3. Maddie
Chapter three
Maddie
As I limp out my front door, I nearly jump out of my ankle brace and tightly laced black sneakers. Nick is lounging against the opposite hallway wall, two coffees in hand.
“Rise and shine,” he says.
“Are you always cheerful in the morning?” I ask, still recovering from the shock.
“We have a meeting with MusEn this afternoon, so I’m psyched,” Nick says. “And we’re spending the morning fighting crime. What could be more exciting?”
“We?” I ask.
My orange tabby cat Sherlock, clearly taking advantage of my distraction, has escaped into the hallway and is sniffing at the mat in front of Nick’s door. I pick him up and put him back in my apartment, carefully closing the door.
“You don’t think I’m going to let you hobble forth alone in pursuit of justice, do you? What if you miss your big story again?” Nick says. “I will never hear the end of it. Plus, I need to help you get a raise and move out. I want a next-door neighbor who appreciates my singing.”
“Good luck with that,” I say.
As he slides my big bag off my shoulder, I freeze. Still, it seems I didn’t reveal anything last night. He’s not avoiding me, afraid to encourage my feelings.
This is Nick. Always up for an adventure.
Hoisting my bag up on his shoulder, he picks my newspaper off my welcome mat and offers me his arm.
“You’re seriously coming?” I ask.
He bows slightly. “You have my escort until noon, and then I have to go.”
“I hope you don’t scare off my source,” I say.
“I’ll be absolutely mum and take notes,” he says. “Not that I ever took notes in school. You might want to take your own notes, to be honest.”
I wave off Nick’s help for the stairs and gingerly, awkwardly, hop down with my injured foot up in the air behind me, gripping the worn wooden banister tightly.
I’m so glad that Nick is here to witness this embarrassing descent down the building’s narrow staircase.
But it is probably easier without my bag bumping against me as I bounce.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you down?” he says.
“Definitely not,” I say. “What if you pull a muscle and can’t perform?”
“You’re not that heavy. I picked you up last night, remember?”
Heat flushes my cheeks. I definitely remember.
Nick escorts me to the café that is about ten blocks away.
Tostje is small. A long counter runs along most of the back wall with a few tables scattered in front.
The tables have enough space between them that they afford some privacy.
It smells like fresh coffee beans being ground and melted cheese.
It’s well-known in the neighborhood for its grilled cheese toasties, which it serves until midnight.
The only server chats to the customers in a low tone interspersed with the clatter of spoons hitting the sides of the mugs.
Once I’m settled at a sturdy metal table in the back corner, with yet another two coffees plus a bagel breakfast for two, in case this guy is hungry, I thank Nick for his help and tell him he can leave me here now.
What if his presence makes my contractor clam up?
Tasha said he was nervous about speaking to a reporter for The Intelligencer . I pull out my copy of today’s paper.
“So much for my dreams of being Bat Boy to your Batman,” Nick says.
Exactly. He doesn’t see me as Catwoman. That’s a good thing, right? At least he doesn’t see me as a single woman with a cat. That’s what I am. He sees me as Batman— how on earth do I give Batman vibes?— and he’s the trusted sidekick. And I need to remember that.
“Great. Call me if you need my help. I’m going back to take a nap to catch up on my beauty sleep before this afternoon.” He winks at me.
I look him up and down, making sure to frown, even though my eyes want to linger. “Good luck with that.”
“Right,” he says. “How can I improve?”
I tsk, and he laughs.
“Sparring with you is better than any coffee,” he says. He blinks to say goodbye.
He walks out with that lanky step of his. He moves his body like a dancer. Mesmerizing. I pull out my pad as I sip my coffee and watch the door. Nick’s head pops up in the window, and he makes a funny face at me. I shoo him away.
A tall, young guy enters; sturdy, rubber-heeled work boots hint that he might be my source. As his glance meets mine, he clocks my Intelligencer (subtlety is not my strong point) and comes over. I offer him a bagel and a black coffee, with milk and sugar on the side. He doctors his coffee.
“Thanks again for being willing to talk to me,” I say.
“I don’t want my name revealed. This is wrong, but I have a good business going. I don’t want to mess that up.” He takes a bite of the bagel.
“Understood. I’ll use a pseudonym in the article, but someone from the paper will call to check my story. I’m using pseudonyms for Tasha and anyone else too.”
“Yes. Got it.”
