I woke up thinking that Amanda must have hijacked my cell phone. That's the only way my ring tone could have been changed from the standard and satisfying triple beep to an electronic version of that awful new Athena Paradis song, "I
Want UR Love."
And the only thing worse than hearing that song come from a tinny cell phone speaker was being woken by it at three in the morning.
Amanda grumbled. Her arm was thrown over my chest, but her sleep hadn't been interrupted. Figures I'd be the only one disturbed by her diabolical creation.
I reached across to the nightstand where I kept the phone, careful not to dislocate my shoulder since my other arm was pinned under Amanda. There are worse things in the world than having your arm stuck underneath a beautiful woman who loves you.
I covered the speaker with my thumb and checked the incoming number. Christ, not again; this was becoming a routine. It was Mya, my ex-girlfriend. Two-thirty in the morning. The third time this week Mya had called in the wee hours. I was having a hard time putting an end to it. I knew since last year Mya had been on a slippery slope. Calling from a bar, no doubt. I could practically smell the Stoli through the mouthpiece.
Mya and I dated for several years in college, a time I could hardly remember. When we met, I was smitten. She was tall, beautiful, with confidence like no girl I'd ever met. And for some reason she'd picked me. I don't know if I ever loved her, or simply loved being with her. Loved being with a girl I knew would be somebody.
We'd broken up a year ago. Right before my life had changed forever. Our relationship was probably doomed whether or not I'd been accused of murder, but after I nearly died and became a minor New York celebrity, she'd had a change of heart. Suddenly she wanted to give our buried love life another go.
She didn't love Henry Parker anymore. At least not the
Henry she'd met years ago. Not the Henry Parker she used to kiss behind the stacks in the Cornell library. She loved the
Henry Parker that had been invented by the newspapers and magazines. The indestructible one who'd survived a three-day manhunt, only to live and regain his job at the city's most prestigious newspaper. Not the Henry Parker who could barely run without feeling the pain in his side from where the bone shards punctured his lung. Or the Henry whose heart beat fast every time he heard a police siren or a car backfire.
That was the Henry that only Amanda knew. And I was happy she knew it. It felt real. Like it could last forever.
Mya loved the other Henry Parker. But that wasn't me.
That Henry was a creation, a monster created by ink. I wanted nothing to do with him.
At the same time, the year Amanda and I had been together had seen incredible changes. When I'd first met Amanda- 22
Jason Pinter when I'd lied to her to save my skin-she'd been as lost as I was. Her entire life existed in a trunk full of notebooks she'd kept since she was a little girl. Notebooks she used to catalog every single person she met, writing down superficial details, mirroring the abandonment in her real life.
When she picked me up in her car, thinking I was a student named Carl Bernstein, Amanda wrote down her thoughts about that nonexistent man. I wanted her to know life wasn't something to be cataloged. With me, she could actually experience it. Soon after she moved in, the notebooks disappeared. One night, after making love, I'd asked about them.
She said she didn't need a stupid pen and paper anymore. She said real memories were good enough. And that's what I promised to give her. Even if it meant her playing practical jokes with my ring tone.
I clicked the answer button and waited. I could hear breathing on the other end. It was the fifth time this month
Mya had called after midnight, in addition to the myriad calls to my office, always from unlisted numbers or pay phones. At night, I could chalk it up to her being drunk.
During the day, I didn't know what to make of it. A week ago
Mya had called at 3:30 a.m. She asked if I'd meet her for a drink. To talk about stuff. We'd never really had a chance to say goodbye, she'd said. I told her we did. And still she kept calling.
"Hehlo? Izzis Henry?"
"Yes, Mya," I whispered, watching to see if Amanda would wake up.
"Where are you?"
"At home."
"Why are you at home?"
"I was sleeping."
"Why are you sleeping?"
"Because I have work tomorrow." I waited. She said nothing. "Listen, Mya, you need to stop calling me."
"Oh, stop it," she said, and I could picture her waving her hand dismissively. "You're not sleeping now. It's early, silly.
Come out for a drink."
"Mya, there's no way…"
"Who is that?" I felt Amanda stir, her eyes fluttering open.
"Is someone on the phone?"
"It's me," I said softly. "Go back to sleep. It's Mya again."
"Again? Does she think you deliver pizza or something?"
Amanda said through a yawn. "Tell her to call Domino's and get out of our life."
I waited a moment until Amanda's breathing evened.
"Listen, Mya, I'm going back to sleep. Please. Stop calling."
"I miss you, Henry." Her voice had changed, choked up. I closed my eyes. Tried not to think about the last time I'd hung up on Mya late at night. I couldn't do it again. She had to choose to let it go.
"Come on, Mya, I'm with someone else now. You know that. Please. Hang up the phone. Go back to your friends."
"I have no friends. Please, Hen. I really want to see you."
"Good night, Mya. I have to go. You should go."
"Fine," she said, and then I heard a dial tone.
I swallowed. Felt Amanda stir. Wished Mya hadn't gotten so screwed up after the whole mess last year. Wished she could be happy.
And then the phone rang again. Amanda bolted upright.
"Don't bars in this city have a closing time? I swear you need to get a restraining order. If you answer it you're sleeping on the couch."
"I don't fit on the couch."
"Then you get the refrigerator. I have an eight-thirty tomorrow. It's hard to convince a child that their future is in good hands if their counsel shows up looking like Morticia Addams."
I pressed Answer. "Mya, I told you I'm with someone-"
"That's none of my business or concern, Henry, but if it makes you feel better Jack asked me to blow you a kiss."
Crap. It was Wallace Langston, the editor-in-chief of the
New York Gazette. My boss. And he definitely wasn't calling because he missed me. Wallace was a good man, had hired me out of college, but I learned quickly that New York had a way of chewing up and spitting out its good men. Few newsmen were more respected, but readers didn't care much about professional courtesy. They wanted juice, gossip, and sadly often the lowest form of both. And that was one thing
Wallace refused to give.
I'd gotten used to late-night calls from the office. Jack
O'Donnell-my colleague and professional idol-was prone to doing it just for kicks. Like Mya, sometimes late at night
I could smell the Seagrams on his breath through the phone.
Jack worked late. He was unmarried, had no children. He just needed to hear a friendly voice, I supposed, because there weren't many in his life. So I didn't mind. And thankfully
Amanda slept like wood.
"Wallace, what's up?"
"I need you at Thirteenth and Eleventh. Right away."
"I'm guessing this isn't so we can spend nine bucks on a beer at one of those clubs in the meatpacking district."
He ignored me. "Just get in a cab. There's been a homicide at some swanky shindig called the Pussy Club, I need you to cover it. I'd send Jack but he hasn't set foot in anything but an Irish pub since the seventies."
"Pussy Club…you mean the Kitten Club?"
"I mean it's 2:33 a.m. and if you're not here in ten minutes, we're going to get scooped by the Dispatch, the Observer and those crummy papers they give away for free on the subway platforms."
"Why me? Who's on night shift?"
"You're the only guy who's even remotely young enough to even understand this stuff. Now get dressed."
"What stuff? I don't follow."
"Athena Paradis was shot to death this morning. Looks like it might have been some sort of execution. Single shot, from a distance. I'm going out on a limb and saying you're more familiar with her, er, resume than Jack is."
I was stunned. Athena Paradis. The world's most famous socialite. Famous for, well, something. She averaged three page ones a month at the Dispatch. Wallace refused to give her that kind of coverage unless she cured AIDS or something. But murder changed all that, I guess.
"On my way," I said.
"I was never a fan of hers," Wallace said, offering more information than he needed to. "But the way it looks down there…she didn't deserve what this monster did."