The Wicked City Read online

  “That would be so unscrupulous. What if I get caught?”

  Hector tossed her a luminous grin. “In that case, I guess I’d just take the blame. Pull rank. I have seniority around here. Well, except Mrs. McDonald on the ground floor. She’s been here since the Second World War. Gets an automatic laundry pass.”

  “Sounds like you all know each other.”

  “We are kind of a tight crew, you might say.” He moved away with his basket of wet clothes. “All yours, Four D.”

  “Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.”

  “So, that was your cue, by the way.”

  “My cue?”

  “You’re supposed to tell me your name. Unless it really is Four D.”

  “Oh! Sorry. I’m a little slow on weekends. It’s Ella? Ella Gilbert.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ella Gilbert. Welcome to the neighborhood.” He set his palms on the edge of the folding table along the opposite wall and hoisted himself up. “Don’t mind me. Just waiting for that dryer to finish up.”

  Ella looked at the two machines, clunking in hypnotic circles.

  “So what if the owner doesn’t turn up in time? Is there a protocol?”

  “Oh, you know. We just take the load out and fold it.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Seriously.”

  “We, as in the other tenants? You fold each other’s laundry around here?”

  “Like I said. Tight crew.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Once you get to know everyone, I mean.”

  To this, Ella made a noncommittal hunh—get to know everyone? What was this, college?—and studied the instructions on the lid of the washer. Realized she was supposed to add the soap first. Started to unload.

  “What’s up? Something wrong with the washer?” Hector asked.

  “Nothing, just … I guess you add the soap first on this model.”

  “Ella, I hate to have to break this to you, but it really doesn’t matter. Soap first or soap after. Unless there’s a soap drawer, I guess, which there isn’t. Pretty basic machine.”

  Ella stopped with her hand on a T-shirt. “But it says—”

  “So break the rules. It’s okay. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I don’t know. The whole laundry room floods with soap?”

  Hector laughs. “You are awesome, you know that? Go ahead. I dare you. Be bad.”

  Ella overturned the basket into the drum, added half a cup of liquid Tide, and slammed the lid. “There. Are you happy?”

  “I am. Felt good, didn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” She turned and leaned her bottom against the washer, an act of supreme courage because it brought her back in direct communion with Hector’s face, which had the kind of fresh, animal beauty that made your eyes sting. She’d forgotten what that was like, instant attraction. Not that she hadn’t encountered beautiful men since meeting Patrick; this was New York, after all, colonized by the beautiful, the brilliant, the rich. Sometimes all three in one hazardous, electromagnetic package. But falling in love with Patrick had somehow, blessedly, immunized her against fascination for somebody else. She could appreciate a man’s gleaming charisma—she could say to herself, Well, that’s certainly a good-looking guy, nice style, great sense of humor—without feeling any meaningful desire to have sex with him, even in the abstract, even in fantasy. So it was strange and shameful and utterly unsettling that when she tried to meet Hector’s lupine gaze, she felt her skin heating up and her mind grasping for wit. Like some membrane had dissolved in her sensible, grown-up, married brain, unleashing an adolescent miasma. Wanting to say something sensible and thinking, Your eyes are the color of cappuccino, can I drink you?

  “My mom was a rule-follower, too,” Hector said. “It’s okay. I get it. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed. You guys seriously fold each other’s laundry?”

  “Sure. I mean, when we have to. Not just because. That would be weird.”

  “What about—well, you know—”

  He grinned again. “Unmentionables? If you feel that strongly, Queen Victoria, you can always take them up to your room and dry them on a chair arm. Me, I’ve got nothing to hide. Just tighty whities. Pretty boring stuff.”

  “You do realize we’re in New York City, right? A rental building? We’re not even supposed to make eye contact in the hallway.”

  Hector shrugged. He wore a fine-gauge V-neck sweater, charcoal gray, cashmere or merino, a bit shabby, exposing a triangle of white T-shirt at the neck. The sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms. The blue jeans were likewise worn, but to an honest fade: not the awkward, fake threads of a pre-shredded pair. He had enviable olive skin, and maybe that was the key to his strange luminosity—this smooth, golden sheath of his that didn’t show a single line, not even in the fluorescent basement lighting. Just a shadow of stubble on his jaw. Because of course he rolled out of bed like that. Stretched, shook himself. Probably drank a shot of wheatgrass and did fifty naked pushups. “Just the way we operate around here,” he said. “Band of brothers. And sisters.”

