Chapter 8
THE DING FROM ABOVE the smudged paneled door announces my arrival.
Late-afternoon sun casts bright geometric shapes on a filthy low-nap black carpet.
The air hangs heavy with the mingling scents of stale sweat, decaying food, and the sharp tang of pine disinfectant.
Stifling a sneeze, I dig my nose into the shoulder of my gray pullover.
A faint hum radiates from the shop’s fluorescent lights, punctuated by the occasional beep or chirp from an electronic device.
Navigating past two long counters encased in chrome edges, I see an array of tech gadgets lined up like an army of weary cyborgs awaiting their next command.
Small note cards display cryptic descriptions but conspicuously lack any visible prices.
Behind the counters, shelves groan under the weight of boxes, manuals, and spare parts, creating a labyrinth of pedagogical chaos.
“Do for you?” A thin balding man with an elaborate neck tattoo crosses his arms over his ribbed T-shirt and sucks his teeth at me. His accent sounds Eastern European, and his tone implies he owns the air I’m breathing.
I approach the display case. “I have a thumb drive. Are you able to help me retrieve the contents?”
My inquiry hangs between us. He doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, his hooded eyes assess me, as if weighing whether I’m vermin to devour or simply a plaything to bat around for his own amusement.
I stopped by the hotel on the way here, changed into jeans, and shoved my previously styled hair up into a Yankees baseball cap.
Not that I’m trying to be completely incognito, but I don’t need to advertise who I am.
Based on the fine layer of sweat spreading across my chest, I probably should’ve stayed closer to Broadway.
On the off chance I bumped into someone I knew, I tore up over a dozen blocks into a nondescript area of the Meatpacking District.
“You have the drive. Let me look.” The man inches his palm toward me, his sinewy fingers beginning to curl as if they can already feel my device in their clutches.
But my thumb drive rests in the bottom of my cross-body leather satchel.
My plan to wait until tomorrow to turn it over to security shattered when Aarav told me someone on my team visited him last week.
Impossible. Except he runs one of the most respected offices at Meymack.
In fact, I had my team wait to visit him because I wanted to get the educational presentation exactly right. Aarav hates to be sold to.
Beside me, a shadow falls across the counter, dulling the chrome edges. I glance toward the front of the store.
A massive man consumes the entry. His presence seems to swallow all the light streaming in through the glass. Obscured by the brim of his cap, his face points straight ahead, while his legs, the width of pylons, straddle the space in front of the door.
I do believe I’ll be spending money in this place before I leave.
“I’ll need to get the drive.” I address the much smaller man behind the counter. “How much?”
He purses his chapped lips. “Depends on effort to extract files. Give me. I’ll look.”
I glance down and see a dated laptop for probably not much more than I’ll end up shelling out to this guy.
I also don’t want to be maneuvering through one potential extortion situation while gaining myself another.
Who knows what’s on the drive? Could be paranoid sales projections that show the funds losing assets, or could be dirt on people Betsey thinks have wronged her.
Whatever it is, it certainly won’t be good news.
“How about if I buy that laptop now, and then I’ll come back with the drive if I can’t get to the files?” I point at the display case.
“This one.” He pulls out a silver Dell computer. “You need a power cord?”
“Yes.” I pick up the white card he places on the counter.
He quotes me a price almost double the tagged number on the back of the brief specifications.
Annoyance ripples through me. Not at the obvious gouging, but because I ever thought coming here was a good idea. “Does it have a regular USB slot?”
He turns the machine over in his hands. “Couple of ’em.”
I pull out the cash and hand it to him.
He tosses the laptop and cord into a plastic bag. “You come back if you can’t get those files.”
I nod and turn. The mountain of a man remains planted as if I’ve not quite concluded my visit.
Trapped.
Erika’s word echoes in my head.
I phoned her twice when I got back to the hotel. The rock that formed in the pit of my stomach as my calls went to voicemail grows heavier as I watch the massive man’s dull eyes rake over me. He picks at something in his front teeth with his long yellowing thumbnail.
If I’ve learned nothing else in my fifteen years in and around Wall Street, it is to never project fear. I casually roll back my shoulders and nick my head to the side. Move. I’m leaving.
The man swags his broad chin at me, his eyes narrowing, but he then steps back and opens the door behind him.
I steer my way around his bulk and squint into the glare reflecting off the steel building across the empty street.
My running shoes scuff the pockmarked concrete sidewalk as I stumble toward the hotel. The sensation of being trapped has not left me.