Devil You Know Page 5

  “I see you’ve got the new Jilly Cooper,” Lucy said casually.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Mummy doesn’t want to have it in the house, because it’s got s-e-x in it,” Lucy admitted.

  Daisy paused. “Would you like to borrow it?”

  Lucy obviously would. “Have you finished it?”

  “The day I bought it, of course,” Daisy said sternly. As though you could put down a Jilly Cooper! She had strained her eyes finishing it under the bedclothes with a torch, but it had been worth it. “Here.” She picked up the thick white paperback with its embossed gold letters and passed it over.

  “Thanks, Daisy,” Lucy said, sweeping out.

  Soon she was acting as a mini-library. The girls considered Daisy an expert and asked her opinion on which one to borrow next. There was a queue, so nobody returned the books late. Apart from Victoria and Arabella, most of the fourth form stopped teasing Daisy.

  They still didn’t like her much, she could tell, but it was bad manners to pick on someone you owed a favor to.

  Victoria got mad and bought more than one copy of every new trashy novel worth reading, but her ploy backfired. Daisy was established as the pulp fiction queen. The girls liked gathering in her cubicle, talking to each other about the books they’d just read.

  “You know,” Emma Wilkins told her one day, “you should write one of these, Daisy.”

  Daisy flicked through Kane and Abel. “Don’t be daft, it’d take me ten years.”

  “I bet it wouldn’t.” Lucy agreed with Emma. “You know all about this stuff. You should write one. You could let us read the chapters.”

  “You’d be great at that,” Emma said. “You could put me in it.”

  Daisy smiled, her fat face dimpling. This was the first compliment anyone had ever paid her at school. She’d love to be a writer. Maybe she should try it.

  Four

  Rose stopped in front of the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue. The display was opulent; quietly expensive suits and summer dresses by the top designers of the day, with matching shoes, and handbags that started at a thousand dollars. But she wasn’t checking out the merchandise; it was a little out of her price range.

  She was staring at her own reflection.

  She looked beautiful. Rose wasn’t a particularly boastful girl, but facts were facts. She knew that the long, coltish legs, the aristocratic cheekbones, the dusky skin with the ice-blue eyes set under arching, elegantly shaped brows were lovely. How could she not know it? The boys stared on the street. Grown men whistled and catcalled, as though she would somehow find it endearing. And she wouldn’t even be of legal age for another year. Not that that bothered them.

  Rose looked good in anything. A white T-shirt and faded pair of blue jeans merely showed off her figure and contrasted with her skin. Her sheeny dark hair looked dramatic against anything, even the cheap Kmart dresses that were all her mom could afford.

  Today she needed to look a little more than beautiful. Today she needed to look adult.

  She had picked the suit out of a thrift store and got it dry-cleaned. It was navy and nondescript, too slim to sell in the store, and the skirt sat on her knee, modestly. It had everything Rose fondly imagined a modern power suit should have: shoulder pads, gold buttons, the whole lot. She had put her hair up in a severe bun, and got a girlfriend to do her makeup—red mouth and nails, two coats of mascara, and blusher. She’d skipped the foundation, because she could never find a good match for her skin tone, and drawn the line at the blue eyeshadow Elise Carboni wanted to slap on her. But she thought she looked older, at any rate.

  Maybe twenty-five? Rose took in her reflection. OK, that was being a bit optimistic. But she could carry herself as though she were twenty, at least. A college girl.

  She turned from the window and marched a little farther down the street, psyching herself up. Elise thought she was crazy to try a stunt like this, but Elise didn’t know the half of it.

  I’m not crazy, Rose thought, I’m desperate.

  There was nothing else she could do. Last night had been the final straw. Rose had lain there in her tiny cupboard of a bedroom, pretending to be asleep, listening to her father sobbing his heart out in the kitchen next door. His business was as good as ruined. Even his best customers were going elsewhere now. The food was spoiled, their vegetables weren’t fresh, and the construction noise was deafening. Only in the mornings, lunchtime, and at 5 P.M., of course—Rothstein timed the decibels to the peak traffic times.

