Page 59 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Whenever Tuesday heard people say “Well-behaved women rarely make history,” she wondered who they were talking about. She’d been a traumatized kid who stood up to one of the most powerful talent managers in the business. And that made history, all right, just not the good kind. She was suddenly unclean, unreliable, and unhirable: a lying Black slut making a fuss at the wrong time, years before the #MeToo movement might’ve made her a hero. The culture had relitigated Britney, Lindsay, and Paris. When would it be her turn?

That was what her memoir was for. If she’d ever finish writing the damned thing. Why was she overthinking it? No one was expecting “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” She simply had to tell her story. Set the record straight.

It certainly wasn’t about the money. Her advance from the publisher was negligible. But these days, Tuesday didn’t need much. She made a comfortable living off residuals and filmed commercials overseas sometimes. She had a few friends—her esthetician and the woman who did her lashes. But when she met Ricki, that was a platonic love at first sight. They were kindred spirits, each requiring the other to be nothing but exactly herself. And Ricki needed a friend as badly as Tuesday did.

The two had a lot in common, but one thing that Ricki was, and Tuesday wasn’t, was naive. She was dangerously smitten with this Ezra character. But clearly, he was hiding something. And Tuesday was determined to uncover the truth.

There was only one way to do it. She’d pretend to be a city inspector and wheedle her way into Ezra Walker’s house on an evidence-gathering mission.

He’s left me no choice, thought Tuesday, adding the finishing touches to her makeup: an extremely light beat meant to complement the city inspector uniform she’d bought half-price at the New York Police Shop way out in Queens.

Tuesday already knew how to hustle her way into a house, and it didn’t involve holding anyone up at gunpoint or breaking through windows. Nothing nutty. Based on her turn as a teen burglar in the 2006 Lifetime holiday flickSeason’s Thievings, she knew how to make a break-in the perfect victimless crime.

The first thing was to ascertain when Ezra wouldn’t be home. Not hard. For the past four days, she’d disguised herself in a massive puffer, a Yankees cap, and sunglasses and discreetly patrolled Ezra’s block to get the lay of the land. She’d discovered the following:

Every day, around 11:00 a.m., Ezra left the house carrying a mysterious bag of dog food. He came home around 3:00 p.m. and sometimes had a mammoth husky with him. Where does one go for that long in the middle of the workday? Did he work, even? And was that XXL-sized beast a domesticated dog or a fucking wolf? It looked like Falkor fromThe NeverEnding Story.

Even odder still, one time she followed him into a Walgreens and, from two aisles over, watched him walking slowly through the store. Staring at the endless options of shaving cream, toothpaste, and Hallmark cards, studying them but never buying anything. It made no sense.

Tuesday also discovered that, as was the case with so many owners of New York City brownstones, he lived on the top floors and rented the ground floor to tenants. She’d spotted the renter through the window—a young woman, maybe a college student? She was always home.

That was all the info Tuesday needed to charm her way inside. If the tenant was as young as she looked, there was a chance she wouldn’t recognize Tuesday. Then, if luck was on Tuesday’sside—and if she knew her Edwardian-era Harlem brownstones—there might be a servants’ stairwell in the back of the house that would lead upstairs. A secret passageway, as it were. Most likely, there’d be a door atop the stairwell leading to Ezra’s duplex, and it’d probably be locked. But she knew how to pick a lock, too. All it took was a credit card and patience.

Ezra Walker was going down.

“Hello, can I help you?”

It was 12:15 p.m., and Tuesday had just rung the doorbell at Ezra’s house. It was perfect. He wasn’t home, but the first-floor tenant was. She was an athletic-looking blonde wearing Columbia University joggers.

“I’m so sorry to bother you on this fine day,” Tuesday said with a bright smile. It was clear that the tenant had no idea who she was. “My name is Scarlett Johannesburg, and I’m with the New York City Department of Inspection. There was a hydrant leak in the area, and I’m looking at all the residential water… uh… systems on the block.”

“Ohhh, I hadn’t heard,” said the blonde.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tuesday watched the tenant quickly survey her jumpsuit, clipboard, and top-handle satchel of “tools.” She bought the whole thing.

“Yeah, I need to check the building’s sinks, tubs, and toilets for leaks. All your, um, faucet valve… miscellanea. I know it’s an inconvenience, but…”

“No, you’re fine! It’s just, my landlord isn’t here. I’m a renter.”

Tuesday riffled through the papers on her clipboard. “Hmm. Seems I don’t have any tenants listed, only the owner. Mr. Ezra Walker?”

“That’s right.”

“Cool, cool, cool. And your name is?”

“I’m Beck.” She smiled brightly, tipping her head to the side.

“Hi, Beck!” Tuesday smiled and tipped her head, too. When researching her role inSeason’s Thievings, Tuesday learned that the way to earn a stranger’s confidence was to repeat their name. And mirror their body language. It bred a feeling of familiarity.

“Beck, if you don’t mind, I’ll just conduct a quick search of the building. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

A few beats later, Beck had let Tuesday into the house to issue a fake inspection of her apartment, which was decorated with an assortment of slightly faded hand-me-down furniture, probably from her parents’ second homes or summer estates. Beck’s family was most assuredly wealthy—how else did she live in a fancy brownstone as opposed to shitty student housing?

“I’ll just wait in the kitchen, Ms. Johannesburg,” said Beck, who trailed Tuesday into a cute breakfast nook. “I’m studying for our psychopharmacology midterms. Exam life,ugh.”

“Education first, kiddo,” Tuesday called out to her, grateful that there was a carpet runner down the long hallway to mask the creakiness of the old wooden floorboards, so Beck couldn’t tell where she was in the house. A good thing, since she’d already tiptoed down the hall, past two huge bedrooms, to a discreet door in the back of the house.

The old servants’ stairwell. She didn’t have a lot of time now. She quickly looked over her shoulder, and there was no sign of Beck.

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