Hotel. It was a four-story, brick pigeon roost lurking under the Manhattan Bridge approaches on the tail end of Division Street, as if trying to distance itself from the flop-houses on the Bowery. It was ungentrifiable and it didn’t look as though anyone had even thought of trying.
“Yes. There. Don’t worry. I’ve got a credit card. I can pay.”
There was bitter laughter from the other end of the phone. Outside her phone booth half a dozen black teenagers were chasing an old man on a bicycle who seemed to be throwing old phone books at them, pulling them out of a frayed mail-bag he wore across his shoulders. New York. She had to get undercover, fast.
“We don’t take no credit cards here, Feen—cash only.”
“We don’t take
any
credit cards here,” she said, correcting him automatically.
“Yes, any. That’s right.”
“But I don’t have any cash.”
“I do,” said Eugene. “You pay me back later, yes?”
“Yes,” she answered, not sure if she wanted to be indebted to an eighteen-year-old Russian boy with zits on his chin and designs on her body.
“You come now,” urged Eugene. “Not good for pretty girl like you to be out this late.” He laughed again. “Not good for
ugly
girl to be out this late.”
“I’m on my way. If I’m not there in twenty minutes, call the cops.”
There was a snorting sound from the other end of the phone line. “Eugene Zubinov never call for cop in his entire life. Not about to start, even for pretty girl like you, Feen. You hurry up your ass and get here quick so Eugene no worry no more, capiche?”
Finn smiled into the phone. “Capiche,” she answered. She hung up the phone and got back on the Schwinn Lightweight, pausing for a moment to figure out her
She emptied her books out of the pack, strewing them across the bed, leaving only her digital camera and the makeup bag she carried with her everywhere. She went into the bathroom, loaded herself down with everything from shampoo to tampons, jammed it into the knapsack and then threw in four or five pairs of cotton underwear, two bras, half a dozen T-shirts and some socks.
She pulled and pushed herself into a skintight pair of black Gap jeans, slid on her sneakers and jammed her baseball cap on her head. A minute later she was out the door and taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. She reached the bottom a little out of breath, unlocked her bike from its place behind the stairs and pushed out into the night. She checked the glow on her Timex: quarter to two. Hardly the best time of night to be on the run, but she didn’t have much choice. Between Peter’s death and Crawley’s murder in his office she was feeling more and more as though she had a target painted on her back.
She dropped the pack into the big front basket, climbed onto the bike and pedaled herself up Fourth Street to First Avenue, got off her bike and went into the pay phone. She pulled her little black book out of the back pocket of her jeans, threw a quarter into the slot and dialed. It was answered on the third ring.
“Coolidge.”
“Is that you, Eugene?” His real name was Yevgeny but he’d Americanized it.
“Is me. Who is this, please?” He sounded a little concerned, as though the KGB or his mother were calling him.
“It’s Finn Ryan, Eugene. I’ve got a problem.”
“Feen!” the young man exclaimed. He was one of Finn’s ESL students and he had a fixation on her breasts—or her ass, whichever happened to be facing him at the time—even though he’d denied it several times. “What is this problem you are having? I fix for you, no swee-at.” Yevgeny was the night manager at the Coolidge Hotel.
“That’s
sweat,
” corrected Finn. “I need a room for the night.”
“Here?” said Eugene, horrified. Finn smiled. She’d seen the Coolidge Hotel. It was a four-story, brick pigeon roost lurking under the Manhattan Bridge approaches on the tail end of Division Street, as if trying to distance itself from the flop-houses on the Bowery. It was ungentrifiable and it didn’t look as though anyone had even thought of trying.
“Yes. There. Don’t worry. I’ve got a credit card. I can pay.”
There was bitter laughter from the other end of the phone. Outside her phone booth half a dozen black teenagers were chasing an old man on a bicycle who seemed to be throwing old phone books at them, pulling them out of a frayed mail-bag he wore across his shoulders. New York. She had to get undercover, fast.
“We don’t take no credit cards here, Feen—cash only.”
“We don’t take
any
credit cards here,” she said, correcting him automatically.
“Yes, any. That’s right.”
“But I don’t have any cash.”
“I do,” said Eugene. “You pay me back later, yes?”
“Yes,” she answered, not sure if she wanted to be indebted to an eighteen-year-old Russian boy with zits on his chin and designs on her body.
“You come now,” urged Eugene. “Not good for pretty girl like you to be out this late.” He laughed again. “Not good for
ugly
girl to be out this late.”
“I’m on my way. If I’m not there in twenty minutes, call the cops.”
There was a snorting sound from the other end of the phone line. “Eugene Zubinov never call for cop in his entire life. Not about to start, even for pretty girl like you, Feen. You hurry up your ass and get here quick so Eugene no worry no more, capiche?”
Finn smiled into the phone. “Capiche,” she answered. She hung up the phone and got back on the Schwinn Lightweight, pausing for a moment to figure out her
Similar Books
