A breeze ruffles my hair as I make my way down First Avenue. In the cover of night, ashen clouds blotting out the moon and the stars, I'm little more than a phantom in my hurried walk to Will's Deli and Grocery.
I pass by complex after complex of brick apartments, their windows tiny compared to the sleek creations of Midtown. Storefronts built into the apartments glow from the inside, sporting all variety of products: late-night hamburgers, auto repair, personal fitness . . . you name it. Though they're all the same when you compare them to one another, with their colorful awnings, electrifying lights, and fire escapes not so far above. The old buildings might as well have been cut from cookie cutters.
The sky's darker than I'd like it, and the store clocks I pass by reveal a time later than I'd like. I've always hated the five-block walk from the subway to my apartment, and being in the dark and shadows of the streets doesn't ease my dread. The boots I wear are atrocious, heels thudding on concrete the way my pointe shoes would. Too often, I pass through a stretch of sidewalk with no store lights.
On the other hand, the air is refreshingly open. It might not smell the best on some blocks, but I can look up and see the translucent clouds floating through it. Without craning or breaking my neck to see so far overhead, I feel strange being here. Liberated, in an ironic way. Evidently Midtown has changed me.
East Harlem isn't all bad, in spite of what I've said about it. There's a beautiful culture here, full of food and art forms from all over the globe. Every ethnicity of cuisine imagined exists somewhere in this part of town, and coruscant murals that you'd never find on the Upper East Side rest proudly on street corners. It's a beautiful thing, but a quiet thing . . . overshadowed by other things.
The traffic's much lighter than Time Square's constant jam, and I have no trouble crossing the street when the time comes. Shining in all its glory of yellowing lights and flickering neon signs, Will Whistle's shop looms right in front of me.
He's an old man with a clever mind and a big mouth. Will might have new . . . characteristics, but he's the same man I've bickered with since the age of seven. How he got into Farley's realm confounds me, when he's at least triple her age . . . it doesn't matter. Will's only ever been a middleman, and that hasn't changed with Farley. I just need a lead tonight.
Though I haven't begun to consider how to broach him on the subject, the stubborn old bastard. Part of me wonders if he'd rather take all of his secrets to the grave.
I stalled back in my room, taking great pain in choosing what to wear home. In the end, I settled on jeans, a T-shirt, a leather jacket, and a pair of boots, the sort of outfit I might've worn to school back in the day, and nothing imperious, nothing flaunting or arrogant. With two thoughts on my mind, one to prove to Mom and Dad that I haven't changed, and the other to show Will what a serious businesswoman I am, I chose something in between.
I'm not some crazy daughter who ran away home, nor am I the teenager Will bought wallets and jewelry from.
Though it's late, nobody will be asleep. Mom and Dad will be watching the news, Gisa will be in her room doing something artsy—sewing or embroidering if her wrist has gotten better—and my brothers could be out with their friends, now that everyone's off work. Or maybe they, too, have gotten new jobs.
Four stories above, the window leading out of Gee's beckons with more light. I swear I see Mom's silhouette in the one next to it. She must have gotten a late start on dishes.
Just a little while longer. Surely my exchange with Will can only take a few minutes. Whatever comes of it.
The metal bar of the door is cool beneath my palms as I press it forward, attempting not to inhale the blast of stale air that comes running my way.
Though my held breath does nothing to block the pounding Metallica from my ears. Or from my mind the image of Will Whistle whipping his head forward and back, shaking his hips as he counts the money from his till. The music's pumping over the speakers—the one aspect of this stupid store Will actually invested in—loud enough that he doesn't hear the bell ring its usual peal, and I take half a dozen paces into the store.
Or so it seems. After a moment, without a pause or a flinch, Will comes out of his reverie, stuffing his money away into the register. He does that silly habit of brushing his beard to the side before he turns to the window for the stereo. By the time Will's turned the music down to quiet murmur, I've reached the counter and set my forearms against it. He's still subtly nodding his head when he turns to me.
"You're not going to get any business if you play music that makes people go deaf, Will," I say matter-of-factly with an impish smile.