More customers enter the little shop, but most order their coffee to go. Two nannies sit at the table by the window, their voices carrying as they commiserate about getting their kids ready for the school day.
I open my notebook. “Can you tell me about why you received the impression that you had to pay bribes to get work at the Eleanor Roosevelt Houses?”
“It wasn’t an impression.” He folds his arms.
“No?” I resist the urge to lean in.
“Beatrice is the property manager at Eleanor Roosevelt Houses, so I showed Beatrice my work at Tasha’s apartment, hoping to get more work.
She said I could have this other job fixing a bathroom in 10F, but that I had to charge under ten thousand dollars, and I needed to kick back one thousand, so factor all that in. ”
“She used the phrase ‘kick back’? That you had to pay one thousand dollars in order to get the job?”
“No, she said I needed to show my appreciation.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“She leaned in and said, ‘I’ll expect you to show your appreciation for getting this work.’ At first, I thought she meant—” he raises his eyebrows “—you know, and I think I jerked back. My woman would have my—well, you know. Anyway, she laughed and laughed and said she’s gotten smarter in her old age, and money talks, even if I was a plumber and probably knew my way around plumbing.
Pardon my French. And then she said, ‘One thousand sounds like the right amount.’”
Wow. She really did ask for a bribe. “And then what did you say?”
“I said, ‘No thanks.’ I wasn’t getting involved in this. I’m doing okay on my own. And I’ve got kids. I’m not getting involved in some dodgy sh—uh, crap.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “And then she got real silent until she said, ‘I hope Tasha and Dulce like their apartments.’”
“And what did you think she meant by that?”
“She was telling me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Sounds like it,” I say.
He finishes his bagel and takes another sip from the paper cup. He hums when he drinks the coffee. They do make very good coffee here.
“But as you know, Tasha is not going to take that lying down, and she thinks it’s better to make it public—rather than her kowtowing to that dragon.”
“You didn’t get the job fixing the bathroom in 10F?”
“No.”
I nod and wait for him to speak. He seems to be thinking about what to say.
“I didn’t want to say anything, but Tasha… Tasha doesn’t take no for an answer. And she’s been a good friend to my sister.” He shrugs his shoulders. “So here I am. But make sure it’s under an alias.”
“I will,” I say. “Did you discuss this with anybody else?”
“I told some guys I was working with at this other job—that new building development around here at Clinton Street. And they said, yeah, everybody knows that she wants a little note of appreciation. A one-K note. Everyone knows she’s a fan of Grover Cleveland.”
These quotes were so good.
“Do you think they’d be willing to talk to me?” I ask.
“No.”
“Do you know anyone else I could talk to?”
He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head.
“Okay, well, thank you for this. This is incredibly helpful. I’ll find some more people,” I say. But how? I can’t run a story based on one contractor’s word. It seems to be common knowledge, but I’m not sure I can find anyone else who would be willing to talk.
Once he leaves, I gather up the empty coffee cups and the bagel wrappers and deposit them in the nearby garbage. I can walk on my foot as long as I don’t put too much weight on it. Going downstairs is the killer.
Only now I have to go up to 125th Street to meet a disgruntled tenant Tasha lined up for me…and the 125th Street subway station is above ground with, unfortunately, a long metal staircase down. It has an escalator, but that isn’t always working.
As I step out the door, there’s Nick, putting away his little black book in his messenger bag.
He drops into step alongside me, slowing down to match my stilted pace. “Did you get what you wanted?”
“Yes.”
“He said he was offered a bribe?”
“Shh. Yes.”
“Wow.”
“I know. I thought you went to get your beauty sleep.”
“Too wired to sleep,” he says. “And you said I didn’t need it.”
I gaze at his handsome face (but at least this gives me a reason to really drink in those sharp cheekbones and his eyes—those green eyes with flecks of hazel) and sigh in mock exasperation. “No.”
“Where are you meeting Tasha and the other mom?”
“At a playground,” I say.
“Let’s go, then,” he says.
“Are you sure you have time for this?”
“Absolutely. Amira recommended I visit a hospital to meet with sick kids to restore my rep, but I’m sure a playground will do nicely.”
“I’m sure the story will die down.”
“I’m sure it will.”
As I limp with Nick towards the playground, someone shrieks, “Nick Devlin!”
A woman is running full speed at us. Nick suddenly clasps me to his side. I look up at him, shocked to be anchored to him. His sea-green eyes smile down at me. “Before she knocks you over and hurts your foot.”