Chosen Girls

Chapter 3

3

Alice plopped herself down in a maroon velvet chair at a round table in the business lounge of the Plaza Hotel. It was early afternoon, with only the faintest of tinkles from cups and saucers. Phil Reardon sat opposite alongside his client, Mrs. Chandler Dwayne. She was a forty-something woman wound tighter than a cymbal monkey.

Reardon was a shark of a lawyer in permanent pinstripe. He took a sip of coffee. "So what have you got for us?"

"Proof," Alice said.

Mrs. Dwayne wore a cream pantsuit with matching shoes that would have paid Alice's rent for a year.

Alice picked up the menu, took one look at the prices, and immediately put it down.

Reardon wiped his hands on a napkin, as if he couldn't quite get the dirt off. "What proof?" he asked.

"Didn't you get the photos I sent you?" Alice asked.

"Yeah, we got them," said Reardon.

"Of Chandler and that slut walking and talking on the street," said Mrs. Dwayne.

"A warm embrace at most," said Reardon. "Nothing that will stand up in court. We need to see them, you know--"

"f*****g," said Mrs. Dwayne, her face contorting. "If I'm going to get more than half, the court needs to see them fucking."

"Photo or video," said Reardon. "And not just two bodies screwing—” Reardon censored himself, glancing over at Mrs. Dwayne. "What I mean is, we need the faces, too. Clear. Close-up."

"Listen, Mr. Reardon, Mrs. Dwayne. I had it. Bodies. Faces. Everything. Not more than an hour ago."

"So where is it?" Reardon asked.

"There was an incident with the camcorder," Alice said. "I lost it. And Mr. Dwayne knows you're onto him."

Mrs. Dwayne pursed her lips, her right fist squeezing tight, fighting to keep it together. Like most of Alice's clients, there was always some part of them that didn't want to believe their partner would cheat. That it was all in their imagination. Of the few jobs Alice had picked up over her first year in the P.I. business, at least half the spouses wanted their fears disproved, only to have their worst nightmares come true.

Alice never enjoyed delivering the bad news, of which there was plenty. But good or bad, the news meant she'd at least come back with something. And that meant a bonus. It was a strange dichotomy. Sitting in the five-star Plaza, Reardon's client had that look in her eye. The crumbling-world look.

"Well, I'm sorry," Mrs. Dwayne said, snapping out of her chair. "That just isn't good enough."

Reardon glared at Alice and buttoned his blazer. Mrs. Dwayne hooked her handbag over one shoulder.

"So, check in the mail?" Alice asked.

"I'm not paying for photos my intern could have gotten," Reardon said, ushering Mrs. Dwayne out of the lounge.

"But you have to pay," Alice yelled after him. "You signed a contract—"

"So sue us!" Reardon yelled back over his shoulder.

Alice slumped in her chair. Yeah, sue the biggest law firm in the city. That'll end well.

Alice cursed herself. She should have insisted on half upfront. It was the only decent job in months, with two weeks of work down the tubes. Not to mention her palmcorder.

She lingered in her chair, a hand over her face.

A suited maître' d' with a clipped black goatee appeared out of thin air. He manufactured a quiet cough. The disdainful look was genuine.

Alice stood, grabbed a leftover slice of lemon sponge and crammed it into her mouth. She gave the maître' d' a look that said “Screw you, buddy.”

On the way out of the room, she removed the cake from her mouth and left it on a table. Snooty waiters weren't the only thing she couldn't tolerate.