  “But folding laundry. Really? That’s—I don’t know, it’s so personal.”

  “It’s just laundry. And we are kind of personal around here. Anyway, you can’t just dump your buddy’s clothes in a pile and leave the scene. That would be wrong.”

  “Why wrong?”

  “Do unto others, Ella. Who wants wrinkled T-shirts?”

  “Then just do your laundry some other time. After work. What’s with everyone jamming up the laundry room at dawn on a Saturday? I feel like I’ve walked into some kind of cuckoo commune.”

  “It’s not that bad, I swear.”

  “Yeah, it is. It’s totally a commune. And I’ll bet you’re the mayor.”

  “I don’t think communes have mayors, do they? I mean, by definition?”

  “You’re dodging the question.”

  “Sorry.” He hung his head a little. “Like I said, I have seniority, that’s all.”

  “Seniority? You?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, which was shaggy and dark and thick, contributing hugely to Ella’s overall impression of Hector as a handsome, unkempt wolfhound. “Is it that bad? I guess I should clean up my act a little more. That’s what happens when you don’t spend all day working for the Man.”

  Ella threw up her hands. “Fine. Don’t tell me anything. I’ll just have to figure out all the house rules on my own. Or do my laundry on Monday nights after work.”

  “Actually, no. You don’t want to do that. Nights are bad.”

  “Bad? Bad how?”

  Across the room, the first dryer switched off and let out a series of frantic beeps. Hector jumped from the table. “Oops! That’s me.”

  “Should I give you a hand?”

  “Naw, I’ve got it.”

  “Are you sure? I’m feeling a disturbing need to contribute somehow.”

  “Ah, see? Drinking the Kool-Aid already.”

  Drinking something, that’s for sure, Ella thought. Realized—the horror!—she was staring at Hector’s backside as he bent to remove the clothes from the dryer. Like a teenager. And then she remembered, like an electric shock, Jesus, I’m married! The way she would sometimes have nightmares, early in her marriage, in which she was in bed with some faceless man, nobody in particular, having sex, and realized halfway through that she had a husband and she was cheating on him, and she would startle awake and stare, heart thumping, at Patrick’s sleeping shoulder and feel such a drenching, horrified guilt that she actually cried. As if she had genuinely, consciously, in real life committed the crime of adultery.

  Except this wasn’t a dream. Hector was real. Hector and his pert backside, his unemployed, slacker hotness, stood a few yards away, had a name and a face, and now, in this altered landscape of her life, unexpected and unsought, she had no nearby husband to immunize her. No one to keep her safe from the wolfhounds of New York City.

  She turned
swiftly for the door. “Guess I’ll be going, then!”

  “Wait! Hold on a second.”

  Unless he wasn’t real. Unless he was an actor or something, installed here as an instance of charity, or maybe a test. Or occupational therapy. She wouldn’t put that kind of trick past her mother. She wouldn’t put anything at all past her sister, even though Joanie was supposed to be studying in Paris right now.

  He certainly looked like an actor. If this happened in a movie—vigorous, raven-locked guy prowls into post-breakup laundry room and purrs all the right things—you would roll your eyes and say, Nice try. Or you would think it was some kind of porn.

  “I can’t,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Please?”

  Ella paused, hand on knob. “You’re a big boy. Don’t beg.”

  “Not begging. Just polite, like my mama taught me. So do you have a minute?”

  “Not really. I’ve got a lot of unpacking to do.”

  “Wow. The brush-off. Was it something I said?”

  “No, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t say sorry. If I accidentally shot off some kind of sexist bullshit, just call me on it, okay? My bad.”

