Now optimistic twenty-somethings and disillusioned thirty-somethings paid nearly a thousand bucks a month rent for each room.
Zee graciously ignored the mewling sounds that came from my throat with each breath as I made my way up the fourth flight of ridiculously steep stairs that seemed designed for a longer-legged species than Homo sapiens . In her leaning over, cascades of her black hair fell forward, forming a curtain around her face. It wasn’t until I finally clomped up to her landing that I got a good look at her. Zee definitely outclassed her surroundings. She had the pudgy apple cheeks of one of those Victorian bisque dolls, except instead of the expected vacant blues, her eyes were alert, sparkling black. “Hi!” Her handshake was like a stevedore’s, although she wasn’t much more than five feet tall.
“Hi,” I gasped.
“Half Chinese, half Jewish,” she replied to my unasked question as she led me into her studio apartment. I nodded, not yet trusting myself to speak two consecutive words without snorting. “Twenty-four. Years old, I mean. The Zee’s for Zelda. After Zelda Fitzgerald. Why, you may ask, did my parents think it was a good idea to name me after some poor demented woman who burned to death in a mental hospital? The answer is: I don’t know.”
Her not-very-large studio was divided into three areas: a kitchen that was simply some shelves above a sink and a two-burner stove; what I assumed was the bedroom, although it was hidden behind a curtain that looked fashioned from hula skirts; a five-by-five square that was the living room. Zee escorted me in and gestured toward a Baby Bear-size club chair. It was covered in one of those sage green, one-size-fits-all slipcovers that are better in catalogs than in life, although on her chair it had the schleppy charm of a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. She sat across from me on a love seat draped with three or four flowered fringed shawls, the ones you see on pianos and fortune-tellers. None of the floral prints matched.
Obviously Zee Friedman possessed that gift I’d always longed for, flair, the intuitive sense of when less is less and when less is more. Her outfit, plain black cotton pants cut off mid-shin and an ordinary white T-shirt, was stylishly minimalist. I, on the other hand, was in navy slacks, my perpetual blue sweater with butterfly scarf, and gold button earrings. Hopefully she’d think my retro look was intentional.
I’d spent the two previous days doing research and making calls. At last, through a friend of a friend of a neighbor of Jill Badinowski, I came up with another StarBaby client who had taken down Zee’s phone number. “Sorry to bother you on Memorial Day weekend,” I told her.
“No problem,” Zee assured me. She had the voice of a more imposing woman, the contralto the Statue of Liberty would have if she could speak. She pulled her feet up on the cushion of the love seat so her heels touched her backside. She hugged her knees. Her toenails were the pale blue of bleached denim. “Are you a detective?” she asked hopefully.
“Let’s just say I’ve been hired to see what I could find out about Courtney.” Zee gave me an enthusiastic nod. Her dark hair bounced cheerfully, as if eager to know more. “Do you have any idea how many other people she employed?”
“At least one other guy, but I can’t say for sure if there were any more. I worked for her freelance, on weekends.” Between us was her coffee table, an old wood toy chest with peeling decals of the Little Misses Muffet and Bo-Peep.
“Only on weekends?” I asked.
“Well, that’s when both parents are home. You want the two of them interacting with the baby, since the video’s at least partly to prove to the kid how great his parents were, no matter what he remembers. Anyway, I work full-time, so Saturday and Sunday were it for me.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a production assistant for Crabapple Films.”
I nodded
Zee graciously ignored the mewling sounds that came from my throat with each breath as I made my way up the fourth flight of ridiculously steep stairs that seemed designed for a longer-legged species than Homo sapiens . In her leaning over, cascades of her black hair fell forward, forming a curtain around her face. It wasn’t until I finally clomped up to her landing that I got a good look at her. Zee definitely outclassed her surroundings. She had the pudgy apple cheeks of one of those Victorian bisque dolls, except instead of the expected vacant blues, her eyes were alert, sparkling black. “Hi!” Her handshake was like a stevedore’s, although she wasn’t much more than five feet tall.
“Hi,” I gasped.
“Half Chinese, half Jewish,” she replied to my unasked question as she led me into her studio apartment. I nodded, not yet trusting myself to speak two consecutive words without snorting. “Twenty-four. Years old, I mean. The Zee’s for Zelda. After Zelda Fitzgerald. Why, you may ask, did my parents think it was a good idea to name me after some poor demented woman who burned to death in a mental hospital? The answer is: I don’t know.”
Her not-very-large studio was divided into three areas: a kitchen that was simply some shelves above a sink and a two-burner stove; what I assumed was the bedroom, although it was hidden behind a curtain that looked fashioned from hula skirts; a five-by-five square that was the living room. Zee escorted me in and gestured toward a Baby Bear-size club chair. It was covered in one of those sage green, one-size-fits-all slipcovers that are better in catalogs than in life, although on her chair it had the schleppy charm of a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. She sat across from me on a love seat draped with three or four flowered fringed shawls, the ones you see on pianos and fortune-tellers. None of the floral prints matched.
Obviously Zee Friedman possessed that gift I’d always longed for, flair, the intuitive sense of when less is less and when less is more. Her outfit, plain black cotton pants cut off mid-shin and an ordinary white T-shirt, was stylishly minimalist. I, on the other hand, was in navy slacks, my perpetual blue sweater with butterfly scarf, and gold button earrings. Hopefully she’d think my retro look was intentional.
I’d spent the two previous days doing research and making calls. At last, through a friend of a friend of a neighbor of Jill Badinowski, I came up with another StarBaby client who had taken down Zee’s phone number. “Sorry to bother you on Memorial Day weekend,” I told her.
“No problem,” Zee assured me. She had the voice of a more imposing woman, the contralto the Statue of Liberty would have if she could speak. She pulled her feet up on the cushion of the love seat so her heels touched her backside. She hugged her knees. Her toenails were the pale blue of bleached denim. “Are you a detective?” she asked hopefully.
“Let’s just say I’ve been hired to see what I could find out about Courtney.” Zee gave me an enthusiastic nod. Her dark hair bounced cheerfully, as if eager to know more. “Do you have any idea how many other people she employed?”
“At least one other guy, but I can’t say for sure if there were any more. I worked for her freelance, on weekends.” Between us was her coffee table, an old wood toy chest with peeling decals of the Little Misses Muffet and Bo-Peep.
“Only on weekends?” I asked.
“Well, that’s when both parents are home. You want the two of them interacting with the baby, since the video’s at least partly to prove to the kid how great his parents were, no matter what he remembers. Anyway, I work full-time, so Saturday and Sunday were it for me.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a production assistant for Crabapple Films.”
I nodded
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