Near Enemy Read online

  Just kidding.

  There’s no such thing as phonebooks anymore.

  When I get to Astor Place, the day shift’s just ending, so the sidewalk out front of the Sculpture for Living is swarming with nurses, done for the day.

  That’s what they named the condo tower when they built it, by the way.

  Sculpture for Living.

  Must have made sense once.

  The nurses pooling out front aren’t the old-fashioned medical kind. They’re the type of nurses that wealthy people hire to watch their beds while they tap in. You can spot them by their uniforms, timeless white outfits, very traditional, with white skirts and white stockings and white hats with red crosses bobby-pinned to swept-up hair. The limn is expensive enough already, but if you tap in a lot, and you’re already rich, a nurse is a nice extra perk. Someone to tuck you in, watch your vitals, keep you safe and dry and well maintained while your body withers as you drift in a dream in the limn.

  Nurses work in shifts, round the clock, and now a cluster of them is huddling on the sidewalk over cigarettes, trying to smoke off the tension of the day. A few others check handhelds or hail cabs, a herd of which is just now inching up and sniffing around for fares.

  I grab a seat on a park bench opposite the condo tower and consider the building.

  Langland, my banker, lived in the penthouse. And I figure there’s only three armed doormen and a tower full of plainclothes security standing between me and a chance to poke around his apartment.

  As I ponder that challenge, I sip a lukewarm street-cart coffee and skim the headlines of a discarded Post. Front page features a big photo of Bellarmine, under the headline: BELLAR–MENTUM! TOP COP SURGE AS POLLS TIGHTEN.

  Wonder how news of a terrorist infiltration in the limnosphere would affect Bellarmine’s rising polls.

  Might spike them, actually. If people get scared enough.

  After all, that’s Bellarmine’s whole campaign.

  Sleep tight.

  Across the street, I spot Bellarmine’s opponent, the city’s honorable incumbent mayor, smiling and waving at me, or at least that’s how it looks from the placard plastered on the side of the abandoned bank. Mayor doesn’t look too concerned about his electoral prospects just yet.

  Dollar-sign graffiti spray-painted across the mayor’s smile. Someone’s idea of a campaign contribution.

  I flip through the paper. Search for Sports. Spot a small item on Crystal Corral.

  MEGACHURCH MILLIONS AT STAKE AS SISTERS SQUABBLE.

  Skim the news.

  Turns out Harrow had four daughters. Persephone’s the eldest. The other three are still teenagers, the youngest just barely. All wards of the church now, and they’re staking a claim on their late father’s kingdom. No doubt causing plenty of headaches for Simon the Magician.

  Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. Or that I care much what happens to Crystal Corral either way.

  Toss the paper aside and settle back on my bench. Turn my attention back to Langland’s building.

  Watch the nurses.

  The nurse is the way in.

  Only question.

  Which nurse?

  The nurses come and go, dressed in their crisp white outfits. I’m hoping to spot some standout feature. Something telling. But they all wear the exact same uniform.

  All but one.

  Almost miss it.

  The discreet black armband.

  And then there’s the shiny limo, waiting to pick her up at the curb.

  Maybe she works in the penthouse. Certainly seems well compensated.

  And newly in mourning.

  I ditch my coffee.

  Let’s start with her.

  12.

  The nurse pauses by the limo for one last rummage through her purse, like she forgot something upstairs, which gives me my opening.

  I step up. Swing the limo door wide for her. She looks surprised, but says thank you. Then I ask her.

  You have time for a coffee? My treat.

  She shoots me a suspicious look.

  I’m afraid I have to get home.

  Just a quick one. And maybe a few questions. About your employer, Mr Langland.

  I nod at her black armband.

  My condolences, by the way.

  Thank you. That’s kind. But I don’t like questions.

  That’s okay. I don’t like coffee.

  She lets slip a slight smile.

  What are you, a reporter?

  Just a concerned third party. It will be painless, I swear.

  She looks me up and down. Considers. Then taps the limo window and tells the driver.

  Frank, swing back around and pick me up back here at eight.

  Driver nods. Starts the engine. Given it’s only six, I’m encouraged.

  The nurse turns back to me.

  Frank knows judo. Should you try anything funny.

  I wouldn’t dream of it.

  I know judo too. Frank’s a good teacher.

  Black belt?

  She shows me the full smile.

  Let’s hope you don’t find out.

  The nurse declines the offered coffee and suggests we go for a drink instead. Says she knows a bar down the block on St. Mark’s, a place underground called the Plowman. It’s dark. Below street level. No music. I like it. And from the bartender’s greeting, my nurse has been here before.

  We take a seat at the bar and I say to the nurse.

  I’d buy you a drink, but I don’t believe in buying anyone a drink until at least I know their name.

  Makes sense. I’m Nurse.

  Care to be more specific?

  Just Nurse. For now. Does that still get me that drink?

  Sure. What’s your preference, Nurse?

  She sets her white leather medical bag up on the bar. Smooths her skirt out. Lifts her eyes. Says to me.

  Size me up, then take a guess. Let’s see how good you are at reading people.

