Chapter 11
The reception desk is chaotic. Only one woman is manning the desk, answering phones and emails, and periodically petting a yipping dog.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” she says. “Lucky I saw you step outside, or I’d have skipped you.”
Stepped outside? More like thought I was having a heart attack, nearly fainted, had to be carried outside by the woman who happens to be defending me for murder, only to find out I was mostly fine.
A scenario probably most apt for an episode of Jerry Springer.
A mix of panic, embarrassment, and concern returns to me instantly.
I take a deep breath. These kinds of frantic thoughts are what gave me the panic attack in the first place.
The pace of service at the front desk is in contrast to the receptionist’s fast speech.
Despite the EMTs outside, the receptionist managed to miss the noisy sirens and flashing lights.
New Yorkers seem to ignore chaos until it urgently requires their attention; no one else in the waiting room seems to have stirred either, instead finding themselves engrossed in years-old People magazines.
“We’re very understaffed. Four people called out today. I’m doing the job of multiple people,” she huffs.
I am sympathetic to her plight. Her predicament reminds me of all the times where people demanded impossible things from me.
Like when I’ve been told to get to Times Square from Battery Park in five minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic because my passengers have a Broadway show to catch.
Traffic doesn’t care if you have front-row tickets to Taylor Swift, it’ll ruin the best-laid plans.
In fact, there seems to be a correlation between how important an activity is and how bad the traffic will be that day.
Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Bake in an extra two hours minimum.
“That sounds awful. You’re doing amazing,” I say.
“Yeah, you are,” Amaya echoes my sentiments, though she’s clearly lying, something I can tell by her impish grin.
“Thank you. You’re the first people today to acknowledge that,” the receptionist says, instantly softening.
“Actually…perhaps you’re the one who can help us more than the doctor,” Amaya says.
True crime rule number three: Always be polite to get people to talk. All the best true crime podcast hosts know this trick, and Amaya is pretty good at it, even though her outwardly serious and curt demeanor doesn’t initially suggest it.
“Really?” The receptionist beams.
I smile at Amaya. I try to be immune to cheap flattery, but sometimes a “Girl, your outfit is fire” or more likely for me “Thanks for getting us here so quick” is just nice to hear.
In a world where everyone is so self-absorbed, a kind word from a stranger can mean so much.
But even that only goes so far. Most businesses aren’t willing to give out information to strangers.
“Two nights ago around one a.m. a man was in here—” Amaya begins before she’s interrupted by the receptionist.
“Oh god, the man with the snake?” She pronounces every word deliberately, talking at a normal pace for the first time in this conversation.
Amaya’s nose crinkles in surprise as she takes it in. Me, I’m wondering why it couldn’t have been a puppy, having begged for one as a kid for years.
“Yes, I’m his…friend,” Amaya responds uncertainly, a rare show of apprehension. The receptionist won’t give out information to just anyone asking.
“Oh, thank god you’re here to pick Frankie up!
It’s not unusual for someone to come in with a pet so late.
Pets are just like humans, after all, and have emergencies.
It is unusual for someone to forget to pick them up.
Was he just planning to leave the snake here?
” She rolls her eyes as if her tone wasn’t enough to indicate her judgment and displeasure.
“Actually…he’s dead.”
The color drains from the woman’s face as if, for the first time today, she’s been taken by surprise.
“Oh god, I’m so, so sorry. I must have sounded so…
oh god, this makes sense. He was dropping off the sick snake, said he had to catch a flight, so we were going to treat the snake and then keep it here for two nights, Sunday and Monday, until he got back Tuesday morning.
We have a kennel and a pet drop-off. He was supposed to pick up Frankie at 7 a.m. sharp this morning… ” She trails off.
Mention of the flight confirms to me that we must have the right guy. Besides, how many people drop off a beloved pet and forget to pick it up?
“Wait…did he die in a plane crash?” the receptionist asks dramatically, already scrolling her phone for the news story.
I hop from one foot to the other, waiting for what Amaya will say. Hopefully, she won’t say that the gal to her left may have stabbed him…
“No, not exactly…” Amaya looks at me.
“He was having heart problems,” I blurt out. His heart stopped because someone stabbed it.
“Oh, how terrible. He looked young.”
“Yes, well, is there discharge paperwork? I’ve actually never taken care of a snake, so…
” Amaya says, impressively changing the subject, a feat I fail at frequently in my own cab.
It would mean I’d talk less about people’s random medical conditions—like a passenger from last week who detailed her bunion pain.
“It’s a python. They’re really friendly.”
“Uh.” Amaya’s eyes grow wide with fear. “Is it possible to leave the snake here a little longer?” Amaya agreed to take me as a client, not as a pet babysitter for a dead man.
“Well, he only paid for one night. And so there’s back pay owed and money owed for additional nights.”
“Which would be…?”
“Well, for exotic pets such as this python, we charge $1,000 a night. He left this python here around midnight on Sunday and now it’s Tuesday morning. Meaning there is $2,000 owed but there’s a $500 late fee.”
I want to protest. He was five hours late because he was dead and now we’re saddled with his $2,500 bill that might as well have been a million dollars. It must be the same case for Amaya, because she opens her mouth but doesn’t speak. It seems for the first time, I’ve seen her at a loss for words.
“Well, maybe I’ll just leave it here and get back to you?” Amaya suggests. I can see her trying to figure a way out of this.
“Oh, no,” the receptionist says stiffly.
“I’ve already got the discharge paperwork ready; we have to give the snake to you.
” Any sympathy for our situation is already gone.
“Don’t worry, we just fed it; you won’t have to feed it again for another few days.
” A small consolation. “You can do a payment plan if you need.”
The receptionist slides the paperwork toward Amaya and she picks it up, nodding and handing it to me. At the top of the paperwork, there is the owner’s name: James Wilkerson-Taylor. We’ve gotten what we came for, and a little more.