inside the dorms.”
“Oh, I’m no stranger,” Paulina said, laughing. “Do
you know Abigail Cole?”
The girl’s eyebrows lifted. “Why do you ask?”
“My daughter,” Paulina said, shrugging. “Surprise visit.”
Suddenly the girl smiled, enthusiasm radiating from
her. It took Paulina by surprise. “No way!” the girl nearly
shrieked. “I’m Pam. I’ve asked Abby so many times about
her family and, well, I guess you know what she’s like.
When she decides to clam up, no crowbar in the world
can get her talking.”
“That’s Abby,” Paulina said. “So you know her?”
“Know her?” Pam asked, somewhat surprised. “Hasn’t
she mentioned…”
“We don’t talk much.”
“Oh. Because we’ve been…I don’t know, seeing
each other.”
“Really,” Paulina said.
Pam nodded, hesitating before she spoke. “But I guess
Abby didn’t tell you.”
“Must have slipped her mind.”
“Here,” the girl said, opening the inner door and holding it for Paulina. “Sorry to keep you.”
“She’s in room three-oh-three, right?”
“She might be.”
“Might be?”
The girl began to look nervous. She brought a finger
to her lip and began to chew. “She’s kind of been hanging
out at my place. Just for the last few weeks.”
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“Is she there now?”
“Probably. She doesn’t have psych until three.”
“Do you mind then?” Paulina said, pointing toward the
elevator bank.
“Oh, we’re on the first floor. Follow me.”
The girl led Paulina down the corridor, filled with
campus notices, posters and random detritus. When they
arrived at room three-nineteen, the girl knocked.
“Abby, are you decent?” she asked.
Before the door could open, a voice from inside called
cheekily, “I don’t have to be.”
“Abby, open up,” Pam said.
“All right, don’t get your panties knotted.” Paulina
heard a latch being undone from inside, and the door
opened. Standing in the doorway was a girl Paulina both
recognized and did not. Those green eyes, that long,
equine nose she got from her father, she’d recognize those
traits anywhere. But the jet-black hair, the nose ring, the
thick eyeliner—it nearly obscured the girl Paulina had
raised all those years ago.
“Hi, Abby,” Paulina said.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” came her
daughter’s startled reply.
12
Morgan stood outside of his apartment, his cheeks still
stinging from that morning’s shave. It was a good pain,
though, one that reminded him of what it felt like to wake
up with a purpose, to wake up knowing that the day would
take him somewhere. Shaving wasn’t a big deal on the
surface. Lots of people liked scruffiness, women especially these days, as though there was a magnetism to the
inherent laziness of it. Morgan loved the feel of running
a sharp blade over his face during a hot shower, the feel
of patting his skin after drying off. He knew that whenever he felt like that, things would go his way. A big paycheck. Some honey who knew he brought home the
money whereas that bearded artist who spent every penny
he owed on cheap paints and canvas could not.
Cleanliness. Right next to godliness. Perhaps somewhere in that equation was Morgan Isaacs.
He didn’t dare bring a cup of coffee with him, or anything more than his wallet and keys. He had no idea what
this guy Chester wanted, this guy with the hair so blond
it nearly disappeared in the sunlight. He didn’t look like
he belonged in New York, this guy. His ear-length blond
hair and lanky but strong build reminded him of a pro
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surfer, maybe one of those guys you saw pumping iron
on Venice Beach. Someone who took care of their body
for a reason. Not a gym rat like most New Yorkers, but
someone whose vocation required it.
The day was crisp, the streets quiet after rush hour.
Morgan wondered why Chester wanted to meet at one,
such an odd time. Something about the whole deal
smelled not quite right, but Ken Tsang was nothing if not
a bloodhound for straight-up cash, so if he ended up
working with this guy there had to be money involved.
Just when he was thinking about what kind of payday
could be involved, a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled
up right in front of Morgan, the tires screeching to a halt.
Morgan watched as a driver exited, an older white guy
wearing one of those hats that said he’d probably been
driving rich folks around most of his life, and opened the
back door. When nobody came out, Morgan stepped
forward. Chester was sitting inside. He was wearing a
sharp gray suit and sunglasses, his blond hair a striking
contrast against the black leather.
Chester tapped the seat next to him and said, “Get in.”
Morgan nodded and slid into the backseat, pulling
the door closed behind him. The car sped off as swiftly
as it stopped. Morgan turned to see Chester staring at
him, smiling.
“Glad you could make it,” he said. “You ready to make
some money?”
Morgan smiled right back.
