When You Don't See Me (6 page)

I pressed 2 and began, “Uncle Blaine? It's Nick.”

Too bad I hadn't specified
good
luck when I'd wished for some luck of my own.

A couple hours later, I was a free man, wondering how much Uncle Blaine had spent to buy my way out of being charged with anything. He hadn't waited around to give me answers. I didn't want the cops to change their minds, so I just walked out of the Ninth Precinct. Someone had brought my coat and left it for me. I buttoned it against the cold night air and splurged on a cab to take me home.

March 5, 2003

Nicky,

I was surprised to call my brother and learn that you moved out of his apartment and dropped out of Pratt. My check that was meant to cover your tuition cleared. Is that the money you used to get into your own apartment? Don't you think that's something we should have talked about first?

I suppose it's too late for me to reason with you, but I'm very concerned about the choices you're making. I assume you're getting a job and suggest that if you plan to return to school in the fall, you save enough to pay your tuition. I'm not going to give you money again unless you can prove that you're more responsible and committed to your education.

Dad

T
he beauty of working as a housekeeper for I Dream of Cleanie was that I usually didn't have to work until after 10:00 AM. The downfall of living in a microcosm with three other people was that my roommates made a lot of noise in the morning. Because my room was off of the kitchen, I heard it all. I lay in bed and listened to the same dialogue each morning.

“Can't I go first?”

“I'll be five minutes. Ten, tops.”

“Hurry up. Don't use all the hot water, like yesterday.”

“Give me a break, Morgan. When you get out of the bathroom, it looks like a steam room.”

“At least I hang up my towels.”

“At least I don't hang my panties to dry over the curtain rod.”

“Where do you dry your panties, Roberto?”

“Shut up.”

Roberto slammed the bathroom door behind him. I finally got out of bed just as Morgan turned her wrath on Kendra.

“Is that my cereal you're eating?”

I pulled back the sheet in my doorway and saw Kendra perched on a stack of boxes in the corner of the kitchen. She sat cross-legged, a bowl of cereal in one hand, a spoon poised midair between the bowl and her mouth, looking guilty as sin. Through a mouthful of cereal she mumbled, “No.”

Morgan, her back to me, folded her arms and said, “It is. Why are you eating my cereal? I clearly labeled everything that's mine.”

“It's mine,” Kendra insisted.

Morgan opened a cupboard and pulled out a Raisin Bran box. She shook it for dramatic effect and said, “This is your cereal. The one with three flakes and a raisin inside.”

“Sounds like our apartment,” Roberto yelled from the bathroom.

Morgan ignored him and said, “Mine was practically new, but now it's half-full.”

“Or it's half empty,” I said, moving past her to make toast. “Depending on your worldview.”

“Stay out of this,” Morgan demanded.

“Don't mind me. I'm just waiting for my toast. Carry on with your interrogation.” Morgan sneered at me and over her shoulder, I could see Kendra cringe. I added, “Do you have time for this? Don't you have to be at work soon?”

“I can manage my schedule on my own, thank you,” Morgan said. She turned to Kendra, glanced at the clock on the wall, then made a noise of exasperation as she went into her bedroom, obviously giving up.

“Thanks,” Kendra whispered.

“Don't thank me. I just want peace and quiet. I don't know why I have to wake up to this insanity every day.” My toast popped up and I caught it before it hit the counter. Even though I bleached it daily, I knew the counter was a roach playground in the middle of the night. When Kendra hopped from the boxes to the floor, I pointed at them and said, “I thought you guys were going to find a place for all your crap.”

Kendra rinsed her bowl in the sink and replied, “We will.”

“That's what you said last week.”

“Most of it's Morgan's. You try getting her to do anything.”

“You got me there.”

Roberto passed through on his way to our room, a towel barely wrapped around his waist. “Yo.”

“Yo,” I replied to his retreating backside.

Kendra blushed, stammered something about it being her turn, and scampered into the bathroom. I took my tea and toast to the living room, the best place to avoid the others' morning routines.