For the longest time, how in the hell Will kept his store open was the greatest mystery. He owns the building, but he still has to pay taxes and utilities and buy all this food, and no way was the profit Will made from my pickpockets enough. But like Will said, I'm not his only client, and it's apparent that he's involved in much darker businesses than mine. His Deli and Grocery crap is probably an entire front to make him look the likes of an innocent elderly man if he ever gets exposed.
"Unfortunately for me, I already lost my best customer. It was all downhill for me either way," Will quips back. He doesn't miss a beat and returns my smile, showing off surprisingly white teeth.
I make a sound from the back of my throat, ducking my head. Beneath the glass-like counter rests packages of cigarettes and gum and candy bars, and above that, my own dull reflection. Keep him on topic.
Opening my mouth, I begin. "I—"
"Not that I keep up with the affairs of the Barrow household, but as I am your landlord . . . I've heard a thing or two over the weeks," Will starts. Behind him, traffic lights gleam through the window, and heavy metal keeps on playing quietly. Oddly enough, the hint of lights and sound make the cramped aisles all the more desolate. "I'd tell you that your parents are worried sick, but I imagine that's why you're here."
I might as well be invisible to Will. As though it means nothing, he returns his focus to the register, where he begins shuffling around too many hundred-dollar bills. The hint of a smirk Will wears as he does it tells me he has a clue of where this conversation's headed, has probably expected it for weeks. He already finds it funny, me trying to coax information out of him, and I haven't even begun. And now he's forcing my hand and bringing up Mom and Dad.
Don't. Your family's up three flights of stairs, and you'll talk to them soon enough. Don't let him scare you.
"You know why I'm here," I say bluntly, tapping my fingernail against the plastic. I don't have to explain myself to him, and the story of how I ended up at the Manhattan Dance Academy isn't worth the time it would take to tell.
"I'm not sure I do," Will says innocently and moves onto the fifties. "I'm not seeing any jewelry, and you haven't come in here to talk since you were ten years old. And then, most of the time you were just looking to flatter me into giving you free ice cream sandwiches."
Unable to help it, I give Will Whistle a massive eye roll. "Yeah. And you said no three-quarters of the time, claiming I'd mess up your inventory even though nobody buys any of the shit in here."
Neither of us says anything after that, caught up in remembering those arguments of so long ago. His store hasn't evolved one bit in the years that have passed, the stout shelves and popcorn ceiling the exact same as they were then. If I were to look at some of the cans, they'd probably be ten years expired; he only replaces the ones in the front rows. Will himself is nearly ageless, having worn the same checkered shirts, navy blue work pants, and ordinary tennis shoes since the day I met him—his beard's gotten lighter and his hair's thinned out, but everything else is the same.
I glance to the window, its blinds drawn open so that any passerby could see Will's collection of money in the register. I used to think he was stupid for doing that. Now I think he's too well-connected to get hurt.
"I'll tell you right now that I haven't the faintest clue as to where Diana Farley, Shade Barrow, or your friend Kilorn Warren is, Mare," Will discloses, sighing through his teeth. "I'll be no help in finding any of them."
Outside, a car horn sounds and tires screech. Metallica changes to Michael Jackson. I focus on those things, the scenery outside—the modest apartment across the way, framed by lush green trees; the late-night delivery vans running down the street—instead of Will's words. Oh, I say. The word doesn't come out from my lips. No better truth reveals itself when I turn my attention back on the old man, his hazel eyes fixed on mine in all seriousness, mouth turned down in the slightest frown. "How did you meet her, then?" I ask.
"You really want to hear the story?" Will asks, lifting a nonexistent eyebrow.
"Yes." Obviously. Of course.
"Over the last ten years—"
Though I don't say anything, the exasperated face I give Will makes him pause.
"No more eye-rolling or satire if you want to hear this story, Barrow," he warns, pointing at me accusingly.
I raise my hands in defense. "Fine. But don't blame me if I can't hide my shock." Leaning a little further onto the counter, I brace myself for whatever tale Will's about to let free.
