you, but I didn’t need to know that.
Speaking of authority figures, a drumroll please, because here comes mine—
BW
—and he’s right on time, eleven minutes late.
With his three-hundred-dollar Helmut Lang jeans, torn and faded just right, and his God-knows-how-expensive light-blue cashmere hoodie and week-old growth, he’s looking more like a goddamn weekender every day. But who’s got the stones to tell him? Not me, bro, and they call me Loco for a reason.
“What’s up?” asks BW, but not in the convivial way most people use it. Out of BW’s mouth, it sounds more like “what’s your problem?” or “so what’s your problem now?” But this time it’s not just
my
problem, it’s
our
problem, which pisses him off ten times more.
“Apparently, we had company,” I say. “Out behind Wilson’s house.”
“Oh, yeah? Who told you that?”
“Lindgren.”
“That sucks.” For all his peccadilloes, BW has an impressive ability to cut to the chase.
Down in the sand, a drunk volleyballer is pointing at a ball mark and screaming bloody murder in either Spanish or Portuguese.
“What should I do now, boss?”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“Whatever
I
think is best, BW?”
“And let me know when you’ve done it.”
Then, like a puff of smoke from an overpriced cigar, BW’s gone, and it’s just me, the night, and the salsa.
Chapter 50
Loco
WHATEVER I THINK
is best, huh?
I think I get BW’s point, which means another trip to Brooklyn and another
shitty, shitty, bang, bang.
Like his compadres out in the Hamptons, Manny Rodriguez works way too hard. It’s three in the morning, and I’ve been parked across the street from Manny’s apartment since eleven, and everyone in Bed-Stuy is asleep but him. Is it that immigrant work ethic or is something boiling in their blood?
Quien sabe, ay?
Wait just a second—here comes Manny. Just in time, because my stomach couldn’t take any more bad coffee tonight.
Even now, our boy is still hopped up, bouncing to the music pumping through his headphones.
If you ask me, nothing’s ruined the city more than headphones and iPods and computers. It used to be New York offered the kind of random interaction you couldn’t get anywhere else. You never knew when you might have a moment with the beautiful girl waiting next to you for the light to change.
Or maybe you’d say something to a guy, not a gay thing, just two people traveling through this world acknowledging each other’s existence. Now everyone walks around obliviously listening to their own little music downloaded from their own little computers. It’s lonely, brother.
Plus, it’s dangerous. You step off the curb and don’t hear the crosstown bus till you’re under it, and you certainly don’t hear the Chinese guy pedaling around the corner on his greasy bike.
Well, now you can add the sad cautionary tale of Manny Rodriguez. He’s so caught up in his own tunes he doesn’t hear me walk up behind him and pull out my gun. He doesn’t sense anything’s the slightest bit amiss until a bullet is crashing through the back of his skull and boring into his brain. The poor guy doesn’t know he’s been murdered until he’s dead.
Chapter 51
Kate
THE BLUEBACK LAYING out the formal complaint against Randall Kane hits my desk at Walmark, Reid and Blundell around 2:30 p.m. I shut my door and clear my calendar for the rest of the day.
I’m well aware that this choice assignment is not based entirely on my skill as a litigator. For the high-powered CEO charged with crossing the line, walking into court with a female lawyer is pretty much textbook. And I don’t have a problem with that. There are still so many more disadvantages than advantages to being a woman, career-wise, that in those rare instances where it plays in your favor, I believe in going with the flow.
Once I read the language at the top of the complaint, I’m confident this is something we can win not only in court but in the
Speaking of authority figures, a drumroll please, because here comes mine—
BW
—and he’s right on time, eleven minutes late.
With his three-hundred-dollar Helmut Lang jeans, torn and faded just right, and his God-knows-how-expensive light-blue cashmere hoodie and week-old growth, he’s looking more like a goddamn weekender every day. But who’s got the stones to tell him? Not me, bro, and they call me Loco for a reason.
“What’s up?” asks BW, but not in the convivial way most people use it. Out of BW’s mouth, it sounds more like “what’s your problem?” or “so what’s your problem now?” But this time it’s not just
my
problem, it’s
our
problem, which pisses him off ten times more.
“Apparently, we had company,” I say. “Out behind Wilson’s house.”
“Oh, yeah? Who told you that?”
“Lindgren.”
“That sucks.” For all his peccadilloes, BW has an impressive ability to cut to the chase.
Down in the sand, a drunk volleyballer is pointing at a ball mark and screaming bloody murder in either Spanish or Portuguese.
“What should I do now, boss?”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“Whatever
I
think is best, BW?”
“And let me know when you’ve done it.”
Then, like a puff of smoke from an overpriced cigar, BW’s gone, and it’s just me, the night, and the salsa.
Chapter 50
Loco
WHATEVER I THINK
is best, huh?
I think I get BW’s point, which means another trip to Brooklyn and another
shitty, shitty, bang, bang.
Like his compadres out in the Hamptons, Manny Rodriguez works way too hard. It’s three in the morning, and I’ve been parked across the street from Manny’s apartment since eleven, and everyone in Bed-Stuy is asleep but him. Is it that immigrant work ethic or is something boiling in their blood?
Quien sabe, ay?
Wait just a second—here comes Manny. Just in time, because my stomach couldn’t take any more bad coffee tonight.
Even now, our boy is still hopped up, bouncing to the music pumping through his headphones.
If you ask me, nothing’s ruined the city more than headphones and iPods and computers. It used to be New York offered the kind of random interaction you couldn’t get anywhere else. You never knew when you might have a moment with the beautiful girl waiting next to you for the light to change.
Or maybe you’d say something to a guy, not a gay thing, just two people traveling through this world acknowledging each other’s existence. Now everyone walks around obliviously listening to their own little music downloaded from their own little computers. It’s lonely, brother.
Plus, it’s dangerous. You step off the curb and don’t hear the crosstown bus till you’re under it, and you certainly don’t hear the Chinese guy pedaling around the corner on his greasy bike.
Well, now you can add the sad cautionary tale of Manny Rodriguez. He’s so caught up in his own tunes he doesn’t hear me walk up behind him and pull out my gun. He doesn’t sense anything’s the slightest bit amiss until a bullet is crashing through the back of his skull and boring into his brain. The poor guy doesn’t know he’s been murdered until he’s dead.
Chapter 51
Kate
THE BLUEBACK LAYING out the formal complaint against Randall Kane hits my desk at Walmark, Reid and Blundell around 2:30 p.m. I shut my door and clear my calendar for the rest of the day.
I’m well aware that this choice assignment is not based entirely on my skill as a litigator. For the high-powered CEO charged with crossing the line, walking into court with a female lawyer is pretty much textbook. And I don’t have a problem with that. There are still so many more disadvantages than advantages to being a woman, career-wise, that in those rare instances where it plays in your favor, I believe in going with the flow.
Once I read the language at the top of the complaint, I’m confident this is something we can win not only in court but in the
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