  I flag the barkeep and order two Wild Turkeys with extra ice. When they arrive, I take two cubes from my glass and plop them into her shot. Then raise my glass.

  Cheers.

  She smiles.

  Bourbon. Good guess.

  Not just any bourbon. This is a special drink I invented myself. Even has a special name.

  Really? What’s that?

  The Cold Turkey.

  She laughs. Despite herself. Raises her glass to meet mine.

  To Cold Turkeys.

  We clink. She sips. I ask.

  So did I do a good job of reading you?

  Another sip. Another smile.

  Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?

  We talk a bit. Not about Langland. About Nurse.

  She looks about thirty, maybe thirty-five, about my age, though with nurses and their uniforms, it’s hard to tell. Dark hair the color of strong coffee, pinned up in the regulation style. Green eyes. Greener than most. That’s obvious, even in the bar light. Red lipstick. White pantyhose. The standard nurse getup. Looks better on her, somehow.

  We chat. I tell Nurse my mother was also a nurse, which is true, though she was a real one, the kind who worked with the sick. Nurse seems impressed. She tells me she never trained as an actual RN, just decided to skip the hard part and get her certificate to work as a tube jockey.

  Tube jockey—her words. Laughs when she says it. I know I’m getting somewhere with her when she finally takes off the hat, the one with the big red cross on it. Unpins it carefully. Lays it gingerly on the bar, next to her bag.

  Looks at me.

  Long day.

  Leaves her hair pinned in place though. Fair enough. Baby steps.

  Tells me she lives at the top of Manhattan, up near Fort Tryon Park, so it’s tough to get to Astor Place by subway, she explains, especially now that there’s so few trains running. So her boss springs for transport.

  Or sprung.

  Either way, it explains the limo.

  And it turns out she hails from Canada. Some city calle
d Saskatoon. Which she swears is a real place and not something dreamt up by Dr. Seuss.

  I signal the bartender and order round two. When it arrives, I tip my glass again.

  To Canada.

  To Canada.

  We drink.

  So if you’re Canadian, I guess that means you’re nicer.

  She grins.

  Nicer than what?

  Nicer than normal.

  Really? Is that what you expect?

  Round three.

  So what brought you in to work today, Nurse? I imagine your boss would be okay with you taking some time off, given the circumstances.

  You mean because he’s no longer with us?

  For starters.

  I just came in to gather my things. Plus there’s paperwork to be dealt with, whenever a client—when a relationship ends.

  You ever had this happen to a client before?

  She quiets.

  Yes, I have.

  I’m sorry.

  She sips.

  Peril of the profession.

  Were you two close?

  Me and Langland? If we were close, do you think I’d be here talking to you?

  Has anyone else come asking around about him?

  Langland’s rich enough to get the royal treatment from the city, which means, you know, an actual ambulance showed up. Plus a few beat cops, and some long-faced detective. The detective asked a few questions, scribbled a few details, but no one seemed too alarmed that an old man had died in his sleep.

  And no one else came around?

  No. Until you. Why?

  Man like Langland, seems like he checks out, people notice.

  She shoots me a cockeyed grin over the lip of her shot glass.

  Trust me. Langland checked out long ago.

  Then she explains to me that Langland, with all his money, had more or less retired to round-the-clock bed-rest. Her job was basically to keep him dry and keep him fed. That’s how she puts it anyway. Punctuated with a hollow laugh. I ask her.

  Did you find him?

  Not really. I mean, I was there the whole time. Monitors just flat-lined. Sometime late Saturday. He slipped away. It can happen.

  You were working the night shift?

  Covering for the night nurse. She had something personal to attend to. Just my luck, right? I have to cover for her the one night things go haywire.

  Bartender tops off our glasses. Nurse digs her handheld from her purse and starts to type. Glances up at me.

  I’m just texting Frank. Telling him to take the night off.

  I check the clock. It’s well past eight. I take this as a good sign.

  She stows her handheld.

  Now I should ask you, Mr Spademan, just exactly who are you in all of this?

  Just an interested third party, like I said.

  And what does that make me?

  I raise my refreshed glass.

  A person of interest.

  She raises hers.

  To people of interest.

  Clink.

  Round four.

  She reaches for her white bag that’s resting on the bar. Starts to rummage. Then mutters.

  Now where did I leave my lipstick?

  Looks up at me.

  Thought I could use a touch-up. I’ve left too much of my current lipstick on the lips of these shot glasses.

  You look good to me.

  She smiles. Keeps rummaging. Purse topples. Contents spill. A beat-up paperback slides out onto the bar, like a special delivery, just arrived. Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Diligently dog-eared.

  Nurse points to the cover.

  You know her?

  Not really. Maybe read it once in high school. Spark Notes, most likely.

  She’s really good. Profound, even.

  To be honest, the only thing I remember about her poems is that they sounded like urgent telegrams.

  She laughs.

  I like that. That’s not a bad critique.

  She cracks the paperback. Flips pages. Finds the dog-ear she’s hunting.

  Here’s one I think you’ll like.

  Reads it aloud.

  A Death Blow is a Life blow to Some

  Who till they died, did not alive become—

  Who had they lived, had died but when

  They died, Vitality begun.

