Dirty Work

16

Florence Tyler left the brownstone on West Tenth Street and strolled slowly through Greenwich Village, looking into bars and restaurants and, occasionally, checking a menu posted in a window. It was nearly six o’clock, and she was dressed in a business suit and carried a Fendi purse. Then she saw what she was looking for.

The bar was called Lilith, and a peek through the window showed it to be quite stylish. The after-work crowd was building, and all the customers were women.

She walked in and took a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender, dressed and coiffed to look as much as possible like a man, came over. “Good evening,” she said in a smooth baritone. “Can I get you something?”

Another woman, butch, but still pretty, slid onto the next stool. “Let me get it,” she said.

“Thanks, I’ll stay on my own,” Florence said, not unkindly, meeting the woman’s gaze.

The woman hesitated, then vacated the stool. “As you wish, sweetheart,” she said, as she sauntered off.

“Dewar’s, rocks,” she said to the bartender, and the drink arrived. She was halfway through it when she saw what she was looking for. A woman in her late twenties had entered the bar and stopped just inside the door, looking hesitantly around her. She was dressed very much as Florence was, in a pin-striped suit, and she was carrying one of those purses that was half briefcase. She was about Florence’s height and weight and had the same streaked blond hair. She crossed the room, took a stool three down from Florence, and ordered a cosmopolitan.

“Those are too sweet for me,” Florence said, smiling.

“Well, they are sweet, but they’re addictive,” the young woman said, smiling back.

“Put that on my tab,” Florence said to the bartender.

“Thank you,” the girl said.

“Why don’t you slide over here and join me?”

The girl fumbled with her briefcase and her drink, but she made it to the stool.

“I’m Brett,” Florence said, offering her hand.

“I’m Ginger,” the girl replied.

Brett didn’t let go of her hand immediately. “Are you a New Yorker?” she asked, finally releasing it.

“I’m from Indianapolis originally, but I’ve been here for six years. I’m a paralegal in a downtown law firm. Do you live in New York, too?”

“No, I’m in from San Francisco for a few days. I’m an art dealer, and I’m in town to bid on some things for a client. There’s an auction at Sotheby’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, I love art,” Ginger said, sipping her drink. “What sort of things are you bidding on?”

“Late-nineteenth-century representational paintings mostly; one piece of sculpture, too. They’re not the most expensive things in the world; you can find quite nice pictures in the thirty- to fifty-thousand-dollar range.”

“Well, that’s certainly out of my range,” Ginger replied.

“Have you ever been to an art auction?” Brett asked.

“No, but I’d love to go sometime.”

“If you can take the time off from work, why don’t you join me at Sotheby’s the day after tomorrow?”

“Gosh, I’d love to do that, but I only get an hour for lunch, and the workload is fierce. My boss specializes in divorce work, and the clients are very demanding.”

“Maybe another time?”

“That would be great.”

“Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“No, I’m on the Upper East Side—Eighty-first and Lexington Avenue. Where are you staying?”

“At the Carlyle—Seventy-sixth and Madison. What’s your favorite restaurant, Ginger?”

“Oh, I guess Orsay, at Seventy-fifth and Lex, just down from my building.”

“Will you have dinner with me there tonight?” Brett pulled out a small cell phone. “I’ll bet we can get a table if we go early.”

“Well, sure, I’d like that.”

Brett called the restaurant and secured a table. “Finish your drink, and we’re off,” she said.

At Orsay, they had another drink, then ate a three-course dinner and shared an expensive bottle of French wine. They kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly about Ginger’s family and background and the sort of work she was doing.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Ginger said, but we’re representing a woman who is demanding two million dollars a year in alimony, and half a million in child support, plus five million for an apartment on Fifth Avenue. And she wants a limousine and security guards.”

“No doubt to protect her from her husband,” Brett said, laughing. She waved at a waiter for the check.

“Why don’t we share this?” Ginger asked, reaching for her briefcase.

“Oh, no, this one is on me—or my gallery,” Brett said. “You’re . . . Let’s see, you’re representing a client who has a very nice Magritte for sale.”

“Oh, all right, but can I give you a nightcap at my place?”

“You bet,” Brett said, handing the waiter one of Florence Tyler’s credit cards.

Ginger lived in a ground-floor rear apartment in a town house, with a little garden out back.

“It’s lovely,” Brett said, when Ginger switched on the garden lights.

“It’s just a year’s sublet,” Ginger said. “It belongs to a friend of the family who’s in Europe.”

“What’s that low, shed-like thing?” Brett asked, pointing.

“Oh, that’s a hotbox. It’s like a tiny greenhouse, where you can get things growing early in the season, then plant them when it gets warm enough. At least, that’s what I saw on Martha Stewart. I’m not really a gardener.”

“Me either,” Brett said, stroking Ginger’s cheek with the back of her fingers. She kissed the woman lightly, and got a warm reception. A moment later, they were working on each other’s buttons.