"Ten years ago, I was strapped for cash and a friend of mine, remembering I was good with computers, offered me a job. He needed some discreet investigating work done, and he knew I'd do it for ten times cheaper than a professional would. To boot, he knew I wasn't with the same qualms and morals and legal obligations regular private eyes hold." Will pauses again, probably thinking I'm about to interject with some satirical comment.
I hold my tongue, though I want to remind Will that he's seventy years old. I also want to ask him where he learned to hack in East Harlem.
"After realizing that drowning in debt and near-bankruptcy was no fun and that I had no hope of making a profit out of this place," Will blinks at each aisle of the store and motions around with his hand, "I did it again, this time for one of my friend's friends. And again and again and again. It might've started out as a side-job to make ends meet, but—"
"What kind of people did you investigate?" The question comes out before I can reign it in. But if I'm going to listen to any more of this insane story, I need to know.
"Bad people," he says it so simply, shrugging his shoulders. "My friend wanted me to find out if his wife was cheating on him, so I did, and I took down five dating networks in the process. I've built somewhat of a second business out of my talent, hacking for background checks, investment scams, missing people . . . the men and women who hire me want things kept under the table, don't want the feds to get involved. Over the years I've discovered there's a market for what I do, a network of people more complex than you could possibly believe."
I lean closer, waiting for him to get to the part where he meets Farley. "And?"
My local grocer grins at me. "And I met Diana Farley two years ago, in this very store as she waltzed in five minutes before closing time. She had heard about me over that network, I suppose, and had followed it here. In fact, I have enough money to buy up an entire block of Brooklyn real estate if I wanted to, but I wouldn't want to put my customers through the trouble of navigating that network again to find me. Will's Deli and Grocery is a landmark to them, and that's the only real reason I've stayed."
Come on, get to it. I don't care if you're rich now. But I smile and nod at Will to keep him talking.
"Keep in mind that I'm only telling you this story because it's irrelevant," Will says when he notes my too-interested expression.
I narrow my eyes.
"She wanted what all of my customers want: information. Since it's illegally-obtained, she couldn't use it against anybody in court, and what she did with it wasn't my problem nor something I've ever looked into after the fact."
"You said you only investigate bad people." I stare at Will accusingly. Even if their cause was upright, the Scarlet Street Fighters create more problems than they do solve them. That makes Will an accomplice to numerous crimes. "Between everything you've done, you could go to jail for years."
Twenties. Will returns to the till, dodging my look. "The way I see it, the Scarlet Street Fighters are paying the rich back. Farley pays me too much money to warrant questions.
"As for jail time, the police could take down Farley's entire operation, and I'd get off without a second glance my way. I keep my business well-hidden and have securities in place in case something happens. And anyway, as of this moment, the NYPD has no chance against them. The members of that gang they've arrested over the years won't crack, and in the city, they've found nothing but dead ends," he explains. Will moves on to the tens.
"So I've heard," I mutter, stealing another glance out the window. How he sees them as righteous makes little sense, but I don't bother arguing on that front with Will. The cash he's receiving blinds whatever remnants of the moral compass he possesses.
And how long have I been here, and how much of it has been Will wasting my time with ancient stories?
"And what sort of—"
"Mare," Will says calmly as he rests both of his palms atop the counter. "I can't tell you what kind of information I've hacked or who it pertains to. It's this little thing called confidentiality. More than that, Farley would have my neck if I started leaking her business. But you know what the Scarlet Street Fighters stand for as well as I, and when I say Farley's address eludes me and I have no idea what she does with the files I give her, I mean it."
Bad people. The bad, corrupt men and women of Manhattan, that's who Will investigates for Farley. I don't need him to tell me that when all the Street Fighters do is go around gospelizing it.
But that doesn't change what stands in front of me: the stubbornest man in all of East Harlem, who might as well be a stone wall when it comes to getting answers. Short of attacking Will, stealing his keys, and running off to wherever his apartment is, I'll be better off wandering the streets for information on Farley's whereabouts. "Really," I say. My lip curls up, and I try to turn my nose down and still look him in the eye. "You can't tell me anything?"
"Not a thing."