  Closes the book. Looks back at me.

  Good, right?

  Sure. I like it.

  She stows the book.

  Yeah, to me it’s like scripture.

  Raises her glass again. Needs a refill. But first, another toast.

  Here’s to Death Blows.

  To Death Blows.

  Her eyes catch mine while the glasses connect.

  By now we’re on round five, with another round waiting patiently in front of us. We forgo Langland and come back around to her, then to me some more, in limited doses, like two cautious boxers, circling, considering a clinch. What few other customers there were have long since cleared out. Bartender keeps her distance too, making busy work, having seen this brand of courtship play out plenty of times before. And to be honest, five rounds down, I’m no longer at the peak of my investigative powers. I think we both know by now it’s time to either call it a night or move to another venue.

  Alone or together.

  I’m still sussing that out.

  So is she, apparently.

  She grabs her handbag, while saying.

  Well, I live all the way up near Fort Tryon Park and I already gave my limo driver the night off. And, as you know, the subway’s not safe at this hour for a lady of my attractive qualities. So unless you can loan me two hundred for a cab, I’m open to suggestions.

  Well, I’m in Hoboken.

  She laughs.

  You mean, like, New Jersey?

  Is there another Hoboken?

  She slumps.

  Just my luck.

  You don’t like Jersey?

  I don’t like commuting.

  Then I float Nurse a suggestion. One I’ve been sitting on all night.

  What about your boss’s place? I’ve never seen a penthouse view.

  Nurse seems surprised, but just a little. And I can tell from her look that this is exactly the kind of bad idea she can get behind.

  She thinks about it for a moment.

  Downs number five.

  Fuck it.

  And I motion to the barkeep for the check.

  13.

  The doorman is not happy.

  The doorman is not buying any of this.

  Past midnight. Tipsy nurse. Weirdo companion lurking over her shoulder.

  Nurse sways slightly. Then says.

  I’m pretty sure I left my lipstick upstairs.

  Doorman frowns.

  I’ll send someone up.

  But I don’t know exactly where I left it. Have to look around.

  She leans in. Strains her uniform.

  And it’s my favorite lipstick.

  Doorman frowns deeper.

  Okay, but then your friend stays down here.

  But what if I need another pair of eyes—

  Nurse stifles a giggle.

  —another pair of hands?

  Doorman, still stone-faced.

  I’m sorry, ma’am—

  She cuts him off. Calls him closer with a crooked finger. Tips up on tiptoe. Leans in close.

  Whispers something.

  I don’t expect she said Open Sesame, but it has the same magical effect.

  Elevator to the penthouse.

  Doors open straight into the apartment. Penthouse is dark, save for the city view, which is panoramic, painted in pointillist light.

  Yes, despite what Persephone thinks, I do sometimes make it out to a museum. Tag along behind a tour group. Pick up a phrase or two.

  Pointillist, for example.

  Nurse and I step inside. I live in a pretty nice loft in Hoboken, a luxury place that was abandoned by hotshot finance types who fled, and Langland’s pl
ace makes mine look like the servant’s quarters.

  Elevator doors slide shut behind us. Nurse turns and locks the place up with a code on a keypad.

  Then turns back to me. Fingers to her lips. Says in a shushed voice.

  So we won’t be disturbed.

  In the center of the room sits a high-end bed, now empty. Looks like a leather cocoon that’s recently been shed. Shreds of yellow police caution tape hang from the bed halfheartedly, like banners from an election campaign that’s already left town. I’m guessing the investigation was brief and the cops closed the case quickly. Old man dead in the night. Not exactly a whodunit. Not at first glance, anyway.

  Nurse motions toward the bedroom, then swipes her hand over a wall plate. Doors whisper open. She giggles and quiets me again with that raised finger to her lips, even though we’re the only ones here. Then she grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the bed, like we’re two teens who’ve been listening for her parents to pull out of the driveway, and only now just heard them drive away.

  King-size bed. Bigger, maybe. Emperor-size, if that’s a size.

  Looks out over another knockout view.

  Nurse climbs aboard. Bounces on the mattress. Then beckons.

  I pause.

  She sours.

  What’s wrong?

  I shrug.

  Seems a waste. Such a huge bed. Barely even got used.

  She lies back. Makes a snow-angel shape on the ivory-colored bedspread. Giggles. Then leans up on her elbows.

  Pats the mattress.

  Mr Spademan, I couldn’t agree with you more.

  The next problem that presents itself is the location of the zipper.

  Nurse’s whites. Sized to fit tightly.

  Oddly sexy, in the right light.

  Doorman told us he’d give us twenty minutes, tops.

  We take forty.

  Then forty more.

  Then we kind of leave it open-ended.

  First fast. Then more deliberate. No rush, but with some urgency. As for me, it’s been a while. Not sure about her, though she’s definitely not out of practice. And, for a Canadian, she’s certainly not polite.

  Wonder if the doorman’s even noticing the time. Don’t know what she promised him to let us come up here, but at this rate, she may have to deliver it twice.

  And suddenly I decide that I don’t much like that doorman.