When they reached the bedroom, Brett lay back and let Ginger have her way with her. Brett wasn’t a lesbian, strictly speaking, but she liked this. When she had had a couple of orgasms, she rolled Ginger onto her stomach. “Now it’s your turn,” she said. She reached down and picked up a Hermès scarf where Ginger had dropped it on the floor, and quickly bound Ginger’s hands behind her.

“I’ve never done it like this,” Ginger said.

“You just leave everything to me, sweetheart,” Brett replied. She rolled the girl over on her back. “Now the feet,” she said, grabbing a belt from the pile of clothing beside the bed.

“What are you going to do to me?” Ginger asked, half anxiously, half eagerly.

Brett picked up a pad and a pencil from the bedside table. “Well, first, I’m going to need your office number.”

“What?”

“Your office number, and I’ll bet you have one of those voice mail systems. I’m going to want your boss’s extension number, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Ginger said.

Brett placed a pillow over her face and pinched her hard in a tender place. When the scream was over, she removed the pillow. “Ginger, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”

Ginger gave her the phone and extension numbers, and Brett wrote them down. Then she found her handbag and removed a straight razor from it.

Ginger was attempting to squirm off the bed now, and Brett grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back. She held her hand over Ginger’s mouth, then placed the razor against her throat and drew it lightly across her skin, raising a hairline of red. “When I take my hand away,” Brett said, “don’t scream, or I’ll hurt you badly.” She took her hand away.

Ginger was crying now.

“That’s very good,” Brett said. “You keep that up. Now here’s what we’re going to do, Ginger: I’m going to dial your office number and your boss’s extension, and when his voice mail answers, here’s what I want you to say. What’s his name?”

“Mr. Arnold,” Ginger sobbed.

“You say these words exactly. ‘Mr. Arnold’—you’re sobbing—‘this is Ginger. I’m afraid there’s been a death in my family, and I have to fly back to Indianapolis tonight. I’m going to be away for at least a week, and I’ll call you when I know when I’ll be back. I’m awfully sorry about the short notice.’ Did you get that?” Brett pressed the razor against her throat again, eliciting another paroxysm of sobbing.

Brett began dialing the number.

“I’m not going to say that!” Ginger said, suddenly collecting herself.

Brett hung up the phone and held the razor to Ginger’s left breast. “You’ll do it exactly that way, or I’ll slice your nipples off, Ginger.”

Ginger began sobbing again, but she nodded.

Brett dialed the number, waited, then dialed the extension number. She held the phone to Ginger’s lips and the razor to her nipple.

Ginger performed admirably, Brett thought.

Brett waited a full minute after Ginger stopped struggling before removing the pillow from her face. She checked for a pulse, then listened at her chest for a heartbeat. Nothing. She untied Ginger’s hands and released the belt from her feet. She went into the kitchen and found a pair of kitchen gloves, a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth, then she rubbed down the body, carefully removing any possible trace of a fingerprint or her own body fluids. She got a clean bedspread from a linen closet and rolled Ginger’s body in it, leaving her on one side of the king-sized bed. She pulled her panties on, then got into a pair of Ginger’s jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, then she switched off the garden lights, went outside, and looked around. She couldn’t see any neighbors at their windows. She opened the hotbox, which was empty, and noted two large bags of potting soil leaning against the fence. She went back inside, hoisted Ginger’s body over her shoulder, looked around outside, then went into the garden and dumped the body into the hotbox. She emptied both bags of potting soil over the body, covering it completely, then tossed in a few flowerpots that were lined up against the garden fence.

Having worked up a sweat, Brett went back inside, stripped off her clothes, and took a hot shower, never removing the rubber gloves. When she had dried herself and her hair, she cleaned the hair from the shower drain and saved it, then walked around the apartment, naked, selecting things. She found a good suitcase and packed some of Ginger’s clothes. She found her passport in a desk drawer—Ginger Harvey, her full name was—then emptied her briefcase on the bed and took the wallet and credit cards, putting them into her own bag.

When everything was packed and in order, she got into bed, set the alarm clock for five a.m., and went immediately to sleep.

When the alarm went off, she rolled up Florence Tyler’s clothing and effects, then stripped the bedcovers, put them into the over-and-under washing machine in the kitchen, added detergent and a generous amount of bleach and switched it on. She ate a breakfast of juice, fruit, yogurt, and coffee while the things washed, then she put them into the dryer. While they tumbled dry, she put fresh sheets and a new duvet cover on the bed, then dressed in Ginger’s best suit.

Finally, she folded the laundered bedcovers and put the contents of the lint filter and her hair from the shower drain into a plastic bag, rolled it into Florence Tyler’s things. She went around the apartment with the spray cleaner again, obliterating any possible trace of herself. Satisfied, she tucked Florence Tyler’s clothes under her arm, picked up Ginger’s suitcase, let herself out of the apartment and the building, and began walking down Lexington Avenue. After a block, she stuffed Florence’s things into a street-corner wastebasket and caught the next bus downtown.

When she got off, she was Ginger Harvey.