  The cops ignored Paul’s complaints, or issued halfhearted warnings. They had all but asked for a bribe, but he had nothing to bribe them with. No way could he compete with Rothstein Realty on that front.

  Or, indeed, on any front.

  Her father hadn’t wanted to take the money. No selling out for him. He was too proud.

  Yesterday, when he got back from work, there was a letter. Gold-embossed, thick, costly paper, the hated insignia of Rothstein Realty on the front cover.

  Rose had wanted to open it immediately, but her mother told her to wait till her father got home.

  “It’s his mail, after all,” she said flatly.

  Rose did her homework in front of the letter, unable to concentrate. It sat there, staring at her, taunting her. She had butterflies in her stomach. Finally, Rothstein had responded to her letter.

  She’d known it would have results, eventually. Rose was a realist. She didn’t hold out much hope that they were going to go away, she just hoped that they would let her father keep his place. But maybe they were going to up the money. In exchange for his livelihood, a hundred grand would barely last two years, and the store space was worth so much more to them. If they offered two hundred, her dad could get a nice long lease on a space nearby, somewhere else. And the dark cloud would move away from his head.

  She felt almost sick with nerves by the time he got home.

  “You got a letter,” her mother said, picking it up gingerly by her nails and handing it to him.

  Paul glanced at his daughter. “It can wait. I’ll open it later.”

  Rose swallowed hard, to force down the protest that wanted to burst from her lips. Obviously he didn’t want her to see it. She knew, deep down, that she was smarter than both her parents, but she was also fifteen years old. She could have helped them to deal with it, but they still saw her as a child. And now was not the time to challenge her father on anything.

  “You know what, I’m tired,” she said. “I need an early night. I’m gonna take a shower and see you guys in the morning.”

  Half an hour later, she got into bed and pretended to be asleep. The door creaked fifteen minutes later—her parents checking to see if she was out. Rose kept her eyes closed, her breathing nice and regular. She heard the door click shut. Then her father sobbing.

  After a sleepless night, Rose woke up as soon as the first red streaks of dawn filtered through their tiny windows, lighting the gray air-conditioning vents of the industrial building which their apartment overlooked. She swung her feet out of bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The letter lay open on the side. Rose snatched it up, dry-mouthed:

  Dear Mr. Fiorello,

  This letter is notification that the time allotted to you to take advantage of the offer of fifty thousand dollars for early vacation of your lease has expired. Rothstein Realty does not wish to renew this offer nor to offer any other compensation should you voluntarily choose to vacate the premises you have leased. The terms of your lease guaranteed by law will be honored by Rothstein Realty in accordance with law. Rent must be paid in full and on time as specified in the lease. Eviction proceedings will begin with the first missed payment, as specified in the terms of the lease.

  We remain very truly yours,

  J. Mandel, B. Wilson, H. Saperstein

  Mandel, Wilson, Saperstein & Thomas, representing Rothstein Realty, Inc.

  Her heart raced, and she slid into a chair, dizzy with fear. But Rose didn’t have time to be afraid. Sh
e stood up again and slipped into the bathroom, running a quick, quiet shower. Then she turned to her closet and selected her best suit, purchased for that summer job as a receptionist at an accountant’s she’d landed last summer. Then she’d rushed to Elise’s for help with her makeup, wound her hair into a bun, and set out for midtown.

  She was going to Rothstein Realty.

  Screw the lawyers. There was no other way. Rose believed that over at Rothstein they didn’t know what their lawyers were doing. After all, this was just one tiny wriggle in their vast operations. The main company couldn’t possibly be keeping track of everything. Rose would go in to see them, explain the situation, and offer a compromise. Two hundred grand, and they would just walk away. Her dad could set up nearby, Rothstein would get their vacant building—everybody would win.

  The Rothstein offices were located right by Rockefeller Center, in a sleek, high skyscraper covered in gleaming polished granite. Rose was almost there now, and she suddenly realized she had no idea what she was doing.

