The Shambling Guide to New York City (3 page)

Before Zoë could ask anything more, the old woman turned and wandered down the street, laughing again about “Zoë-Life.”

Zoë shrugged and went back into the café. A couple of the patrons shot her sidelong glances, but the room had returned to its former light and friendly atmosphere.

“You’re really not looking to make friends, are you?” John asked as she sat down.

“I don’t know what the problem is. She’s just a harmless old woman. She didn’t even shout obscenities or urinate on the wall,” Zoë said, not looking at him and taking her phone out of her pocket. The light on top was blinking, and she switched it on to read her messages.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, but that’s not your fault,” John said. He retrieved his own mobile phone and started typing something on the screen.

“Holy crap,” Zoë said, as she read her messages. She had already gotten a reply from Underground Publishing. She read the e-mail quickly.

She finally looked at John, a triumphant smile on her face. “Phil wants to talk to me. I’ve got an interview.”

John nodded absently, checking his own phone. “Yeah, but don’t worry. We have time for another cup of coffee. You want a refill on me?”

Zoë blinked at him, her triumph melting into a feeling of stupidity. “Uh, what?”

“Didn’t you read your e-mail? Phil wants to see you at four o’clock. It’s three fifteen now.”

Zoë gasped and called up the e-mail again. There it was, four o’clock. She looked down at herself. She wore her favorite (read: old) beige sweater, which now had a grimy streak across the front from that foul bookstore. Underneath that she wore an old Pearl Jam T-shirt with an ink stain on the shoulder and a hole by the neck seam. Jeans, purple Chuck Taylor sneakers, and her vintage
denim jacket completed her wardrobe. She hadn’t even washed her hair that morning. “I’m not dressed for an interview.”

John shrugged. “Phil is likely trying to catch you off guard. I told you, you won’t fit in with us. He’s going to try to find any reason not to hire you. Here’s a hint: Phil likes confidence.”

Zoë narrowed her eyes. “Why are you helping me? You clearly didn’t want me to get the job ten minutes ago.”

John’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Oh no, I’d like nothing more than to work with you. You seem intelligent and willing to take risks. You’re also not shy. I hate shy women.” Zoë frowned, but remained silent. “I’m just saying, I agree with Phil: you won’t fit in. Once you learn more about the job, you probably won’t even want it.”

Zoë sat back. “We’ll see. And yes, I will take that coffee.” Her heart pounded in anticipation of her interview. “But make it decaf.”

Zoë had demanded John keep silent as she frantically searched the Web on her phone, looking for any information on Underground Publishing. She pulled up a page with a slate-gray background saying “Under Construction,” complete with a circa-1997 animated gif of a little stick man in a yellow hard hat digging the same shovelful of pixelated dirt over and over. She groaned.

Well, there’s a place to start with suggestions for the company.
It gave her nothing to go on, though.

She began to make notes about what the website needed, surfing to other publishing sites to see what common elements they contained. She bit her lip and typed in the URL for Misconceptions Publishing. Godfrey’s trim, bearded face smiled at her from the home page, and she hit the back button and closed her eyes.

She knew what was on its site. She’d designed the damn thing back when Misconceptions was a little company with a skeleton crew. It had been her idea to put his face on the front page, giving the company a figurehead, someone to trust.

Just as I trusted him.

She took a deep breath and then a big gulp of her coffee. Now was definitely not the time to think about Godfrey. She frowned, and then rooted around in her leather satchel. She dug out a little silver MINI Cooper (a gift from Godfrey, its once-comforting weight now feeling like a heavy reminder) and put it aside, firmly telling herself to stop pining like a brokenhearted teen. After a little more rooting through papers and two novels, she found what she was looking for: one copy of
Raleigh Misconceptions
, the book she’d edited (not to mention that the entire
Misconceptions
line was her baby). She put the little car back in her satchel and then looked at her watch.

“How long does it take to get to Underground Publishing?” she asked John, who was reading the
Times
. “Should we catch a cab?”

“Nah. It’s around the corner,” John said, putting his newspaper into his briefcase.

Zoë raised her eyebrows. “A publishing company in the Theater District?”

He grinned. “Phil rented and refurbished an old off-Broadway theater and put a publishing company there. But working in an old theater won’t be the weirdest thing you encounter today, I promise.”

Zoë shrugged. “All right, then. Lead on.” She bused her table, dropping the dishes at the counter.

Carl stopped her before she could go, his hand touching her wrist lightly. “Listen, Zoë, isn’t it?” She nodded. “If you’re a friend of John’s, then I’ll warn you, we’ve had… trouble with
Granny Good Mae in the past. I’ll serve anyone who can pay, and sometimes if they can’t. But Mae is a different story.”

Zoë frowned. “I still don’t see what’s so harmful about the old woman.”

“I hope you never have to know,” he said. He stuck his hand out. “Water under the bridge?”

She shook it, surprised. “Sure, I guess.”

She followed John into the afternoon sunlight, and he led her around the corner and down an alley. John proudly waved his hand down a rickety staircase that led to a below-street-level theater. “And here we are.”

The doorway had no signage, and had a board nailed across it, even though it opened inward.

Zoë nodded calmly, looking around for possible exits. “So you’re bringing me here to kill me.”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh, goodness no. I’m pretty sure in a one-on-one match, you’d end up on top, easy.”

Zoë gripped her satchel and planted her feet, but John made no aggressive moves toward her. She hadn’t studied martial arts in a couple of years, but she still remembered the basics. “So you just expect me to go into a condemned theater with a guy who I just met, who’s been checking me out for the last hour?” she asked.

