Chapter Twenty-Four
William joins us, and he fits right in like he was the missing cog in our machine. Right away, he organizes and files and takes over the financial records for Julia’s Bureau.
“Numbers are comforting,” he tells me. “They are neutral and factual and unfeeling.” He clicks his tongue at Pax’s recordkeeping. “A phonograph? Honestly?” He adjusts his spectacles and dives back in.
Aye, but is he too good to be true?
He’s withholding something from you, Stella.
Spirit offers me an image of a poker player when I’m around William, of someone holding a fan of playing cards close to their chest, face inscrutable. I argue with Spirit, Aren’t we all hiding something?
Kiyoko bounds in. “You ready, Stella?”
I stand. “Let’s go get our blueprints.”
“Be careful,” Pax says as we approach the front door.
Rather than comfort me, it stokes my ire. “Somehow I’ve managed to live eighteen years without your wishes of care.”
Pax’s silver-green eyes sparkle. “Frosty! That’s what I adore about you, Stella.”
Adore? I can’t process this right now. “Goodbye, partner!” I say. Pax grins with half his face.
Kiyoko and I visit the offices of Starkweather and Anderson at 106 Broadway in the Financial District.
It’s a lovely building with massive iron torches on either side of the entrance, each cradling a globe of electric light.
Trollies clang and carriages clatter and people gather in the small park across the street. A doorman stops us in the lobby.
“Reason for visit?”
Stealing blueprints!
Spirit yells that in the chamber of my mind like a petulant toddler; they are still pissy about this plan. I’m glad I don’t echo this intention aloud.
“We have an appointment with Mr. Starkweather,” Kiyoko says. She is as bold as a sword.
The doorman is already shaking his head by the time she finishes the sentence. He looks at our gray clothes, the holes in our shoes, and he knows—we are no clients of Starkweather’s. “No ma’am.” He taps a leather-bound datebook. “No record of you here. Out you go.”
Kiyoko thins her lips, and her mouth sounds with a loud pop. We leave.
We camp out under a green-and-white awning at a deli two doors down. Our stomachs rumble at the smell of deli meats and fresh-baked bread, but we have no extra money without Pax’s purse. Kiyoko and I pass the time by wrestling our thumbs.
“Worst client you ever had?” Kiyoko asks, arching her wrist to pin my thumb with her own. I’m too fast for her wily digits.
I snort a laugh. “Where do I start? I guess besides the ones that, you know, threaten to kill you…” Kiyoko nods, the tip of her tongue out in concentration.
“Oh! There was the fellow whose dead wife insisted he make amends for cheating on her. He listened to the whole reading silently, then asked, ‘Can I talk to the man of the house? I think he’d have better advice.’ ”
Kiyoko spits out a laugh. Our wrists arch and sway as we thumb-wrestle. “Mine was the woman who insisted that she must cuddle her Chihuahua naked while I did the reading, so she could feel every emotion her little Junebug was experiencing.”
I pretend-retch, and Kiyoko laughs.
“It was awful. Memorable, though. Wow, did Junebug hate that woman.”
“I once had a woman who wanted me to contact her dead husband. Her dead sister came through and told me—the woman had never been married.”
“A guy brought in his shepherd mix, adamant that I tell him about the bumps on his dog’s belly. I said, ‘Those are nipples sir.’ The man was flabbergasted. ‘But… he’s a he!’ He was so confused when I said, ‘Sir, all mammals have nipples. Don’t you?’ That fellow didn’t pay.”
I laugh. “Oh! I forgot about the man who described in great detail the rash he had on his… parts. He thought it was a demon. He wanted me to exorcise it.”
“Mmmm, no sir. The gentleman who brought in the ashes of his dead cat—in the pockets of his trousers.”
“Clients with gas.”
“Clients with pets with gas.”
We’ve forgotten our thumb wrestling and we both have tears streaming down our faces. Our shoulders bump together when we laugh. It’s amazing, finding someone who understands you exactly as you are.
Or maybe I’m just imagining that? I’ve been so lonely for so long. I can’t trust myself to know if Kiyoko is truly a friend, or just another temporary person in my life.
After an hour or so, Mr. Starkweather emerges, his impressive handlebar mustache unmistakable.
