Syndrome by Thomas Hoover (best ereader for pdf txt) 📕

fussed over her shamelessly, and she gloried in it.

But now a pounding rain had just come through, which meant no walk for either of them. Knickers would show up looking like a bedraggled mop. Definitely the moment to take the car.

Alexa Hampton liked to say that she wasn’t really an auto person. Hers was a four-year-old Toyota, light blue, and its modesty befitted her needs. In New York, hopping around SoHo and the Village, it made a lot more sense to rely on a bike or on cabs, or just plain walk. Garaging a car in New York cost the equivalent of a studio apartment rental in most normal places, and the bottom-line truth was, she resented the Toyota’s presence in her life. But there were moments when cabs weren’t the answer, and this was one of them. Fortunately, the parking garage she used was just around the corner, so she and Knickers got there before being totally soaked. Knickers loved riding in the Toyota, and she always seemed to know what was coming the minute they turned the corner for the garage. This morning she gave a gleeful “Woof” and started panting, a sure indicator of joy.

As they drove the few blocks downtown, the rain was easing up but the streets were still shiny. Ally reached into her bag and took out the personal card of Winston Bartlett. His private residence was on Gramercy Park. The only reason he could possibly want to meet her there was if he did indeed have a job. She decided she would call him from the office and confirm the appointment, assuming he still remembered it. Then she’d get Jennifer to help her assemble a portfolio of their work and make a color copy to leave with him.

She leaned over and rubbed Knickers’ ears. Her thoughts were drifting back to Karl Van de Vliet. At some level his stem cell technology sounded like the ultimate snake oil. Was she about to take leave of her common sense to go to see him, or even to consider letting him perform some experimental procedure on her mother’s mind?

On the other hand, what about him? What kind of “procedure” could Van de Vliet have done that would stop his own skin from aging? If Grant had merely told her that Karl Van de Vliet had finally realized the cosmetician’s dream and learned how to make human skin youthful and supple again, she would have passed it off as just more Wall Street IPO hyperbole. But seeing was believing, and it also seemed like there was a lot more going on than just a change in his skin. There was something about him, in his eyes, that felt… inconsistent.

She was still puzzling on that point when Knickers jumped up and barked. They were passing a garbage truck and the guys were banging the cans into the back.

“Shhh.” She reached to quiet her. “We’re almost there, baby.” Then she tugged at her leash and settled her back into the seat.

Since the rain was all but over, she decided to park the car where she dropped Knickers off and then walk over to her office, which was only a couple of blocks east. She found a spot right next to the awning of Pooch Pros, and the minute Knickers was liberated from the car, she bounded to the door dragging her leash through the puddles. Misha was already there to meet her.

“Come on, my kraceve baby, my beauty.” He reached down and gave her a big hug. Misha was a gaunt, balding, blond-haired Russian who had once been the hero of the Soviet Olympic swim team. Now he looked like he could stand a piroshki or two to plump him up. “You be big fluff of cloud after we finishing.”

Ally followed them in, and there was Betty. Ally figured “Betty” assumed her made-up but totally American name was easier than whatever she’d used in Russia, but to Ally it just felt weird Betty had dark hair, a broad smile that wouldn’t die, and approximately thirty pounds that would have looked better on Misha. They reminded her of Jack Sprat, et al.

“Honey, there is problem at your office. Woman name Jennifer call. Say she try reach you at home but you leave already. And you don’t answer your cell phone.”

“Shit, I turned it off. Knickers goes nuts if it rings in the car.”

Jennifer was only a couple of years older than Ally, but she’d been with the firm back when Ally’s father, Arthur, ran it and she was the mother figure of CitiSpace. She was also Ally’s best friend and had been even before Ally came back to run the firm. Ally felt like she had known her forever. These days Jen spent a lot of effort trying to create a social life for Ally that would include eligible men. She kept nagging her to join some clubs, anything, just get out there.

