How To Save A Life Read online

Having heard me, both goons turn to get a good look at who’s interrupted their little party of three. Essentially this takes the decision out of my hands. There’s no walking away now.

  “What’s up, fellas…”

  Pulse racing, I give them a jaunty grin and discreetly delve into my messenger bag for my constant companions, two items I never leave home without and neither are a credit card: bear spray and a titanium telescoping stick. This isn’t my first rodeo.

  “Fuck off,” one of them growls.

  Nice.

  Surprising no one, they are not happy to see me. “I’d love to, but the subway’s in this direction and you’re in my way.” I motion to the corner and blow a bubble, pop it loudly.

  “This bitch for real?” soon-to-be inmate number two says with a dry chuckle.

  Behind him, the rude guy looks to be shaking off getting his bell rung. He staggers around on his feet. The tall one punches him in the gut.

  I swear I can almost feel it as he folds over in pain. Empathy’s a burden.

  “C’mon, you have his wallet. Let him go.”

  One laughs like he’s completely unhinged while the other stares like he’s imagining me in pieces. There’s clearly no point in hoping common sense will prevail with these two.

  The shorter meaner one takes a step toward me, posturing. And that’s my cue to take out my telescoping baton and snap it open. Meanwhile the tall skinny one, who’s clearly a meth head junkie, lets out diabolical laughter right out of a scene from The Joker movie.

  “Whatcha gonna do, bitch? You gonna take both of us on?” the stocky one says, puffing himself up.

  I should thank him for giving me a larger target to hit. Because make no mistake, even though I’m close to wetting my underpants, I’m still fully prepared to administer some street justice if necessary. There’s no bluffing in real life. Which is why I shove down all semblance of fear and square up.

  “Challenge accepted,” is my answer to that. He approaches and adrenaline spills into my veins. “But first…” Spitting my gum out at his feet, I point to the video surveillance cameras outside the door of the Jewish Community Center across the street. “Smile for the cameras, ladies.”

  That stops him in his tracks. Glancing up in the direction I indicated, he sees what I saw when I walked up on the scene––the blinking red light on the security cameras. As a woman walking around late at night, it pays to know my surroundings.

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” the stout one says to his meth-head buddy. The tall one shoves the rude guy one last time and they both slow-swagger down the street without a care in the world.

  As soon as they disappear around the corner, I melt, the tension draining out of me. All in all, it went better than anticipated. I didn’t break a sweat, and after checking my phone, I realize that if I run, I can probably still make the two o’clock ferry.

  I’m busy giving myself a mental high five when a clearing of the throat gets my attention.

  He’s leaning against the brick building with his head tipped back, breathing deeply, his shirt bloodied and tie hanging like a limp noose around his neck. One eye looks worse for wear, but it’s his lip that took the brunt of it. It’s split in half and will probably need a stitch or two.

  “That was stupid,” he croaks.

  Hmm, okay then. “You mispronounced thank you, but you’re welcome anyway.” I start to walk away because now I’m getting legit annoyed. No good deed and all that.

  “Hey…where are you going?” I hear him grumble.

  Is that a serious question?

  “Hey!”

  I guess the answer is yes. I turn to blast him and catch him swaying on his feet. Empathy strikes again and puts a damper on what was going to be a very satisfying verbal smack down.

  “Home. I suggest you go to an ER and get that lip stitched.”

  Head tipped down, he gingerly touches his swollen eye. “You can’t leave me here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said you can’t leave––”

  “I heard you. I just can’t believe my ears.”

  That sounded a heck of a lot like a statement of fact. Or an order. Which is arguably worse in my book, but he did take a couple of direct shots to the face, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

  “Want me to call an ambulance?”

  Stepping away from the wall, he wipes his mouth with his thumb and frowns at the blood. “No,” he says in a not very nice tone.

  “Hey, ray of sunshine. I just saved your life. Call me crazy but I’m not sensing even a small measure of appreciation from you.”

  “I need you to drive me home.”

