Street.
Should she have told Doug where she was going? Probably. But how was she supposed to explain exactly what she was doing? He—like Annabel—would be appalled that she’d taken Daphne’s phone and even more appalled that her freelance sleuthing was all part of a bid for glory.
Also, there was that giant elephant in the bedroom wearing a big rhinestone necklace saying, “You kind of left the whole baby thing hanging,” so Lola really didn’t want to stick around there too long.
Yes, indeed, the note reading, “Walking the dogs, xoxo,” should suffice.
Destiny Car Service. Not much wider than its own door, the office was sandwiched between Verrazano’s Pork Store and an imposing new cigar bar called Humidor, which pretty much told you everything you needed to know about this neighborhood. The $7 drink and $300 stroller set had moved in (differentiating themselves, still, from the $17 drink and $800 stroller people in Manhattan) but had not yet edged out the superb ricotta cheesecake, Italian funeral homes, and big red-sauce restaurants where you went for lunch after communions.
A couple of Town Cars were parked outside Destiny. Inside were two metal folding chairs, a hardware store calendar with bikini-clad girls holding paint cans, and a giant, yellowed map of Brooklyn with the original neighborhoods—her dad’s own Canarsie, for one—that predated the names more recently imposed by colonizing real estate brokers. No North Wayside, no Upper Lundy, no nothing. It was like seeing a map that still said “USSR.”
There was an open box of store-bought donuts on the counter—a shame, Lola tsked, in a neighborhood with such good sfogliatella . The dogs sniffed the industrial carpet, a smorgasbord of ashes, ground-in dirt, and powdered sugar.
Behind a window of bulletproof glass sat a forty-some-odd-year-old woman with a telephone headset and a giant clip holding back her gray-blond hair. A copy of the Day lay by her foam coffee cup, whose top edge was scalloped with salmon lip prints. She was typing furiously, which was impressive, considering the length of her nails.
I can’t type that fast, and I bite mine, thought Lola.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The woman turned. Her eyes were reddened and bloodshot—no surprise given the amount of cigarette smoke coming from the guys playing dominoes in the back of the office.
“Hi,” said Lola. “I actually don’t need a car. I just have a question.”
The woman waited. She seemed weary. Bet she’s heard it all, thought Lola.
“It’s about my friend. I think she might have called you for a ride, but she, um, never came home. Do you think someone here might remember the phone call, or anything?”
The woman burst into tears.
“Oh, I—uh, ma’am, I’m sorry, I—”
The woman pushed the Day toward Lola like a croupier. She swallowed and sniffed. “Is this your friend?”
Lola paused, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Sure, she called us,” said the woman, blotting with a Kleenex. “But she never showed up at door four, outside United, like she was supposed to.”
Lola took a breath. “Are you sure? You don’t think anyone here, anyone here could have . . . ?”
“One of my guys? No way, kid. We’re like family. She never showed up, I’m telling you. I called her myself about a thousand times, but she never picked up.” A new wave of tears was interrupted by a phone call.
“Excuse me.” She pressed a button. “Destiny, where to?”
Lola took that moment to slip Daphne’s phone out of her pocket and check Received Calls, which duh, she should have done before. Sure enough. Ten straight calls from Destiny’s number.
By then the woman had hung up. “I loved her,” she sniffled.
“I . . . Did you know her, too?” asked Lola.
“I was her biggest fan,” said the woman.
Oh.
“I loved her book. She was my inspiration,” she went on. “See, I’m writing a memoir about my experiences as a single woman running a car
Should she have told Doug where she was going? Probably. But how was she supposed to explain exactly what she was doing? He—like Annabel—would be appalled that she’d taken Daphne’s phone and even more appalled that her freelance sleuthing was all part of a bid for glory.
Also, there was that giant elephant in the bedroom wearing a big rhinestone necklace saying, “You kind of left the whole baby thing hanging,” so Lola really didn’t want to stick around there too long.
Yes, indeed, the note reading, “Walking the dogs, xoxo,” should suffice.
Destiny Car Service. Not much wider than its own door, the office was sandwiched between Verrazano’s Pork Store and an imposing new cigar bar called Humidor, which pretty much told you everything you needed to know about this neighborhood. The $7 drink and $300 stroller set had moved in (differentiating themselves, still, from the $17 drink and $800 stroller people in Manhattan) but had not yet edged out the superb ricotta cheesecake, Italian funeral homes, and big red-sauce restaurants where you went for lunch after communions.
A couple of Town Cars were parked outside Destiny. Inside were two metal folding chairs, a hardware store calendar with bikini-clad girls holding paint cans, and a giant, yellowed map of Brooklyn with the original neighborhoods—her dad’s own Canarsie, for one—that predated the names more recently imposed by colonizing real estate brokers. No North Wayside, no Upper Lundy, no nothing. It was like seeing a map that still said “USSR.”
There was an open box of store-bought donuts on the counter—a shame, Lola tsked, in a neighborhood with such good sfogliatella . The dogs sniffed the industrial carpet, a smorgasbord of ashes, ground-in dirt, and powdered sugar.
Behind a window of bulletproof glass sat a forty-some-odd-year-old woman with a telephone headset and a giant clip holding back her gray-blond hair. A copy of the Day lay by her foam coffee cup, whose top edge was scalloped with salmon lip prints. She was typing furiously, which was impressive, considering the length of her nails.
I can’t type that fast, and I bite mine, thought Lola.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The woman turned. Her eyes were reddened and bloodshot—no surprise given the amount of cigarette smoke coming from the guys playing dominoes in the back of the office.
“Hi,” said Lola. “I actually don’t need a car. I just have a question.”
The woman waited. She seemed weary. Bet she’s heard it all, thought Lola.
“It’s about my friend. I think she might have called you for a ride, but she, um, never came home. Do you think someone here might remember the phone call, or anything?”
The woman burst into tears.
“Oh, I—uh, ma’am, I’m sorry, I—”
The woman pushed the Day toward Lola like a croupier. She swallowed and sniffed. “Is this your friend?”
Lola paused, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Sure, she called us,” said the woman, blotting with a Kleenex. “But she never showed up at door four, outside United, like she was supposed to.”
Lola took a breath. “Are you sure? You don’t think anyone here, anyone here could have . . . ?”
“One of my guys? No way, kid. We’re like family. She never showed up, I’m telling you. I called her myself about a thousand times, but she never picked up.” A new wave of tears was interrupted by a phone call.
“Excuse me.” She pressed a button. “Destiny, where to?”
Lola took that moment to slip Daphne’s phone out of her pocket and check Received Calls, which duh, she should have done before. Sure enough. Ten straight calls from Destiny’s number.
By then the woman had hung up. “I loved her,” she sniffled.
“I . . . Did you know her, too?” asked Lola.
“I was her biggest fan,” said the woman.
Oh.
“I loved her book. She was my inspiration,” she went on. “See, I’m writing a memoir about my experiences as a single woman running a car
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