Claudine (17 page)

L
ater in the afternoon, Lillian peeked into the study. “I’m leaving for my cousin’s now.” She took a long look around as if it would be the last time and gripped Maria in a tight hug. “The doctor says my hand is getting better fast. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She pressed her cheek to Lillian’s. “Everything will be fine,” she said cheerfully. “And you’re not to worry. Just get better.”

“Andrei’s driving me to Jersey City. He said to tell you, after
that he’s going back to his place to get some sleep. He’ll return this evening.”

Maria already knew he intended to keep watch on her through the night. Lillian turned to go. She watched her assistant’s small wiry figure disappear down the hallway, her swinging black hair, her hasty, energetic steps. She heard Lillian say something and Andrei answer in his deep tones. The front door opened and clicked shut. The apartment, wrapped in silence now, felt as forlorn as a ghost town with nothing left but empty houses and sad memories.

Her reaction to Andrei still disturbed her. The attack on Lillian and the threats had shaken her up a lot; on top of that, there was the police interview, and the sight of the black boat in Cannes. She needed Andrei’s shoulder to lean on right now—which was probably the source of these unwelcome feelings. She dropped her head in her hands. The sight of his lean, brown body in Cannes, his arm around her in the boat, imagining what he’d be like in bed. The fantasies were starting to come unbidden and embarrassingly often. The body had a funny way of playing tricks on you. On rare occasions she’d been tempted by similar feelings for a client but those had passed quickly enough. She expected they would with Andrei too.

Maria gave herself a shake, made an effort to tidy up the lopsided stacks of books and papers on her desk, then gave up. She went to the fridge to get a Coke, thought better of it, grabbed a bottle of wine and poured herself a tumbler full. Downed it and poured a second.

For a short time she could pinch-hit without Lillian, but that was just putting off the inevitable. Nor could Andrei go without sleep night after night waiting for a phantom to materialize into
a flesh-and-blood enemy. She’d have to move to a hotel or rent a full-service apartment. But whatever changes she made, they’d be nothing more than plugs in an ever-widening hole. The deluge would soon overcome her. Her stalker would destroy every last scrap of her security.

Her mind began to spin. She took a deep breath and tried to think positively. She had more than enough money to live on if she sold her place, and her studies would eventually lead to a new career. Reed promised to pave the way for her—what could be easier? Changes were good, kept you sharp, offered silver linings, new horizons. Loss was just part of life, she told herself, get used to it. The alcohol hit her empty stomach and sped into her bloodstream. When did I start drinking so much? she wondered. She ignored the voice in her head and got up to pour another. She had to lean on the table until a spell of wooziness passed.

Two weeks passed uneventfully and Maria dared to hope her stalker had lost interest, until one day when her phone trilled from the study. It cut out before she could reach it. She touched the screen and it brightened into a rectangle of light. New text, it said. Andrei, she thought hopefully. She hit the message button.

I wish to hire your services—you will be the only star and I, the only audience. It will begin on Roosevelt Avenue, the club district. Something different. A street pantomime, if you will. Dress for it like a whore. I want you to fit in. That shouldn’t be hard. I’ll be wearing a red Latin Kings shirt. Follow me for a time you won’t forget.

CHAPTER
18

The ring of her cell phone broke the awful silence. Andrei was on the line. “Have you read it yet?” he asked.

“I just did.”

“Wait, there’s more. There’s a second message with specific instructions about when and where to meet up. Tomorrow night at nine
P.M
. It’s him, of course. I’m sure of it.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“When’s the last time a client insulted you while soliciting your services?”

“Good point. Did you get a chance to check his credentials yet?”

“Yes. I’m just pulling them up now. Calls himself Jeff Thorpe. Claims to own an Atlanta real estate firm and is up here on business. It’s a shell company. Nothing but air. And since he didn’t try to disguise that fact, he
wants
you to know it’s him.” Andrei
hesitated. “Maria, we should pass this on to Trainor. Let the police track this guy.”

“No! Trainor already suspects what I do, and he won’t look the other way when we give him proof. I’ll end up in jail. They’ll seize all my assets too and claim they’re proceeds of a criminal enterprise. It’s out of the question.”