  “No! It’s not that. I just—” I’m married, she finished in her head. Wronged, scorned, cheated upon, humiliated, separated: all those things. But also, technically, married. And I don’t know if you’re hitting on me or not. It’s only been five minutes. But I think I might have been hitting on you. Was I? And if I was, is that morally wrong or just really, really stupid? Or something else, something that would take a therapist to explain properly and at great length and expense.

  “I mean, I don’t want to hold you up or anything. Just tell you about a few things. Rules of the road. In case I don’t see you around, over the next few days. And you end up bringing your laundry down here at night.”

  “What do you mean? Are there rats or something?”

  “Um, no. Not rats. I mean, there might be rats. Who knows? But probably not. No droppings or whatever.” Hector’s voice had turned a little uncertain, or maybe apologetic was a better word, and the change was so interesting that Ella now swiveled to face him. In doing so, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung, inexplicably, above the folding table on which Hector’s problematic backside had recently been resting. The greasy hair. The flushed, bare face. The baggy T-shirt.

  Jesus Christ, Ella, you fucking idiot. (She never swore aloud, but her inner monologue could flame along like a Tarantino movie, when she was angry enough.) What the hell were you thinking? Of course he’s not hitting on you. Unless someone’s paying him to do it. Unless he pities you.

  She smiled gently. “You know what? I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. Just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

  “No hard feelings. Moving’s stressful. Right up there with death and divorce, they say. I just wanted to say that it’s not Kool-Aid.”

  “Sorry? What’s not Kool-Aid?”

  “The whole thing.” He slammed the dryer door on his load of wet laundry and straightened. Turned to her. Folded his arms across his lean chest. He had a loping, tensile shape to him, in keeping with the wolfhound aspect. Patrick was more muscular, gym honed, though not quite as tall. “The Eleven Christopher thing. It’s not rats, either. It’s the speakeasy.”

  “The speakeasy? You mean like a bar?”

  “Like a bar, sure.” He pulled apart his arms and pointed his thumb to the wall, the one with the table and the mirror. Cinder blocks covered in gray paint. “Right there, in the basement. The other side of that wall. Starts up at night. You can hear the music and the voices. People laughing and having a good time. Sometimes you can actually feel the walls vibrate, you know, from the dancing and all that. And sometimes other stuff.”

  “Wow. Really? I didn’t see a storefront or an entrance or anything.”

  “Well, that’s kind of the point, with a speakeasy. You have to know it’s there.”

  Hector fastened on her face as he said this. Giving her his full, charged attention. That friendly gaze had gone narrow, more serious, and instead of pressing the necessary buttons on the dryer he just folded his arms back across his chest and waited for her to reply. And she thought—or really, the thought arrived in her head, unsolicited—Why, he isn’t young at all, is he? His eyes, they’re antiques, they were born old and tanned and heavy. Where did you come from, little old soul? Except those were Ella’s mother’s words. Tucking her into bed, leaning in to kiss her forehead. The smell of Chanel. Where did you come from, little old soul?

  She realized he was expecting a reply. She wasn’t sure what to say. Was she supposed to care about the bar next door? Were the residents upset? Was there some kind of petition he wanted her to sign? This was New York; if you couldn’t stand the constant interruption of the city around you, the sirens splitting your ears and the bridge-and-tunnel crowd vomiting outside your window at three in the morning, you packed up and left for the suburbs pretty fast. So what was the deal?

  She asked, “Is the noise really bad? The super didn’t say anything. I mean, I’m a pretty sound sleeper. More importantly,” she went on, trying for a lighter note, “will they give us a house discount?”

  The chuckle he returned seemed a little too nervous. Broke the strange earnestness between them. He turned to the dryer and pressed his thumb on one of the buttons. It was an old model; the buttons were large and stiff and stuck down when you pushed them. There was a click, a faint buzz of electric engagement, and then the drum began to turn, bang bang bang.

  “House discount,” Hector said. “That’s a good one. But sorry, no can do.”

  “Bummer. What is it, some kind of secret celebrity hangout?”

  “Nope. I mean, no one we would know. It’s more of a—”

  The door swung open, hitting Ella in the arm, and a small, dainty girl bounded through behind an old-fashioned wicker laundry basket. Her skin was fresh and peachy, and her hair was the color of organic honey.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  Ella rubbed her arm. “Fine.”

