By the time Elena left the Jack Hammer it was after three a.m. The party was by no means wrapping up inside, but she had had enough. Her eyes were burning from the cigarette smoke, and her mouth felt like sandpaper. She had downed more beer in this one evening than she was used to drinking in a week-not because she didn't enjoy alcohol, but because maintaining a figure like hers took discipline.
She had her admirers at the bar. Several young men bought her drinks, but after the encounter with Matt's jealous girlfriend, they seemed wary of getting too close to her. She kept her eye out for Matt or his girl-Diesel said her name was Violet-but they had faded into the evening, along with Elena's makeup. Whatever mascara she hadn't sweated off had gathered in cakes at the tips of her eyelashes. Her lipstick had long since been rubbed away, and her hair had wilted from the heat and humidity.
Yellow cabs streamed up Sixth Avenue, all taken. She stood on the corner for a while, then headed for the subway in her pointed heels, her feet protesting at every step. She felt light-headed and bone tired, and was looking forward to a long, hot bath before crawling into bed.
She was aware there was plenty of drug use in the bathrooms-people would disappear in groups of two or three and come back with red eyes, wiping their running noses. She heard the sound of sniffing coming from one of the stalls during her own trip to the restroom, and on the dance floor people smoked weed almost as much as cigarettes. Still, she wasn't here on a drug bust. It was a more serious mission, and she would just have to overlook the illegal narcotics. The last thing she wanted to do was call attention to herself in a way that made anyone suspicious. She planned on returning again later in the week-maybe even tomorrow night, if she could stand it.
The walk to the subway felt endless. It couldn't have been more than a quarter of a mile, but with each step her feet cried out with pain. She longed to tear off her spiked heels and walk barefoot. The streets were fairly quiet, and she could even hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees in the little pocket park on Sixth Avenue.
As she approached the entrance to the IRT on Waverly Place, she saw a black limousine with Jersey plates pull up to the curb. The automatic window slid down smoothly on the driver's side, and a young man leaned out.
"Need a lift?"
"Thank God!" she answered, grateful for her good luck. The private car service would no doubt cost twice what a cab would be, but Elena didn't care. The subway ride would have been long and ugly, and she was willing to pay triple fare just to get home.
When he asked her politely where she was headed and offered her a bottle of Evian water, she vowed to give him an extra-large tip. The automatic window whooshed back up as she settled back into the plush seat. Sipping the bottled water, she stared out at the buildings rushing by as the car glided uptown.