Roberto poked his head into the room, tossed my cell to me, and said, “Your phone just vibrated. I think you have a message.” While I listened to my messages, I heard the front door slam. A few minutes later, as I was dialing, it slammed again. Kendra meandered into the room and sank to the floor in front of me. She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off by holding up my hand.

“Benny, it's Nick. I got your message. I'm sorry, but Chelsea? I don't think I can—”

“What do you mean? Nick, I need you. Deshaun is sick. He covered for you when you were out sick. Besides, weren't you the one who was begging me for more hours?”

“I wouldn't say I was begging,” I protested.

“I'm really in a bind, Nick,” Benny whined. “I know you don't like to work below Fifty-seventh Street, but there's literally nobody else who can do this job. Anyway, the client's a neat freak. You'll hardly have to do anything. A little dusting, that's all.”

I knew that was bunk. While it was true that our more anal retentive clients had cleaner apartments, they were also far more demanding. The smallest spot on a water glass, or a speck of dust on a bookshelf, sent them into fits of rage. But as a substitute, I wouldn't have to break my back. If my work wasn't up to snuff, Benny could apologize and promise I'd never darken their doorstep again.

“This is a one time thing, right?”

“Of course. You can fit him in between your ten and four o'clock clients. Please, Nick. You have to do this. He's a very important—”

“Fine,” I relented. “I'll do it.”

Benny gave me the address, and I groaned after I disconnected the call.

“Bad news?” Kendra asked. I'd almost forgotten she was in the room. Before I could answer, she said, “Roberto and Morgan are gone. Call in sick. I don't want to go to my classes. Let's goof off.”

“I can't afford to goof off. I have bills to pay. So do you.”

“They don't pay me to go to class,” she said. “Besides, I'm just talking about ditching class. I'll go to work this afternoon.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to miss work and not get paid, so I can keep you company and entertain you. But later, you're going to ditch me, so you can go earn a living?”

“Uh, yeah,” she said.

“Nice try. Go to class,” I said. “I have to get ready for work.”

 

By the time I arrived at the temporary cleaning gig in Chelsea, I was already exhausted. My ten o'clock had been a single mother, which meant several loads of laundry. Of course she didn't have a laundry room in her building. I had to schlep everything three blocks away, running back and forth between loads to wash dishes, vacuum, dust, and bleach everything her precious baby could possibly put in her mouth. Right before I left, there was a diaper incident that made me want to call in a hazardous waste crew.

The address Benny had given me led me to a condominium high-rise. I rechecked the numbers, hoping I'd read them wrong. Unfortunately, I hadn't. I stood outside, staring up, trying to count the floors. Across the street, the half-finished steel skeleton of a similar building rose from behind a blue barricade. Signs were posted along the fencing, urging pedestrians to keep back. Returning home to Spanish Harlem seemed a safe distance. But I didn't want to lose my job. With any luck, the apartment I'd been sent to clean would be on the third floor.

In the lobby, the concierge handed me a key to one of the two penthouses. He called after me, “Don't forget to water the plants on the terrace.”

I turned back to smile and nod. When he looked away, I flipped him off and reluctantly summoned the elevator. Inside, I closed my eyes and screamed the chorus to “What Have I Done to Deserve This?” by the Pet Shop Boys, until the doors opened again. I willed the key not to work, but it did. Everyone and everything was against me.

The penthouse was easily four to five thousand square feet, with a mezzanine loft providing extra acreage to thwart my plan to get in and out as quickly as possible. The vast space was heightened by the minimalist décor. The few pieces of furniture were arranged in small groups, making a guided tour irrelevant. The black leather sofa, two chairs, and barren glass coffee table seemed to exclaim, “Hi! We're the seating area. If you sit down, please don't touch the table.” And so on through the apartment.

As promised, the owner was compulsively neat. The kitchen was cold and sterile. The stainless steel island begged for an emergency appendectomy to be performed on it. The glass table in the nearby dining area suggested that its owner's motto might be
Tables should be clean and not seen.
The mirror in the guest bath had one fingerprint on its center. I laughed and wondered how many other strategic hairs or crumbs were left to test me.