The car cruised effortlessly downtown, turning left
onto Fifth Avenue. Morgan felt a slight lump rise in his
throat as they sped by his old office building. It wasn’t
right that he was gone. All his life Morgan Isaacs had
dreamed of making his living in finance, working for a
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bank or a hedge fund, having a different, brilliant suit for
every day of the week. He would have one of those
massive corner offices, a bar stocked with decanters filled
with the most expensive liquors money could buy. He
would have a beautiful young secretary, some hot girl just
out of college who had no desires in life other than to
work until the day she met someone like him, someone
like Morgan, who could satisfy their every need and pay
the bills so she would never have to work another day in
her life. She would have dinner ready, shop (but not too
much), be a doting mother and always have a good reason
as to why Daddy came home late.
He wouldn’t be one of those absentee fathers. No,
Morgan actually looked forward to having children. He
wanted vacations to the Greek islands, ski trips to Telluride.
He wanted a pied-à-terre in France, a vacation home in the
Bahamas. He wanted to send Christmas cards and have
picture frames littering his massive desk. He wanted everything. Right now, sitting in the back of this shiny black car,
with a perfect stranger next to him on whom Morgan’s
future might well depend, this was most definitely not the
direction Morgan had expected his life to take.
This was not too much to ask, Morgan thought. Everything was going pe
rfectly until the economy went
downhill faster than an Olympic skier and soon he was
out on his ass with thousands of other men just like him.
Men with GPAs in the high threes, impeccable references
and several internships and jobs from which they could
draw experience. Even if (and this was an if the size of
the Grand Canyon) a job opened up, it would be like
trying to get a drink at a hot bar at one in the morning.
Thousands of people pushing and shoving like barbarians
to get the attention of one person. Was one résumé really
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better than the other? It didn’t matter. But Morgan had
Chester. Good old Chester.
“Anything stand out to you?” Chester said as they
passed through midtown.
“Um…it’s a nice day?” Morgan said, not sure what
Chester was getting at.
Chester smiled. “It is that. But look at the streets.
Notice anything?”
“Uh, not really.”
“Not really,” Chester said. “Exactly what I noticed.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“These streets, they used to teem with professionals. It’s
lunch hour and you can count the suits on two hands. What
is the financial workforce down, ten, twenty percent?”
“At least,” Morgan said.
“These streets used to mean something,” Chester said,
his voice almost wistful, making Morgan wonder if Chester
had ever held a job here. His attitude and dress were corporate all the way, but he was loose enough to hang with
the boys at a steak house or strip joint. Morgan’s guess was
that Chester was in upper management, the kind of guy
everyone else reported to who could act with a little disregard. The kind of guy Morgan couldn’t be…yet.
“Did you know,” Chester continued, “that over a hundred thousand people have lost their jobs in this city in
the last two years? I mean, Christ, think about it. Think
about how many of those hundred thousand used to work
here,” he said, gesturing to the towering skyscrapers that
housed floors and floors of seasoned pros. “Think how
many of them used to walk these streets. And now think
about how many of them are sitting at home right now,
watching their savings dwindle, waiting for one call that
probably won’t come.”
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Chester looked out the window as he said those last
words, but Morgan could tell they were directed at him.
Talking about many like him. Morgan stayed quiet.
Didn’t want Chester to know what he was thinking.
“Think how many of those people,” Chester continued,
“would give anything for the chance to replace that income.” He stopped. Looked at Morgan. “And then some.
What would you do for that chance?”
Morgan’s eyes met Chester’s directly. Without hesitation, he said, “Anything.”
“We’ll see.”
13
“I, uh…I think I’ll go check my mail,” Pam said.
Abigail looked at her and said nothing. Paulina said,
“That’s not a bad idea. If you wouldn’t mind giving us a
few minutes.”
“She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to,”
Abigail said, her eyes burning a hole through her mother.
“No, she doesn’t. That’s why I’m asking. And,” Paulina said, digging into her pocketbook and producing a
twenty-dollar bill, “I’ll pay for her next beer run.”
“Classy, mom,” Abigail said. She sighed, looked at
Pam. “This won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
“Half an hour,” Paulina said. Abigail looked at her
mother as though no greater torture had ever been imposed upon man or beast. Paulina stared right back.
“Fine. Half an hour. And take the money.”
“I really shouldn’t…” Pam said.
Abigail continued, “Trust me. It doesn’t begin to cover
what she owes me.”
Pam reluctantly took the money and left the room,
leaving Paulina and Abigail alone.
