Skirting The Issue. Heather Macallister
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as with the lime-green zinc oxide he painted on his nose. And…could that possibly be the Beach Boys? Yes. Definitely the Beach Boys.
“Password?” he shouted over “Surfin’ U.S.A.” He slid his mirrored sunglasses down his nose, which got them gunked up with the zinc oxide.
Password? She should have known good luck always came with a catch. Sam wondered if the password bore any resemblance to the name of a dead president and wished she hadn’t been so generous to the cab driver.
While she considered her next move, the man cleaned the green stuff off his sunglasses and reapplied more to his nose. “I’m waaaaiiiiting,” he sang. Then he cleared his throat and sang it again an octave lower, adding a theatrical vibrato. “Not bad. Certainly good enough for off Broadway, not that there are many musicals off Broadway these days. But better than the dinner theater circuit, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t presume to say anything.”
“I noticed.” He slipped the glasses back into place. “Don’t know the password? How about a piece of juicy gossip?”
“I’ve only got this.” Sam held up the card she’d filched at the post office.
“So you are here about the apartment. You’re late.”
“I know, but Tavish didn’t say anything about a password.”
“Consistency.” He gestured outward, as though reciting Shakespeare. “All I ask is consistency. Is that too much to ask?”
Sam did a little gesturing of her own toward the beach setup. “I think you ask a lot more than that.”
He stared at her—or maybe not. With the mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes, she couldn’t tell. “I like you. You may pass.” He waved her toward the elevator.
“Thanks, uh…”
“Franco Rossi, at your service.” He assumed the manner of a Spanish grandee, rolling his hand and inclining his head.
“Thanks, Franco.”
“Do run along. You’re blocking the light.”
Oooookay. Sam didn’t need to be told twice. Jabbing the button on the elevator, she stared at the numbers above the door and willed the car to come.
The Beach Boys swelled for a brief moment then retreated.
“Who are you?” Sam heard.
The elevator arrived and she nearly pulled open the doors herself. Escaping inside, she turned and saw a woman talking to the weird doorman, or whatever he was, and another pulling open the heavy plate-glass door.
“Password?” she heard just before the doors closed.
Great. More competition. She hoped there weren’t any more rules she didn’t know about.
2
THE APARTMENT WAS ON THE sixth floor. Just enough to get a modest workout, if Sam were so inclined. There were only three apartments on the floor and number 6C was at the end. Sam didn’t even have to look at the card. She could hear the crowd the moment she stepped off the elevator.
What was she doing here? This was hopeless.
But Sam had been in hopeless situations before—generally those including Josh Crandall…why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Anyway, some of those had turned out to be not so hopeless after all because she’d persevered and that’s what she planned to do now. She’d persevere herself right into the apartment.
Sam opened the door. Why knock? No one would hear her.
The first thing she noticed was that the ratio of women to men was about, well, except for a couple of men who appeared to be brokers, the ratio was ninety-eight to two. The next thing she noticed was that there was a high percentage of blondes in the mix, including a woman with pink-blond hair and matching poodle.
Sam was very definitely not a blonde.
People were freely milling around, so Sam acted like she belonged there and milled as well. The apartment appeared to have three bedrooms, though one was currently being used as a combination office and video lair.
Definitely bachelor pad material. She looked upward, expecting mirrors, but apparently Tavish’s excruciating taste extended only to cowboy vests. Maybe a touch of overkill on the Western look—how many steer horns did a person need?—but, hey, this was great. Fabulous location, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, generously spaced for a New York apartment, and she could always rent out the other bedrooms to help with the rent.
Would that be a sub-sublet? Was that more illegal than a regular sublet?
“Where is Tavish?” pouted one blonde.
One of the men stood on the staircase leading to a small loft. “Mr. McLain will be here momentarily.”
“I say we can start without him,” said another blonde. This one wore a black suit and nearly black lipstick, spike heels and had her hair in a French twist that not one strand dared to come loose.
Sam tucked her own windblown hair—that would be brown windblown hair—behind her ears and straightened her spine.
“My opening offer will be fifteen hundred,” the woman continued. She looked over the competition. “So anyone who can’t beat that is out of luck because the price will go higher.”
“But…but I don’t understand!” It was a redhead. The only one. “Tavish promised me the apartment for eight-fifty!”
“He promised me I could have it for eight hundred!” said someone else.
“Oh, honey.” The blond woman who’d taken charge shook her head. “He does this every year. Then a few of us spend the following year bribing him in hopes he’ll just forget this demeaning lottery and let one of us have the apartment for the summer.” She looked wistful. “I actually lived here one summer. It was…” She seemed to remember where she was and that a crowd of apartment competitors hung raptly on each word. “Just be prepared to ante up, kiddos.”
Sam had been mentally plundering her savings as the door opened and the two women she’d seen in the lobby entered the apartment. They must have known the password.
One of them, poor thing, actually was dragging luggage with her. She looked desperate. Desperate enough to bid a lot. Sam swept an assessing gaze over her. She didn’t look as though she had a lot to bid.
The woman next to her was an unknown. A blond unknown, though. Unsmiling, she looked like a woman with a mission—and Sam knew what the mission was. Sam watched her case the situation from the edge of the crowd, bracing herself for when they locked eyes.
Actually, it wasn’t much of a lock. Sam figured she didn’t come across as much competition when the woman’s gaze swept past her after the briefest hesitation. Probably because she wasn’t a blonde.
French Twist held a check high over her head. “Here it is, folks. Good faith money. Forty-five hundred dollars—three months—up front.” She walked over to one of the agents and tried to hand him a check.
“Hey!” someone shouted, and that pretty much set the rest of the potential renters off.
Some headed for the door and Sam got carried along with them. She didn’t fight too much because she wasn’t yet sure that staying would do any good. Just how much higher would she have to go? Though facing Central Park would be a kick, she didn’t need three bedrooms and there would be the hassle of trying to find roommates for just the summer—even assuming she could outbid French Twist.
The exodus toward the door backed up as the first of the crowd got held up at the elevator. Sam stepped out of the current of disappointed women and found herself next to the two she’d seen downstairs. The one with the luggage was sitting on her suitcase staring blankly at the crowd. The other