  This is quickly descending into the realm of the absurd. “Are you kidding?” The nerve of this guy.

  He runs his hands through his hair and stretches out his shoulders. “Can you drive?”

  I look around, genuinely confused at this point. Is this some kind of set up? Is someone playing a prank on me? “Don’t you have like…a driver?” Obvious question. It’s Manhattan––this is standard fare for the rich. “Or a security person or something?”

  “If I had a security person, would I have gotten my ass kicked?”

  Fair point. Although I don’t appreciate the sharp tone one bit.

  “Anyone you can call?”

  “No.”

  I find that impossible to believe.

  “Do you know how to drive or not?” he repeats, tone downright petulant.

  “You know…I thought you were rude back at the restaurant. But now you’re making me sorry I didn’t let them give you more free plastic surgery.” After which, I continue walking toward the subway. I’ve got stuff to do, sleep to catch up on, a life to live that does not include standing on a downtown street arguing with a bossy ungrateful stranger.

  “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks,” he shouts.

  My feet stop moving because, well, money. I can always use more money. Turning, I watch him walk toward me. Talk about false advertising. By the looks of him, you would think he’d know how to handle himself. It’s kind of tragic how bad he is at it. For a man his size, he at the very least should’ve been able to get a few licks in.

  “Two fifty,” I counter because it’s late and I don’t like his attitude.

  He scowls, wincing as his now swollen eye tugs at the corner. “Extortion.”

  “Cool––see ya.”

  “Two hundred,” he counters and by the sound of the muttering that follows he’s not too happy about it. Good.

  I would’ve settled for one fifty but that’s tough crackers. He needs to learn how to negotiate better and God knows his sunny disposition doesn’t help.

  “Where do you live?”

  His expressions perks up. “Seventy-Second and Fifth…across the Park.”

  The opposite of where I should be going. That’s probably a bad sign.

  Chapter Two

  Riley

  Uptown may as well be planet Mars to me. I never travel that far north unless I’m visiting Veronica at Bergdorf Goodman. Under normal circumstances, I would decline but these are definitely not normal circumstances. The night’s already shot, the ferry long gone. At this point it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting any sleep, so I might as well take the money and run. Small problem, however…

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “I do,” he says, motioning to the metallic gray Bentley Continental GT with a racing stripe parked at the curb.

  I blink. Perplexed. Bewildered. Blink again. “You parked a quarter-million-dollar car on the street. And you accuse me of being stupid?”

  “You know cars,” he says in a flat, completely disinterested tone. In a prior life, I knew cars all too well. Like I know how much you can get for the parts and which chop shops know how to dismantle the GPS tracker on this baby. “Do we have a deal?”

  He has a way of speaking that makes everything sound inconsequential. As if he’s doing me a favor. Something about it bothers me. Mayb
e it’s that he doesn’t realize how good he has it, that the rest of us are struggling to get from one day to the next. But whatever, the car has my attention now. And it’s a spectacular example of sleek sophistication and epic horsepower. I’ve seen a few around town. Though nothing like this limited edition with a custom paint job.

  “I want cash. I don’t trust anyone too cheap to park that car in a garage.”

  He nods. “I have some at my place.”

  Right, they have his wallet.

  “Your place…” Sigh. “Look, dude, do I need to explain that I can do a lot more damage to your face than the two goons who jumped you?”

  In the restaurant, when he was pressed and powered and looking like a depressed Bruce Wayne, he was intimidating. Now he just looks like a beat-up rich guy in desperate need of my help. The playing field feels leveled.

  “No.” I can hear the smile in his voice even though his face is a blank slate. This night keeps getting stranger and stranger.

  “Good.”

  Together we cross the street in silence. It’s then I notice he’s in worse shape than I initially surmised. Walking stiffly, his face flinches with each step he takes and a tiny bit of guilt stirs in my chest. Maybe I was a little hard on him. Just because he’s a generally rude person doesn’t mean I should sink to his level.