“Can we talk inside?” Paulina said. She peeked into
the dorm room. It was a flat-out mess. The floor was
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covered in strewn paper, dirty clothes and burnt incense
sticks. Their furniture was comprised of two beanbag
chairs, a twin bed with a frame that looked as stable as
Paulina’s ex-husband, and a ratty couch that some homeless person had probably sold to them for less than the
twenty she just gave to Pam. Whatever, Paulina thought.
She didn’t have to live in this mess. If her daughter chose
to, so be it.
“Fifteen minutes,” Abigail said, checking her watch.
“Then I want you out of here.”
“I don’t like being here any more than you like me being
here,” Paulina said. “Trust me, I’ll make it as quick as I can.”
They nodded, and Paulina entered the room. She took
a look at the beanbag chairs, then pulled out the tiny desk
chair. She eased herself onto it, and watched as her daughter launched herself into a blue beanbag chair. Abigail
pulled out a cigarette and lit it, opening the window
slightly to let the smoke drift out.
“When did you start smoking?” Paulina asked.
“When did you start caring?” Abigail answered.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Is that what you want? You want me to make this
easy? Sure, why not? I mean, we have all these great
memories to fall back on, all these great mother-anddaughter moments we both cherish.” She said the last
words with biting sarcasm. “Why are you here, Mom?”
Paulina leaned forward, put her face in her hands, took
“Is this for, like, one of your newspaper articles?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. Just promise me you’ll answer
me, and be honest. I don’t care about the answers and I won’t
judge you. I just need to know it for safety reasons.”
“Safety reasons? What the hell are you talking about?”
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“There’s a photo, of you. It was taken at the beach. I
need to know how someone could have seen it?”
“I go to Jones Beach every weekend during the summer,” Abigail said. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You’re wearing a pink bikini. Yellow sunflowers on
it. You look like you dug some sort of big hole, and…you
look happy. And you were still a blonde.”
Abigail thought for a moment. Then she smiled, too.
“Like two months ago,” she said. “I went to Jones Beach
with some friends, and buried this guy named Ryan in the
sand. He’s dating our friend Marcia. Good times.”
“How could somebody else have gotten a hold of that
photo?” Paulina asked.
Abigail’s scornful look disappeared, and suddenly
she became concerned. “Why are you asking that?
What happened?”
Paulina leaned back in the chair, the wood stiff and
playing hell with her neck. “There’s some guy…he’s
trying to get to me, to threaten me, and
he said…well, and
he found that photo of you somehow. I need to know
where he could have gotten it.”
Abigail’s fright took center stage now. She cupped her
hands together, started breathing into them. Paulina was
unsure of what to do at first, but the sight of her only
daughter terrified was too much to bear. She stood up
and went over to her daughter, placing her hands on
Abigail’s shoulders.
“Listen, Abby, I would never let anything in the world
happen to you. You might hate me, and you might have
reason to hate me. But I’d sooner let my body be ripped
limb from limb than let anything happen to you.”
Abigail choked back a laugh. “Can’t we just avoid both?”
Paulina laughed. “Hopefully.”
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“I posted a set of those photos to Facebook,” she said.
“Maybe a month ago. I’m not sure.”
“So who could see the photos?”
“Anyone I’m friends with online.”
“How many friends do you have on Facebook?”
“Hold on, I’ll check.”
Abigail went over to the desk and sat in the stiff chair.
She turned on the laptop, waited for it to boot, tapping her
dark, polished fingernails on the desk. When the computer
started, Abigail opened Internet Explorer and logged on
to her Facebook account. Paulina saw that Abigail’s
profile photo was a close-up of her face, specifically her
left eye and cheek. It was so close you could see every
individual pore. It looked faux artsy, the kind of thing you
took with a webcam and thought it to be poignant.
“A hundred and ninety-six,” she said.
“Jesus,” Paulina said. “A hundred and ninety-six
people have access to photos of you in a bikini.”
“You want to judge me, Mom? I’ve heard some stories
about you.”
“This isn’t about me. Somebody used one of these
photos. Is there any way to see who’s accessed the set?
Or who’s printed them out?”
Abigail shook her head. “Nope. Privacy issues.”
“Privacy my ass. Listen, Abby, I need you to print out
a list of all your friends on this thing, anyone who has
access to those photos.”
“No way, Mom. Other people have privacy, too.”
“Trust me, these other people would prefer this than
the alternative.”
Abigail looked her mother in the eye, huffed and said,
“Okay. Fine. But nobody else sees them besides you.”