  “No, really. I should’ve looked first. I’m such a klutz!”

  “I’m okay, really. Just leaving.”

  “You’re the new girl, right?” She put her basket on her hip and stuck out her hand. “I’m Jen. Three C.”

  “Hi, Jen. I’m Ella.”

  Jen turned to Hector in a whip of honey hair. “Hello up there! Up to no good?”

  He spread out his hands. “You know me. Sleep well?”

  “All right.” She ruffled his forelock. “I heard you playing.”

  “Just for you, babe.”

  “Me and all the others. Wait, isn’t that machine done yet? Put my stuff on top, like, an hour ago.”

  “My bad. Jumped ahead of you.”

  “You what?”

  “You snooze, you lose, right?”

  Jen smacked him with the wicker basket. “You creep! That is like so wrong! We have a thing here in this building! Where’s the trust?”

  “Ow!” Hector said, rubbing his shoulder. “All right! Mea culpa. Won’t happen again.”

  Ella spoke up. “Actually, he’s covering for me. It was my laundry.”

  “Your laundry?”

  “But I put her up to it,” Hector said.

  Jen shook her head in sorrow. “I just don’t know what to say. This is so disappointing.”

  “I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Look,” said Ella, “I’m sorry about the laundry. I owe you one, okay?”

  “Oh, I’m not mad at you. It’s this one.” Jen jerked her thumb at Hector. “Watch out. He’s notorious. Definitely can’t be trusted with cute new tenants.”

  Ella reached for the door handle. Her stomach hurt, like she’d just taken a fist. “Yeah, um. I’ll just be going now. Nice to meet you both.”

  “Ella, wait—”

  But Ella pretended not to hear him. Let the door close on notorious Hector and dainty
Jen and the four busy washing machines and two busy dryers. The table where you folded your neighbors’ clothes and the wall separating you from some kind of weird, exclusive underground bar with no signage outside.

  The mirror that said you were nobody’s cute new tenant. Just the kind of woman who couldn’t keep her husband safe in his own bed.

  SATURDAY NIGHTS WERE THE WORST. You could keep yourself busy unpacking all day—and Ella did, until the last box was empty and broken down for recycling, until the last book was on the shelf and the last spoon in the drawer, and only the few pictures needed hanging—but once you opened the shrunken fridge and began to contemplate your few alluring options for dinner, you realized how much you took for granted in marriage.

  Not that Ella hadn’t before found herself alone on a Saturday night. Sometimes Patrick was overseas—some Europe junket, or else paying calls on Asia—and sometimes he had client dinners. Sometimes out with the boys. (Anyway, that was the story, which she’d never doubted until now.) But these absences were infrequent enough that she actually—if she was honest with herself—relished the freedom. She might have had dinner with Joanie (at least until Joanie left for Paris) or her aunt and uncle (whom she adored) or even gone down to Washington to stay with her parents.

  For the most part, though, she hung out with Patrick. Dinner, movie, TV. Sex. Usually sex. She took pride in keeping the electricity in her marriage. Her husband would never have to saw on the old chestnut that he wasn’t getting any at home now that Ella had a ring on her finger. Oh, no. She almost always said yes, even when she was tired or busy with work. Ella’s father looked eternally on her mother like she was Ginger and Mary Ann all rolled in one—Ella had caught them at it more than once, so embarrassing—and that was her model. That was the marriage she wanted to have. The kind everybody envied. She wanted the radiant, satisfied skin her mother had. The adoring gaze that followed her mother around the house.

  Tonight, however, and for all the Saturday nights stretching into the imaginable future, there would be no sex. No cabernet and steak frites at the bistro around the corner. No twilight movie theater, laughing together at the same jokes, hands bumping in the popcorn. Just this half-empty fridge, this leftover baked ziti from the pizza place next to the subway stop. This TV set. These books. This studio apartment, the sprawling, affluent contents of her life compacted back into a single room, as if the past six years had never really occurred, as if they were just some play she had watched, some theme park she had visited, and now she was back in her rightful life.