  We reach the car and he takes my wrist, dropping a key in my palm. No lie, I’m almost giddy at the prospect of driving this car. It’s a masterpiece of engineering, the exterior sexy and sleek, the interior the very definition of luxury. I wouldn’t be surprised if the upholstery is stuffed with hundred-dollar billz yo. It smells of money too, new leather with a subtle hint of his expensive aftershave lingering in the air.

  Depressed Bruce Wayne, as I now think of him, settles in the passenger seat and tips his head back. His eyes fall shut. Meanwhile, the dumb-dumb behind the wheel of the car emits an embarrassing audible sigh. This earns me a slow examining glance. A smile wants to flare on my face, but I resist the temptation. Those guardrails need to stay firmly in place for my safety and his. Thankfully, his interest doesn’t last very long.

  “Sorry. Your car just gave me a hug.”

  “What’s your name?”

  Nah. That’s not happening. I’m not keen on giving strangers my name. Call it a well-developed survival instinct. Ignoring the question, I pull the Bentley into traffic and turn up Tenth Avenue.

  “Your name?” he repeats impatiently.

  We come to a red light and a bus pulls along his quarter-million-dollar car. On the side of the bus there’s a poster advertising travel to the Philippines. Having never set foot outside the tri-state area I have an unhealthy addiction to travel shows. It reminds me of the one I watched not too long ago.

  “Imelda…”

  Not my best effort, but what can I say––it’s late and my supply of BS is running low.

  He cracks his eyes open and turns to look at me…I mean really look at me. I’m not usually a vain person, but my long hair is falling out of a ponytail and it’s curling like crazy with the humidity. One plus one equals I look like a steaming pile of garbage.

  “Imelda?” He blinks and stares. Actually, he only blinks the one eye that isn’t swollen shut. One eye notwithstanding, the super laser focused examination makes me defensive.

  “Yeah, Imelda.”

  “Imelda what?” We exchange sparring glances for a moment or two. He exhales tiredly. “I have no desire to remember this night after we part ways––last name?”

  He sounds so completely disaffected and detached I almost break a cardinal rule and tell him the truth. “Maarrrcus.”

  He makes a face. “Marcos?”

  “Marcus. My last name is Marcus. It’s like…a different pronunciation.” The way he’s looking at me is throwing off my major league game. I’m usually better at covering my tracks than this sloppy effort.

  “Your name is Imelda Marcus?” he repeats in clear disbelief.

  “Immi, for short,” I ramble on, my hands sweating on the kid leather steering wheel as they often do when I lie. “That’s what my friends call me, but we’re not friends so kindly refrain from using it.”

  He snorts. And judging by the wince, it hurts his face. The light turns green and I proceed north, crawling up Tenth Avenue even though the streets are mostly empty since the masses fled the city for the beach earlier today.

  “Why are we barely moving?” he says a few minutes later.

  “Because I don’t want you to hurl in the car. I have a thing about puke. I can’t stand the stuff.”

  “I’m not going to hurl.” His frown is legit close to turning into a smile as his eyes fall shut again. “Hit the gas. Drive it like you stole it.”

  I do as I’m told, weaving in between yellow cabs and the occasional minivan with Jersey plates. “You know…,” I say, dividing my attention between him and the road, “it was kind of stupid of you to be walking around late at night completely shit-faced.”

  The questions are duplicating like gremlins in my head and I can’t keep my mouth shut when that happens. He, on the other hand, says nothing. Doesn’t even twitch. I get zero feedback from him, and without it we fade back into silence for a few more blocks.

  “Just a hunch, but it looks like you can afford security,” I add. More silence from him. This guy is a sphinx. Which, of course, only feeds my curiosity. “I mean––”

  “Do you always talk this much?” he finally fires back.

  Testy. Good to see he still has a pulse. I was beginning to wonder. “Consider it another favor. You could have a concussion and I’m doing my part to keep you awake.”