He makes his way to McDudley’s Old Ale House.
Kiyoko kicks a fire hydrant. “Stupid joint doesn’t let in women.
” We sit outside again, backs against the scratchy brick building next door, this time exchanging a list of our favorite foods. Our stomachs growl in chorus.
“Baklava.”
“Yum. Chicken tikka masala.”
“Ooo good one. Matzo ball soup.”
“Yes! With an egg salad sandwich on rye.”
“Definitely.”
Oh my. Do I miss food.
Me, too! Aye, what I’d do for a rare steak…
A baked potato…
Peppermint…
Coffee…
A glass of port.
I must look wistful because Kiyoko snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Where are you?” she says with a smile. And for the first time in, well, ever? I tell someone who is not in my family the truth.
“I’m listening to Spirit. They’re listing their favorite foods, too.”
“Cake and stuff?”
“Yeah.” I don’t know why, but I elaborate: “I can sometimes taste the food when they talk about it. Even the awful foods. Like, oh… no,” I say into the air with a sour laugh. I smack my tongue and scowl with disgust. “This person’s favorite food is liverwurst!”
Kiyoko bursts with laughter. “You should see your face right now!”
We chuckle, but things fall silent quickly. I sense what she’s about to ask:
“What’s the story between you and Pax?”
I examine a button on the wrist of my shirt. “I’ve only known him a few more days than you have.”
“Is that so? Huh. I thought you two were old friends. You seem to know each other well.”
“We’re friends.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
I’m blushing deeply. “Business partners. In this plan.”
Kiyoko turns to face me, but I can’t bear to meet her eyes. “Protecting your heart.”
But the way she says it, I can’t tell if it’s a statement: You are smart to protect your heart, or a question: Are you being this stubborn to protect your heart?
“Oh!” Kiyoko scrambles to her feet. She dashes forward, and bam!
Runs directly into Starkweather.
“Oh, my!” she says, dusting herself off. “Apologies, sir! So sorry.”
Starkweather’s face twists into a scowl. “Watch where you’re going, miss.”
“I will, sir! Can my friend and I”—here, she motions to me— “can we buy you a drink to apologize?”
Starkweather’s face slowly morphs. “We-heh-heh-hell, sure!” he chuckles. “Follow me!”
Half a block away, we enter the Ear Inn. “Sit there,” Starkweather says, pointing at a too-small, too-dark booth. Kiyoko smiles. Bats her eyes. Oh Lord, I can hardly watch.
“If it’s just the same to you, we’ll join you at the bar.” Her smile lights up this dark tavern.
Aye, smart lass. Guys like Starkweather get too handsy in a booth.
Starkweather blinks but nods. “Sure thing.” He orders three whiskeys, neat. He slides one down to me, but his eyes are glued on Kiyoko.
I miss the next few minutes of conversation because I’ve never actually had whiskey before. I make the mistake of taking a big gulp, and it burns like I imagine a swallow of kerosene might. I wheeze as silently as I can; I don’t want Starkweather to think I’m new at this.
Spirit howls with laughter.
Hoowee, lookit our girl!
Oh, did we forget to mention, Stella? It burns.
Law, I miss a smooth glass of whiskey.
Whew. I don’t. That stuff killed me.
“So what do you do?” Kiyoko’s voice drips with honey.
“I’m an architect,” Starkweather says. He leans toward her and winks. “That’s someone who builds buildings.”
Kiyoko’s hands curl into fists. But her face somehow remains plastered with a brilliant smile. “No way! Did you build the Empire State Building?”
“Well, no, I—”
“Or how about the White House? I hear that’s a real beauty.”
“No, no—”
“Or ooh! Grand Central? That’s my favorite building in all of New York.”
Starkweather holds up three more fingers to the bartender, who rushes over and refills our glasses. I blink. I drink. I wheeze.
How is Kiyoko doing this?!
They’re chattering more. Three more fingers get shot at the bartender. Three more amber-colored drinks are poured. Starkweather slurs, “Wanna see my blueprints?”
I can’t drink another, I’m sure of it.
Toss it over your shoulder, lass.
There’s a potted plant right behind you.
If you only knew how many young women have watered that plant with their cocktails.
