Page 59 of Underground Prince

I slid back into the car with Theo, idling right where we left it.

“Well, that was painless,” I said, buckling my seatbelt. “What next?”

“Everything was all right?” Theo asked, and I nodded and started to speak as if he were talking to me, until I looked up and saw Theo addressing Brodie in the front.

“Fine,” Brodie said.

“I’ll give you one more, then,” Theo said to me. Brodie turned the ignition, and soon we were driving into Greenwich Village, a tiny retreat in a forest of brick and mortar, where flashes of trimmed trees and meticulous flower pots were seen more often than litter on the sidewalks.

We pulled over beside a cream building, maybe ten or eleven stories high. Nothing went much higher in this secluded township of the elite. “Who lives here?”

“Eric Strausen. You might’ve seen him last night,” Theo said.

“As in Strausen, Jason and Associates?”

“The very one.”

“Doesn’t he represent a Kardashian?”

“He defends many a celebrity. And he’s expecting you.”

“No envelope to give him? Nothing?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I squinted at him, this man of few words but possessing a thousand hidden meanings. “You’re lucky I’m clever. How much?”

“Fifty.”

“Dollars?” It was obvious it wouldn’t be, but I could not go on without clarifying that yes, these were indeed the measly amounts of cash I had to deal with.

“Thousand.”

“Of course. Is this where you drop me off before slithering back into the night, or will you be here when I get back?” I asked.

He grinned in the car’s shadows, my very own Cheshire cat chauffeuring me around the city to collect his precious fish bones. “I’ll always be here, Scarlet.”

“Flossing your teeth while I go poke at your prey,” I muttered, getting out and shutting the door. He remained in the shelter of his car, streetlights cutting slashes of skin through the dusk.

It wasn’t a good idea to wonder if his eyes turned neon in the night or if they stayed on me while I walked away.

It wasn’t smart to want to be hunted.

The five doormen—or bell hops, or security guards, who the hell knows—must have recognized Brodie because nobody asked for our names. The elevator was quiet, just me and my invisible Titan as we ascended, coated with the veil of the wealthy where even elevators were shiny and plush. I half expected a couch to be behind us, but alas, the money stopped at beveled mirrors.

The gold doors dinged on the tenth floor, the highest in this building, and we walked out onto cushy maroon carpeting and more wealth-acquired silence. My tote slapped against my side as we moved, the sound seeming almost offensive in the secluded corridor.

I pushed the button on the door of 10A, the bell ringing a short, musical tone that was nothing like the hacksaw Verily and I heard when our guests came calling.

A maid—a true maid, in a black uniform and white apron but without the naughty-factor I was known for, answered.

“Come in,” she said, ushering me forward. “Mr. Strausen is in the library.”

If she was affected by my appearance in such a frou-frou environment, she kept her face blank and agreeable, as if New York City riffraff entered this suite regularly.

“Coffee? Tea?” she asked me as she led us down the hallway. True to form, Brodie was nothing but a shadow lurking three steps behind. “Champagne?”

“Nothing, thanks,” I said, pausing as we passed what even my brain could recognize as a Picasso. In a hallway. “I won’t be long.”

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