I dole out a harsh little laugh. "Can you blame a girl for wanting to see her brother?"
Shade's honey eyes ring in my mind. I'd love nothing more than to see him again, yell at him and give him a nice punch in the face, though I'd break my hand in the process. My half of the punishment for leaving. But he isn't the real reason I came tonight, and Shade's eyes aren't the only ones that I remember.
Maven deserves whatever I can find out. I hardly know where I'm going with this, where this will get me, but . . . I owe it to him to try. So that we might brace ourselves for how bad it's going to get.
"I want to see him, Will," I say.
Yes. If Will doesn't know anything beyond the things he won't share with me, then I'll reach out to my big brother. He must have something on them given the time he's put in for the Street Fighters, and poking at this right . . . maybe I'll be sitting across a dinner table from him by the week's end. The idea comes quick and recklessly, and it's out of my head and onto my lips before I can think twice. He's still in the city. I feel it in my bones.
"What makes you think that I have any means of making that happen?" Wills asks slyly. He counts his fives now. Michael Jackson bleeds into Queen. The stoplight outside flashes to red. Time ticks away, and I start rapping my nail on the counter again.
I could threaten him if I wanted, tell him I'd go straight to the cops with his name and address. But Will would just fall over cackling. He knows how I feel about the police—I was very adamant to Maven on not going to the cops—and even if I did, it would spell certain death. Will must have dozens and dozens of clients, and if I put him in jail . . .
"The fact that you ask that makes me think you do," I say instead. "Come on. You must have a phone number or something that can get me connected."
"Why the sudden interest now?" More questions. Great.
"It's been eating away at me for a while, actually," I reply. Maven, too.
"Why not write a letter instead? You do keep in contact with him, no?"
I grit my teeth. "We haven't dared to ask him to come home. And you know full-well that the mailing takes too long. Will, I swear if you don't cut your crap—"
Will raises a hand, withered and flecked with age marks. The motion's too peaceful, too gentle and graceful coming from him, and it has me pausing. His eyes have this fatherly gleam in them, something I've never seen once from Will, a bachelor of many years. Ones. He counts them, more numerous than any of other bills, cheeks working as though he intends on saying something more.
"Get out with it," I order, my tone bordering on anger.
"Farley could use somebody like you," he says quietly, more reluctantly than I've ever heard from him.
"If she's looking for somebody stubborn, I'd tell her there's nobody better than you." It's another one of his scams, and with a glance at the clock positioned above the window, I realize I've already spent longer than I wanted to here. "I don't care about Farley," I grumble, and pushing off the counter, I make for the doorway.
Like hell I'd join the Street Fighters. I'm not looking to get myself thrown in prison or killed for their stupid, halfwitted cause that's never going anywhere. Kilorn, I'd expect that sort of behavior from, but not me. I have too good of a thing going.
"You misunderstand me. Farley could use an insider."
The way he says it stops me from opening the door, the only barrier separating this damned store from the rest of the world.
"You're not talking straight."
Will couldn't know. But my stomach flips over as his unwanted stare presses into my back, and my heart starts pulsing against my ribcage as if in warning. I see my reflection again, this time in the door, and my skin's paler than usual. No. He couldn't know. It's only his usual bull—
"What's it like, up in that glass building?"
My fingers wrap around the door handle, and my stomach pushes into my throat. Slowly, I turn around, and Will gives me a conspiratorial smile. So much for that fatherly look.
All the fluorescents, all the suffocating air, and all the Queen lyrics become distant and abstract. I feel weightless. There. At last an answer, even if it was the one I desired the least. Will's been following the Calores.
By some miracle, Mister Calore managed to keep my fall out of the journalists' hands, so Will didn't pick up a paper and read my story by chance. He's been hacking them, reading into them, per the request of Diana Farley. But Maven told me himself that his family runs a perfectly honest business, looked me dead in the eye as he said it. Farley's picked the wrong people this time.
"This is none of your business, Will. The Calores run a perfectly honest business." My voice comes out breathless. I don't think I'm breathing.
Will deposits his last dollar bill in the register and gives me a frank look. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."