  “You’re a regular Florence Nightingale,” he deadpans.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Not long after the side of my face starts to burn under his pointed scrutiny. “What?”

  “Do you know how to use that stick or is it a prop?”

  I’m really good with it, but I don’t want to give too much away in case I need to remind him who’s boss. Best to keep that critical information to myself.

  “I know how to use it,” I tell him. “My friend is a cop. He teaches self-defense.” Which naturally prompts me to throw him a side-eye. “I can give you his number.”

  Dominic could teach this guy a thing or two.

  “Would you have fought them?” The skepticism in his voice comes through loud and clear. This isn’t the first time a man has doubted what I’m capable of. It never ends well for them.

  “I’ve broken a few bones.” The city isn’t as safe as it used to be, tonight being another shining example of it.

  “You like to fight?” he continues.

  “Nope––” I say, turning to look him in his good eye. He needs to see that I mean the next few words that will come out of my mouth with all my heart and soul. “I hate fighting. I just refuse to be a victim.”

  A car behind us honks and I realize we’re sitting at a green light. I hit the gas, buzzing across 57th Street to the east side.

  “So…why don’t you have security?”

  “Because I don’t need it.”

  I glance over to confirm he’s kidding. I mean, how can he not be? His face looks like he ran into the back end of mule. Instead, I find him in deep thought, staring absently out the window at the mostly deserted street. That’s when the late nights on my feet and the long hours working during the day catch up with me. I start laughing. And not just laughing––I’m talking tears-running-down-my-face, barely-able-to-drive laughing.

  “Is that so?” I finally get out as the giggles wear off. He’s entertaining––I’ll give him that.

  “Yes, it is,” he counters without a shred of embarrassment.

  This guy…

  He’s definitely entertaining. Even if he doesn’t mean to be.

  Ten minutes later, I’m driving down Fifth Avenue when he gestures to the illuminated lobby of a prewar building.

  “Park in front.”

  I pull the Bentley to
the curb, and he jumps out, walking into the lobby without a backward glance. What other choice do I have other than to grab my messenger bag and chase after him. It’s past one a.m. I need to settle our business and head back downtown.

  There’s a middle-aged white guy in a dark suit sitting behind a white marble counter in the lobby. He puts down the tablet and mutes the game he was watching. “Boss,” he says to the guy whose name I now realize I don’t know.

  “Kevin. Can you take care of the car, please? It’s out front.”

  He gestures for me to hand over the keys and I do, laying them on the counter.

  “Will do,” Kevin responds while he eyeballs me suspiciously. Whatever. His snobby doorman can stuff it.

  On the elevator ride up, the guy whose name I don’t know leans back against the mahogany panel and closes his eyes. The gremlins are back and multiplying by the second. Before I can ask a single question, however, the bell dings and the elevator doors slide open into a richly decorated hallway.

  I’ve been in buildings like this before. A friend of mine once worked as a doorman for a similar one on Park Avenue until he got fired for smoking weed on his lunch break. This guy owns the entire top floor.

  Pushing his front door open, he steps inside. The apartment is enormous, with an open floor plan filled with sterile contemporary furniture. Large pieces of depressing contemporary art cover the walls. Basically it’s a perfect reflection of the owner. And it’s dark. Dark and lifeless. I’m sensing a pattern here.

  “This way,” he says as he walks ahead, discarding his suit jacket and tie along the way. He throws them on a chair that looks too expensive to sit on. Dim lights come on automatically. I have no idea how this happens. It’s not like he has one of those clap on/clap off thingies. They just do.

  With my hand on the bear spray in my bag, I cautiously follow him into a very large kitchen. I am always prepared to defend myself at all cost. The swanky digs and the albeit roughed-up good looks don’t fool me. This is how women end up being trafficked and I’m not about to end up a statistic.

  “Cash, you said,” he mutters as he opens a drawer like any other. Except this is no ordinary kitchen knick-knack drawer. Nope, this guy has stacks of green bills in his. There’s got to be thousands in there.