“The police cooperate all the time with people on the shady side of legal to snag a bigger fish.”

“Andrei. What if they think
I’m
the bigger fish? Or my clients? I can’t risk that.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know. Let me think about it. In the meantime, process the fee and tell Thorpe I accept.”

Maria clicked off before Andrei could argue with her. She dashed off a text to him, repeating what she’d just said, went back into the kitchen and grabbed the wine bottle. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the stopper and poured. She missed the glass; wine spilled onto a pile of envelopes on the counter. “Shit,” she cried; her nerves felt so raw they practically bled.

She picked up the dripping envelopes and held them over the sink. Bills and flyers mostly. At the bottom, a bubble-wrapped package from an online book dealer. She hadn’t ordered any books lately. The envelope’s flap had been opened and then taped closed again. She tore it and pulled out the contents. A copy of
Justine
by de Sade.

How would her stalker know she had any interest in the book? Her thesis wasn’t close to being published. Then Maria recalled she’d written a short article about
Justine
for an academic journal last summer. If he’d Googled “Maria Lantos” and “Yale,” he would have found it easily enough.

Something had been used as a bookmark to divide the pages about three quarters of the way in. When she flipped to it, she found a miniature cropped version of the photo taken while she was dancing at Show World Live! It was the same one pasted on the bathroom mirror of her San Francisco hotel room. The scrawl at the bottom read:
This awaits you.
The passage was one of the most gruesome in de Sade’s novel. She cringed at the description of the whippings the characters—young girls—endured, on their breasts and bottoms.

Reading the passage made up her mind. In a way she welcomed what was to come tomorrow evening. Warring with a ghost sapped her energy. She needed to confront the real man and destroy him.

CHAPTER
19

BOROUGH OF QUEENS, CORONA NEIGHBORHOOD, NEW YORK

Claudine leaned into the mirror at her dressing table to put the finishing touches on her makeup. For the hundredth time she wished Lillian were here. She’d had to remove and reapply her cosmetics twice and still couldn’t get it right. Pale foundation, nude lipstick, heavy black eyeliner and brows, a kind of Amy Winehouse look without the dark sloe eyes. She eventually gave up on the colored contacts because she needed Lillian’s help to put them in. She’d spent the afternoon at the spa getting her nails done. Tuxedo black two-inch acrylics, closer to claws than nails, like those in the pictures of old Chinese empresses. She’d also had a black wig fitted; a blunt-cut bob with a fringe of bangs, accented with a streak of magenta.

With a final lick of mascara on her lashes, she got up and walked over to the full-length mirror to check her outfit. Her breasts strained against the close-fitting, sleeveless lambskin
bodysuit, so tight it made her crotch sore. It was cut high enough to show the plump rise of her buttocks. She added leather wristlets with studs, black silk stockings, knee-high platform boots. She stood back and gave herself a final, critical look, amused at the irony of a courtesan role-playing a hooker.

The club district on Roosevelt Avenue belonged to the
chicas
. Although the city had tried to put a stop to it recently, young boys still passed around flyers advertising the girls’ charms. Most of the action took place inside the clubs, but a few streetwalkers lingered outside club entrances. Hostile glances greeted Claudine when she invaded their territory. Girls still in their teens with bright lipstick, small breasts jutting out from spangled tops, miniskirts barely covering their bums tottered on three-inch platforms in lime, hot pink, carmine. A woman with purple hair and thin, needle-tracked arms huddled against a wall and gave Claudine a blatant once-over. She couldn’t loiter long; her presence would not be tolerated for more than a few minutes before they drove her off. A mile-deep canyon divided her privileged existence from theirs.

She scanned the street and spotted her stalker emerging from a doorway about a quarter of the way down the block. His back was turned to her. The red sweatshirt he wore with the hood pulled up had a Latin Kings insignia on the back, a five-pointed crown in black and gold and the letters
ALKQN
. He was a tall, stocky man with a barrel chest. Something about his figure struck her as familiar. She reached back into her memory and then she had it. His body type and the way he moved was the same as the man caught on video breaking into her San Francisco hotel room. They had him in their sights now.