I quietly dump the whiskey into the plant. By the time I’m done, we’re scrambling off the barstools and out the door, tailing Starkweather.
“C’mon, Rose!” Kiyoko says, eyes wide and wild. “Mr. Starkweather is going to show us his blueprints! So exciting!”
I walk back to the offices in a spinny, dizzy, stomach-gurgling haze. We pass the security guard with ease, and as Kiyoko glides by him, she scratches the corner of her pouty lips with her middle finger.
The elevator is hot and cramped. But ding! We finally make it to the right floor.
“Ding!” I repeat.
Our girl is tipsy, y’all!
More than tipsy, I’d say!
“Shhhh!” I whisper, and whirl about to shush Spirit. Starkweather narrows his eyes at me before leading us down the hallway to his office. There are a few people scattered at desks, thank goodness.
Starkweather’s office has a view of Trinity Church and the graveyard.
Something about that feels inevitable, like Spirit reminding me yet again of the ever-presence of death.
The architect rolls out a tube of inky blue paper and Kiyoko ooohs and ahhs.
She does this again and again, cooing over this creep’s drawings.
None of them are the blueprints for the Potter Building.
She’s going to have to take matters into her own hands.
Kiyoko realizes this. She taps one of the blueprints and says, “This is reminiscent of the Potter Building, is it not?” And then, because I guess she can’t stop herself from giving Starkweather a hint at how clever she truly is: “I mean, the combination of Queen Anne and neo-Grec styles.”
Starkweather sways, drunkenly amazed. “You know that building?”
Kiyoko smiles. “Oh, yes. My aunt Carole lives there. I love that building.”
“I built it.”
“What?” She playfully pushes him. “I don’t believe you. That’s my favorite building in New York!”
She’s already said this about Grand Central, but luckily, Starkweather is too blotto to notice.
“I did. I’ll show you.” Starkweather stumbles and grunts as he looks through roll after roll of blueprints. “Ah!” he says at last. He smears open the tube of paper. “Here we go. The Potter Building. An iron-framed beauty, she is!”
Kiyoko beams. “Wow. I can’t believe I’ve met the architect of the Potter Building!”
Starkweather hiccups. “In the flesh! Let me get you girls another drink.”
He turns, and Kiyoko eyes me hard and tips her head at me. Cram that in your skirts, her look says.
But I’m a bit drunk. “What?” I whisper.
Kiyoko points hard at the papers. I finally understand: The blueprints! Steal the blueprints!
I snatch up the blueprints, roll them, fold them, squash them, crumple them. It’s not easy, cramming a tube of paper into one’s stockings without being blatantly obvious about the whole thing. Oh, and while drunk.
Starkweather starts to turn toward me with an amber-filled glass, so Kiyoko grabs him by the elbow and leads him to the window. He gives her a whiskey and they clink glasses.
Kiyoko points out the window and says, “Don’t you just love this city?”
“Yeah,” Starkweather belches. He places a hand around Kiyoko’s waist.
She deftly moves it away.
“I love this city, and I love its ladies,” Starkweather says, the words sloshing over one another. He places a hand on Kiyoko’s hind end. She grasps it and lifts it off her person.
Kiyoko glances back at me. I am still smoothing my skirts over what is likely a terribly obvious lump in my stockings. I hiccup.
Kiyoko assesses the room and I follow her gaze—windows, doors, hallway…
She works her jaw.
She holds up the palm of her right hand and taps it with her left pointer finger.
“Look right here,” she says to Starkweather.
He sways but manages to focus on the palm of her hand…
… which whips forward and smacks Starkweather across the left jowl.
Starkweather stumbles and trips over a chair. “Urrgh!” He crashes to the floor.
Kiyoko grabs my wrist. “Time to go!”
“Get back here!” Starkweather bellows. He struggles to lift himself. He flops about like a fish on a dock.
Kiyoko pulls my drunken self into the hallway, through a doorway, and down six flights of winding stairs.
We pass the guard and Kiyoko yells, “Lovely time! Lovely!”
We rush out the door, onto the sidewalk, past Trinity Church and its intricate, Gothic headstones. We dash north for dozens of blocks to the headquarters of Julia’s Bureau, my head spinny and giddy and whiskey-soaked.