John grinned ruefully. “I can’t help my nature, Zoë. And you’re the one who wanted the job, remember?”

He had her there. She pointed down the stairwell. “You go first.”

John shrugged. “Sure.”

She watched him walk all the way down the stairs and reach under the board to push the door open. “Now just duck under the board, and we’re in.”

Zoë swallowed hard, curious despite her fear. She pulled out
her phone to check if she still had cell service, and dialed 91 and kept her finger over the 1. She followed John down the stairs and, saying a prayer to whatever god might be listening in a disused alley near Fifty-First Street, she slipped under the board and followed John into the dark hallway.

One of the best things about New York City is how coterie have insinuated themselves into the culture. Broadway wouldn’t have started without the fae queen, Titania, establishing the New Amsterdam at West Forty-Second Street, but infighting among the fae made the palace fall into squalor. Peaseblossom, who has held power for the past four decades, has restored the palace to its former glory. He’s welcomed vampires, succubi, and incubi, and even some of the fresher zombies, into Broadway auditions.

The coterie-friendly cast and crew may imply that all coterie are welcome to audition or attend, but you need to remember the dress code is key: make sure to blend in.

As with all auditions, don’t expect your coterie status to get you in; they still want the best, and they’ll choose a human over you if you don’t measure up to their standards.

T
here was a distinct lack of smell in the hallway. Zoë realized it didn’t smell musty or even overly clean and bleachy; it didn’t smell like anything.

Dim lights along the wall lit the sad, worn red carpet. Her logical mind told her that following a stranger into a condemned building was about as smart as climbing trees during a lightning storm, but for some reason Zoë felt no sense of panic. Something told her that this was legit, and a certain, curious part of her was eager to see what a publisher would do with an old theater.

The lobby was small and empty, with an ancient popcorn machine at the leaning candy counter. John led her around to a side door and into another hallway. Zoë realized they were going backstage. She peeked through one of the portholes in the wall and saw a woman sitting in the theater, by herself in the dim light, reading a book. Zoë frowned and picked up her pace to catch up to John.

Once she got backstage, Zoë realized that, yes, they had actually renovated the old theater to house a publishing company. The wings held a fridge and a freestanding cupboard, and the stage looked to be the set of a break room complete with a table and chairs, and easy chairs. Shelves filled with colorful books sat next to the easy chairs, with reading lamps on top of them. If not for the hundreds of dusty, empty seats facing the area, it might even have been cozy.

“That’s the break room,” said John. “Everyone works in the dressing rooms backstage. Editorial in one room, marketing in another, the boss gets his own dressing room. The star, you know.” He winked at her.

Zoë managed a smile. Her fear had mostly left her, but she still didn’t trust this guy. She glanced at him as he led her down another poorly lit hallway. He definitely didn’t look as if he could take her; he looked like an unsure nouveau riche who had bought an expensive suit without having a tailor measure him.

“Phil wants to see you before you meet anyone else,” he said over his shoulder.

“Mysterious,” she said, trying to sound amused. They had reached the dressing rooms at this point, all of them closed, and headed for the one with a big star on the door. John knocked on the door twice.

“Come!”

John raised his eyebrows. “Ready?”

She made a face at him. “You take me this far and ask me if I’m ready now?” She moved past him and put her hand on the doorknob. “Stop trying to psych me out.”

Zoë nearly laughed as she opened the door. She’d expected the publishing company to have taken over the theater and made it look sterile and corporate, but Phil Rand had apparently not done anything to modify the star’s dressing room. It was still lit largely by a vanity, which he had apparently repurposed as his desk. Instead of makeup and hair products, he had books and notebooks and pens, but the abandoned theater still apparently boasted a good deal of its costuming and set pieces; a corner held trunks, armoires, and hat racks. Phil stood as they entered and left his seat at the vanity to walk forward and shake her hand. He still looked unassuming and bland when lit brightly by the clear bulbs. He was maybe thirty pounds overweight, with a red
ponytail and thin glasses. He was more casual than John, still wearing his T-shirt. He seemed even taller than he had in the bookstore. His clean-shaven face was freckled and mature, yet unlined, so she guessed his age at around thirty-five.

“Zoë, how nice to see you again,” he said, his voice seeming friendlier than it had in the store.

She smiled at him. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Rand. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me so soon.”

“I appreciate tenacity. If you’re so interested in this job, far be it from me to dissuade you with words. I’m so glad that John was able to lead you here. You may not have been able to find the place on your own; we don’t advertise very much.”

Zoë felt she was being tested already, and decided not to be thrown off. “I wouldn’t worry about it, sir, your business isn’t direct retail. As long as employees can get to work, there’s no issue. While I might worry about OSHA getting upset at a few of your more… eccentric design decisions, I love your offices. They’re unique.”

“OSHA. Right. I’ll make a note of that,” Phil said, scribbling something on a pad. It was literally a scribble. Zoë caught sight of it when he put the pad down, and the scrawl was completely illegible.

This is decidedly weird.

“Have a seat,” he said, inviting her to a plush pink couch. Zoë joined him. Phil looked pointedly at John, who looked slightly startled, then nodded and left the room. “I want to know what John told you about the company,” he said.

Zoë remembered what John had told her and sat up straighter. “Not much more than what you said. He said I wouldn’t fit in, that I am not like the rest of you.”

Phil sat back. “He was telling the truth. And he told you nothing else?”

She frowned. “No. He refused to, even though I thought it was jumping to some pretty extreme conclusions. And now you’re doing it again. Why interview me if you agree with him?”

He smiled at her. “Because when you find out what this company is all about, you’re going to leave. And I want to make sure you remember that you could have left this whole time.”