  She had no appointment … no one to speak to. She had been a receptionist. Would she have let a person in without an appointment? Rose paused and ducked down a side street, looking for a phone. She found one in a couple of minutes—amazingly unbroken. She got the number for Rothstein Realty from 411 and crossed her fingers. It was only eight-twenty in the morning. Yesss … a computerized voice was clicking in.

  “If you know the name of your party’s extension, press it now.” This was so modern, Rose thought bitterly. Trust Rothstein to have one of these automatic systems. She waited. “If you do not know the extension, press star for a company directory by surname, or zero to leave a message in the general—”

  Quickly Rose punched the star key.

  She typed in 7 6 8 … R O T.

  “To select … Giovanni Rotando, press 1 now. To select … Fred Rothstein, press 1 now.”

  Fred Rothstein was the CEO. Rose didn’t think she’d have much luck with him. She continued to listen.

  “Seth Rothstein…” suggested the voice. “Tom Rothstein … William Rothstein.”

  It was a lottery. Rose punched one.

  “You have reached the mailbox for William Rothstein in public relations,” the soothing voice said. “Please leave a message after the tone. This is extension 1156.”

  Rose swallowed hard and strained to keep her tone level. “William, this is Rose Fiorello confirming our appointment for nine. Your assistant hasn’t got back to my office, so I’m assuming everything is OK. See you at nine.”

  She hung up, a fine bead of sweat over her forehead. Her wristwatch said it was eight-twenty-two. There was a cheap-looking coffee and bagel joint just across the street, and she headed toward it.

  She would get there in twenty minutes. She just hoped to God this would work.

  *

  Rose tried not to look impressed when she stepped through the glass revolving doors. Rothstein’s lobby was sumptuous. The walls and floor were of perfectly matched marble, pink veins swirling through a silky-smooth, gleaming surface that screamed of money. There were three huge oil canvases hung in ornate gold-leaf frames; she didn’t notice what they were of; that hardly seemed the point. The receptionist’s desk was carved of mahogany. Two women sat behind it, dealing with ringing phones and a bevy of suited supplicants that buzzed in front of them with military precision. The desk rested on an Oriental rug in cream and pale blue. Rose had seen ones like it in the Metropolitan Museum. She thought it was ten thousand bucks’ worth of rug, maybe more. And yes, both the receptionists were wearing ultra-smart navy Chanel suits.

  Perspiration dewed the palms of her hands. She surreptitiously wiped them on the suit. It wouldn’t do to look nervous. Rose breathed in deeply through her red-slicked lips, pausing before breathing out. Nature’s valium.

  She marched up to the receptionists’ desk, shouldering her way through the crowd of male executives.

  “Yes, ma’am?” the polished girl said, not raising her eyes.

  Rose prayed hard. “Rose Fiorello, to see William Rothstein,” she said confidently.

  The receptionist consulted a vellum-bound book. “I don’t see anything in there for nine, ma’am. What was the name again?”

  “Ms. Fiorello,” Rose said, impatiently. “Don’t tell me that stupid girl of his messed this up again? This is the second time—”

  “Let me call up to his office—”

  “Extension 1156,” Rose said, with just the right touch of condescension.

  The receptionist bent her head apologetically and talked into the phone in a low voice.

  “His assistant isn’t in yet—”

  “She didn’t pass on the message on the machine confirming our appointment?” Rose demanded.

  The girl muttered something else into the phone. There was a brief pause, and Rose tried not to hold her breath.

  “Mr. Rothstein says to go right up. It’s the eighth floor—”

  “Thank you, I’ve been there before,” Rose lied smoothly.

  She half ran to the elevator bank before the women could inspect her and start asking questions about her age. Thank God nobody paid attention to other people anymore.

  Men crowded into the elevator with her, some of them looking her up and down lasciviously, but Rose stared straight ahead, ignoring everybody. She’d got this far. It was a miracle.

  Maybe it was all going to work out …

  The elevator glided to a stop at the eighth floor, and Rose stepped out on to soft carpet and another oasis of dark woods and oil paintings. She was directed to William Rothstein’s office and kept walking, just kept going, looking neither right nor left, expecting to be challenged at any minute. There it was, with the empty assistant’s desk in front of it; a heavy, imposing door made of solid oak, with a discreet brass nameplate on it.