Ally knew she was right, but she was working too hard to take time out. She had the idea, which she wasn’t naive enough to actually believe at a rational level, that sooner or later someone who could replace Steve would come along. Yes, she was lonely a lot, but until this last deterioration of her heart she’d spent a lot of evenings and weekends outside, biking and hiking around town, and she knew plenty of people who were interesting and kind. She sometimes thought her problem was that she liked people, all kinds of people, as long as they were kept slightly away, at a psychic distance. Maybe it was the getting close part that never seemed to work out.

It had actually been that way ever since Steve disappeared. She had the premonition that if she got too close to somebody, she was destined to lose them.

Now she stood for a second, puzzling. She’d mentioned taking Knickers to Pooch Pros, so that’s how Jen knew where she’d be, but what could have gone wrong at 7:45 in the morning?

Jennifer wasn’t usually in this early, but she was finishing a rush job for a marble bathroom for a couple on the Upper East Side. On days when Jennifer did get to the office first, she’d have the coffee going and an extra bagel for Knickers, on the chance Ally might bring her, which she often did. But to phone Betty just to tell her to hurry? That was odd.

“Should I call now?” It seemed pointless. She was no more than ten minutes away. What else could go wrong in ten minutes?

“She sound very hurry,” Betty declared.

Ally took her cell phone out of her bag and switched it on. The office rang only once and then Jennifer was there.

“Ally, you’re not going to believe who called here ten minutes ago, asking for you. Winston Bartlett. My God, it’s like Donald Trump called. Well, actually it was some male secretary or something. He said he was calling to confirm your ten o’clock appointment. At an address on Gramercy Park East. What’s that about? Jesus, Ally, where are you? I don’t know what you’re up to, but this could be big. He owns entire buildings, for chrissake.”

“Did you say I was coming?”

“I didn’t know what to say. He left a number to call if you can’t make it. Otherwise, he’ll assume you’ll be there. It’s only two hours from now.”

“All right, Jen, let’s put together a ‘folio’ of our biggest jobs. Lead with that gut rehab we did on the building down by the South Street Seaport. And put in those two floor-through lofts we did on that conversion in TriBeCa. The ones with the slate bathrooms and the stainless-steel countertops in the kitchen.”

“I’ve already started. Do you know specifically what he has in mind?” She paused. “How did he find out about us, anyway?”

“My creepy kid brother works for him.” She sighed. “It’s a long story. Be there in a couple of minutes.” She clicked off the phone.

“Betty, thanks a lot. I’ve gotta run.” She turned and gave Knickers a last rumple of the ears. “Be good, baby. I’ll pick you up by six at the latest.”

“What wrong?” Misha was concerned, twisting a white towel he was holding. “Big problem?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Actually, something probably is wrong. I just don’t know what it is yet.” She headed out the door.

The design firm her father had started and she’d kept going, now with some architecture thrown in, was on the ground floor of an old industrial loft building whose upper floors had been converted into rental apartments in the early 1980s. The owner was an ex-wrestler named Oskar Jacobi, who had turned Zen master (after a fashion) and had a studio upstairs, on the second floor. He had drifted from wrestling into karate during his thirties and thence into the life of the mind, or rather the life of “no-mind,” in his late forties. Now he taught meditation as well as karate and insisted they be learned in that order. He served as his own superintendent, mopping the halls and setting out the garbage on pickup days.

The ground floor was zoned commercial, and CitiSpace had a lease for all of it, which meant she had tons of space. Oskar had given Ally’s dad, Arthur, a ten-year lease, which was now a fraction of the going rate. They both knew that, and she’d more than once offered to renegotiate or move, but he said he didn’t need any more income and, besides, he liked having her as a tenant because she reminded him of her father. It was a generosity perfectly in keeping with his philosophy that excess money corrupted the spirit.

She’d done the place as a sort of Spanish desert flower, with burnt-orange tile floors and all the natural materials she could cram in. A lot of her clients wanted the hard-edge industrial look in their lofts, which was fine by her, but she found it too cold for a daily working environment. The front was unassuming, with small lettering on the window. CitiSpace was not a walk-in business. And she had no metal gates over the windows. What’s to protect?

When she marched through the door, everybody looked up from their coffee and computers, and Jennifer led the applause. Winston Bartlett. Had they finally made the A-list? This could be the start of something big.