* * *
She was waiting tables at a diner in Tribeca, sharing a crappy apartment in Queens with three other girls she’d met through a Craigslist ad. Evan was a regular customer. He had the kind of looks that, if you passed him on the street, you’d turn around and take another look. He was on the short side, yeah, maybe five foot ten, but he had these arresting amber-colored eyes, a square jaw, hair with the beginnings of a silver streak.
He was a regular customer at the diner, always sat alone at table 2, in the window, dressed casually in fashionable designer jeans, and a heavily starched dress shirt, Gucci loafers, no socks; the only jewelry a wristwatch and heavy gold signet ring on his right hand.
Although he frequently had business meetings, with clients filtering in and out over the space of a couple hours, it hadn’t gone unnoticed that Table Two, as the girls all called him, was rarely joined by a woman.
Later, she learned from one of the other waitresses that he owned half a dozen apartments in the neighborhood, and was using the diner as a de facto office. Zoey said he had an understanding with Arthur, their manager, so they left him alone, kept him supplied with coffee and his standing order: a poached egg on unbuttered rye toast, bacon crisped but not burned, and a small glass of unsweetened grapefruit juice. He was a great tipper, polite, but somewhat aloof.
She’d been late to work that wiltingly hot morning in August, had survived a tirade from Arthur where he’d threatened to fire her, and was confiding to Zoey about the fact that her roommates were kicking her out, and she had no idea how she’d find an affordable place to live before the end of the month.
“Excuse me,” the customer at table 2 said, when she stopped to refill his coffee. “I uh, overheard you telling your friend that you need a place to stay.”
Letty regarded him warily. She was used to being hit on by customers, but Table Two had never shown any particular interest in her.
“Yeah,” she said, shrugging. “Sucks. I mean, the apartment was a dump, but it’s all I can afford. I was splitting a room with one of the girls, but now her boyfriend is moving in, so they voted me off the island.”
“I might know of a place,” he said slowly. “If you’re interested. It’s in the neighborhood.”
“This neighborhood?” she laughed. “No way I can afford anything around here.”
“You might be surprised,” Table Two said. He pulled a business card from a slender leather portfolio, jotted something on the back, and handed it to her. The address was a building two blocks from the diner.
“The tenant just moved out, and I don’t like my places to stay vacant. It’s bad for business. Let me know if you want to take a look.”
She shook her head. “I appreciate it, but honestly, whatever you’re charging, I can’t afford it.”
“Where are you living now, and what are you paying?”
“Don’t laugh. My share is nine hundred dollars, and it’s a stretch. My credit card is already maxed out.”
“You’d be living alone? No boyfriend in the picture?”
“No,” she said, already regretting the weird turn this conversation was taking.
“Okay, well, I think we could work something out,” Table Two said. “What time do you get off today?”
“After lunch.”
“Just think about it. You’ve got my number. If you want to take a look, I can meet you over there, probably between two and three.”
By then, Letty had been living in New York for nearly two years. During her first subway ride she’d seen a man in a clerical collar expose and fondle himself while staring directly into her eyes. She’d had her wallet stolen in an H&M, been casually groped by more customers than she could count, and actually fended off an overly aggressive grill cook with a five-pound block of frozen ground chuck.
“I’m interested in an apartment,” she said coolly, “but that’s it. I’m not gonna sleep with you, and I’m not into kinky shit, so if you are, forget about it.”
He tilted his head and seemed to be considering her in a new light. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Letty.”
Table Two pointed at the name badge pinned to her uniform. “According to that, your name is Chynthia.”
“Oh, yeah. Long story. It’s actually the name of a character I played in a Law & Order episode. I played the hooker who finds the politician’s body in the bathtub in a motel room at the start of the episode. You know, like, the part before the music goes, ‘BAH-BUM!’ I liked the sound of the name, so I borrowed it.”
“You’re an actress?”
“Sometimes. Not enough that I can afford to quit working here.”
The cell phone he’d left sitting beside his plate buzzed. He looked down at the phone, then back up at her. “Okay, Letty, I gotta take this. I look forward to hearing from you.”
“Maybe.”
He picked up the phone. “Not that you asked, but I’m Evan.”
6
FRIDAY MORNING, JOE LEANED AGAINST the front counter, sipping his coffee and watching the motel’s newest guest making her way across the courtyard, a plastic laundry basket under one arm, with the little girl in tow.
Letty was dressed in shorts and a tank top, and the little girl was dressed in the same pink-and-white bathing suit she’d been wearing all week.
“There’s something off about that woman,” he told his mother.
Ava looked up from the computer screen, lowered her reading glasses, and followed his gaze. “Why do you say that? I think she’s perfectly nice. Look how hard she worked, getting that unit cleaned out so she’d have a place to stay. She’s quiet, minds her own business. And that Maya is adorable. I wish we had half a dozen guests like Letty.”
“Tell that to the Feldmans.”
“Those two! They’re not happy unless they have something to complain about,” Ava said. “They came in here Wednesday, in a snit, wanting me to post a sign at the pool saying that it was reserved for lap swimmers from eight to nine P.M. I told ’em to blow it out their bungholes!”
Joe laughed softly. “I bet that went over great with Ruth.”
“They think they own the place just because they’ve been coming here all these years.”
He finished his coffee and tossed the paper cup in the trash. “I gotta get to work.”
“You still haven’t told me why you think there’s something off about Letty.”
“Didn’t you tell me she paid you cash?”
“Yeah. So what? Several of our guests do that. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the perfect arrangement. That money goes right in my pocket, and what Uncle Sam don’t know, won’t hurt.”
“Don’t tell me that!” he said sharply. “I’m a cop, remember? And income-tax evasion is a federal crime. Besides, it’s not just the cash. It’s the whole situation. She’s not some retired schoolteacher from Buffalo. She’s half the age of our guests. She admits the kid isn’t hers. No job. She just shows up, out of the blue. What’s she doing? And why here?”