  Rose knocked.

  “Come in.”

  She opened it and stood in the doorway, feeling awkward. A large, thickset man, bald and wearing a well-cut suit, sat behind his desk, flicking through a file of papers.

  “Can I help you?”

  He glanced up and looked her over.

  “I’m Rose Fiorello,” Rose said, closing the door.

  “Yes. My assistant didn’t tell me about any meeting for this morning.”

  “I’m here to talk to you about Paul’s Famous Deli. Located in the building you’ve bought on Ninth Avenue. You’re forcing the tenant out of his lease, and now you’ve withdrawn your offer of compensation.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “That’s really not important,” Rose said, the wash of adrenaline carrying her through. Her heart was pounding now, and she had beads of sweat on her forehead. “You run the publicity department here, don’t you? It won’t make very good publicity when I go to the papers and tell them that you’re running a twenty-year institution out of his lease…”

  William Rothstein was smiling now, and it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  “Now I get it,” he said, and his words were soft and vicious. “Fiorello. You’re his kid. This whole thing is a stunt. You’re here to blackmail me.”

  “You can’t talk about blackmail, cutting off our electricity—”

  “Let me save you some time before I get security to throw you out,” Rothstein said silkily. “You aren’t going anywhere with this story. Do you know how many apartment ads we run in the Post and the News and the Village Voice? We get hundreds of people like your father every day, thinking it’s open season on developers, that they can trade in their shitty leases for hundreds of thousands more than they’re worth. If anybody did pay any attention to you—which I highly doubt—we would simply use your presence here today as evidence of your blackmail.”

  “We aren’t extorting you. You are driving us out. What about my father’s livelihood?”

  Rothstein shrugged. “Your father was offered fifty thousand dollars to settle with us. Instead, he chose to go to the police, to mak
e trouble. If you take on this firm, you face the consequences.” He leaned forward in his chair, casting dark eyes up and down her slim body. “You’re a very attractive girl. Is that why he sent you to me?”

  Rose flushed scarlet, rage and shame bringing the blood to the surface of her cheeks. She took a step forward, her hand shaking, intending to slap him in the face.

  “Oh-ho, a regular wildcat.” She couldn’t believe it; he was actually laughing at her. “I don’t think so, Missy. You’re a little out of your depth here.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Mr. Rothstein? It’s Melissa. Shall I call security?”

  Rose’s ice-blue eyes flashed. “You’ll regret this, Mr. Rothstein.”

  “Um. Yeah. I’m sure I will.”

  He leaned back, chuckling. Rose wrenched the door open, facing a pneumatic blond in her twenties who glared at her.

  “You didn’t have any appointment—”

  “I’ll show myself out,” Rose said, ignoring her. She walked down the hall, cheeks burning, as the girl screamed, “I’m calling security!”

  There was a fire exit next to the elevator. Rose took it, jogged down three floors, then stepped out to get on a different down elevator. Nobody was going to throw her out. Fiercely, she blinked back the tears pricking her eyes.

  This was unbelievable. They were ruined. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

  *

  Rose helped her parents get through the next two weeks. She contacted their landlord and got him to waive the notice period. She found a cheap two-bedroom in the Bronx, and ringed ads in the Help Wanted section. Her father closed the store, sold off what equipment he could, and donated the food to a homeless shelter. She tried not to let him reflect too much on the loss of his place.

  “It’s really an opportunity,” she told her father. “You know, starting over. You have five thousand bucks and no stress. And anyway, Mom needs you to be strong.”

  She told her mother the same thing, and watched each of her parents force a calm exterior for the other.

  Paul Fiorello found himself a job. He got a deli manager position at a Pathmark store on Third Avenue, a decent job. It paid less money, and it was taxable, and it wasn’t his own business. Rose knew that every day he put the uniform on, he felt humiliated. But her father never complained, and the job carried health benefits. Her mother got to go to the doctor’s more often, and did her best to make the new apartment feel like home.