Claudine quickly glanced around. Although she couldn’t see Andrei anywhere, she trusted he had his eyes on her. She swallowed her fears and followed the hooded man.

She stayed about seventy feet behind him, but he never once glanced back. They turned the corner onto a secondary street and then another. He was drawing her farther away from the lights and activity of Roosevelt Avenue into an area most pedestrians abandoned at night. A squad car prowled past her. The cop flicked on high beams, illuminating the hunched figure of the man she was following as if a spotlight had been trained on him. She quickly turned her face away. This was Trainor’s district, and although he wasn’t a beat cop, she was terrified she might come face-to-face with him.

Her target stopped at a run-down building and took something out of his pocket. He allowed himself a quick backward glance to make certain Claudine was behind him, then he pushed open the door and went in.

Nervously, she checked the street again. Still no sign of Andrei. He gave her strict orders to stay visible at all times, but where was he? She didn’t want to wait too long and alert Thorpe to a trap, so she stepped just inside the door to a hallway. The walls were gray with mildew, and rickety stairs rose straight ahead. The place smelled of old piss and the sweet zing of marijuana. A light glowed at the top of the stairs.

She had no intention of going any farther. She waited. Andrei should be here by now. Was he holding off until his men secured the back of the building? The door creaked open. She heard his quiet footsteps behind her. “Thank God you’re here,” she said, turning around.

“Not who you think, bitch.” The purple-haired prostitute
with the scarred skin held a small pistol aimed straight at her head. “Your trick’s waiting for you upstairs.”

Claudine’s stomach pitched. She didn’t move.

“I said get the fuck up there.” The woman gave her a hard push, and Claudine bumped into the lower step, almost falling.

She raised her hands in surrender. “All right. I’ll go.” She climbed the steps at a snail’s pace, fear rising in her throat, the clack of her boots on the battered hardwood steps like bullets ricocheting off stone. She reached the first-floor landing and peered through the partially open door. It was pitch-black inside. She waited a moment.

“Move it,” the woman said, right behind her.

She ventured a few feet inside the room. The woman was so close behind her that Claudine could smell her cloying perfume. A light clicked on. The room was bare of furniture save for a stained mattress, an old pressed-back chair and a small table. The man in the Latin Kings jersey sat cross-legged in the chair, a knife lying on the table beside him. He nodded to the purple-haired woman.

Claudine heard the door lock behind her but didn’t take her eyes off the man. He’d shrugged off his sweatshirt. She was surprised to see that he looked more like he belonged in an executive boardroom than on the rough streets of the neighborhood. He wore glasses, a designer shirt and dark trousers. If he’d once been a client, she had no recollection of him. From the look on his face, she knew there was no point in pleading—nor was it in her nature to play the victim.

“Before we do anything, tell me how you knew about the orphanage.”

He laughed. “That’s my secret.” He reached down and unzipped his fly. His cock, a fat pink worm, was repulsive, still
soft; he pulled at it to make it stiffen. Without Andrei to help her, her only choice now was to find a way of turning his lust against him. She plastered on a saucy smile. “I see you’re not quite ready for me.” She unzipped her jerkin to show him her bare breasts, then pulled the zipper all the way down. “Well, you wanted it. What’s keeping you, Mr. Thorpe?”

His eyes bugged out at the sight of her. He shuffled off his pants and got up. His penis wagged grotesquely as he approached her. She skittered away out of his reach. He lurched toward her, missed, teetered and fell on one knee. Her eyes found the knife and she launched herself at it. He rose from the floor, swaying like a dazed boxer, but he reached her in moments and slammed her into the wall. She yelped when the back of her head cracked the rough stucco. He pinned her so hard she could hardly breathe. She clawed his skin with her long nails. It had as much effect on him as a dressmaker’s pin pricking an elephant’s hide.

He slurped at her earlobe. “You a screamer?” She shook her head. His elbow pressed into her throat. “No? You will be when I fuck you.” He bit her breast hard. Claudine yelped and flailed her body to shake him off, but he was much stronger than she’d expected. Panic began to overtake her. He ripped her stockings down to the tops of her boots, scratching her leg, and thrust his hand roughly between her legs. “Already juicy down there,” he said, laughing.