I emptied the trash can, but ignored the mirror entirely.

The bedrooms were just as sleek and modern. I was grateful for the black lacquered platform beds, because I didn't have to clean under them. Not that I would've. I'd already made up my mind that I didn't like the apartment's owner. I didn't want to care for his apartment, either. I didn't like modern high-rise buildings. They sometimes looked interesting and different from the norm on the outside, but inside, the apartments were always the same cookie-cutter formation. Kitchen, living area, bedroom, bath, all arranged in rectangle after rectangle, box upon box. The owner of this penthouse had to be king of the banal.

I tried to water the plants on the terrace, as instructed. But when I felt the wind rush past my ears and saw how high up I was, I heaved into a potted palm and went back inside.

I found some aspirin in the master bathroom medicine cabinet. I washed it down, leaving water droplets on the granite sink, sat down on the bed, and opened a nightstand drawer. Parker D. Brooks owed fifty-six thousand three hundred twelve dollars and eighty-two cents to American Express. And I thought I had problems. I spent the next half hour looking through his closets and opening drawers, sometimes trying on his clothes.

I was accessorizing with a pair of sunglasses when I heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. A voice behind me said, “Drop the shades and raise your hands slowly! Wait. Don't. Carefully place the Armani sunglasses on the dresser, then raise your hands slowly.”

I followed instructions and willed myself not to pee in his pants.

The guy I assumed was Parker D. Brooks patted me down with one hand, then said, “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Cleaning?”

I slowly turned around. He looked like he was only a few years older than me, which was surprising. I'd imagined Parker D. Brooks as being in his forties, with a chiseled body underneath his expensive suits. This guy looked like he spent all day at the tennis courts—so he could watch.

He squinted at my crotch and asked, “Are those my pants?”

“They're a little big,” I said defensively.

“Take them off!” he demanded. “And hang them up. I don't believe this. Who are you, anyway, and where's Deshaun?”

“I'm William,” I lied. “Deshaun's sick. I'm just filling in.”

“This is unacceptable.” He tossed the gun into the bedside drawer on top of the American Express bill, muttering that it wasn't loaded anyway. He pulled a vial from his pocket, cut two lines on the nightstand, then snorted them up his right nostril while I pulled on my jeans and thought about running for the fire stairs. I'd never seen anyone snort cocaine. “This has never happened to me before. I'm not a bad person. Why would you do this to me? I don't deserve to be treated like this. If you were me, what would you do?”

Wipe my nose off,
I thought. Instead, I said, “I don't know.”

“Genius answer,” he said. “Do you do this to all your clients?”

“No.”

“Just me? I don't even know you. Ask me anything, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know. You don't have to snoop through my things.”

“Are you going to call my boss?” I asked.

“I should,” Parker D. Brooks said. “Unless you can give me a reason not to.”

Before I knew what I was doing, I heard myself stammering and whining about how I needed my job, how I had rent and bills to pay, and how I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I got fired. I sounded weak and pathetic.

I was almost grateful when Parker D. Brooks held up his hand and said, “Okay. I get the picture.” He thought for a minute, looked me up and down, then said, “William, I won't call your boss. Your friend Deshaun and I have an arrangement, and since you're filling in, maybe you'd like to fill in on that end, too.”

“What end?” I asked, willing my eyes not to look at his pearlike butt.

“I run a company. Videos.”

Of course you do,
I thought.

“Sometimes I direct. What do you say I set up my camera, turn it on, lie on this bed, and you and I—”

“I don't think so,” I interrupted. Then I remembered the gun and added, “No, thank you.”

“You're sure? I'd pay you. Two thousand. Five, if you let me screw you.”

I didn't really know Deshaun, or where he lived, but I wanted to find out immediately so I could smack him around.

“Really, no. Thanks anyway,” I said and turned to leave.

“Then I have no choice but to speak to your boss and tell him what I caught you doing,” Parker D. Brooks called after me. He spoke in a singsong tone, as if that somehow made it okay to blackmail me.