Totally Killer Page 3

  “Newark? No, that’s…I can’t work in Newark. I don’t even know where that is.”

  Debbie was not pleased. “Well, that’s all I have. I will of course give you a holler if anything comes in. And you feel free to call and check in with me.” She handed her client an appropriately flimsy business card. “But first I’d like you to meet some people! I’m sure someone will have a terr-if-ic job for you!”

  Taylor was then whisked from plastic chair to plastic chair. First Sherrie, then Terri, then Laurie, then Missy offered similarly lame jobs. Which she politely declined. Then she was introduced to a series of balding middle-aged men who were about as couth as the frat boy in the lobby. All of them handed her business cards, promised to call, encouraged her to check in. Taylor shook their hands, accepted their cards, was introduced to the next headhunter in line, and, when she had met everyone in the agency, was escorted out the double doors.

  She knew the drill. Nine times now she’d been through the rigmarole, with nothing to show for it but a stack of business cards and more dry cleaning bills than she could afford. Sometimes the agents would call her a day or two later, only to offer her the same pathetic job she had previously declined, as if a few more days of poverty would change her mind about an exciting career in underwriting. But usually they not only neglected to call her, they didn’t even recognize her name when she called them. Hopeless, was what it was—hopeless and humiliating.

  On the way out, one of the agents—the golf/cigar bar chap who had winked at her when she first walked in—yelled into the headset, which she was sure wasn’t plugged in, “Creative Director? Young & Rubicam? A hundred twenty thou a year? He’ll take it!”

  On the way home, Taylor stopped at the dry cleaners to fetch her other suit. After a detour to the TCBY, she headed to the architectural blight that was our apartment building.

  Like the neighboring buildings on the downtown side of the street, it was five stories high. Unlike the neighboring buildings, it lacked the requisite integral support. All five stories listed to the left; this was noticeable if you tried to hang up framed pictures. If the building on either side ever came down, our piece of shit would tumble like a huffed-and-puffed-upon house of sticks.

  The vestibule reeked of curried sweat. It was hot to begin with, and there was no ventilation in there, so the air was stagnant. She coughed, held her breath, collected her mail—three catalogues, a Have You Seen These Children postcard, her Visa bill, and a form letter from Wycliffe Alumni House soliciting donations. No letter from Kim Winter. No new issue of Sassy (“I know I’m too old for it, but I don’t really care”). Nothing good.

  Taylor raced up the three flights of stairs, unlocked the door, and beheld the glory that was our apartment. The cat emerged from a pile of dirty clothes, looking for love, and Taylor obliged with a hug. Then she hung her dry cleaning on the door knob, kicked off her shoes, threw her handbag on the floor, and peeled off her sweaty clothes. She grabbed a spoon from the sink, rubbed it on a dishtowel, and opened the quart of fro-yo. Then she repaired to her walk-in-closet-sized room, sprawled her half-naked body on her futon, and was about to enjoy a frosty bite when the phone rang.

  Nowadays, caller ID has eliminated all suspense from the ringing phone. Not in 1991. Most people didn’t have call waiting. Many didn’t even have answering machines. Busy signals and ringing-off-the-hook were still commonplace—and so was the thrill of receiving a surprise telephone call. Long distance was still expensive, in those days; still a big deal.

  Who could the caller be? Debbie from Fraulein, lining up an interview? J.D., the metalhead bartender, who’d been blowing her off since their last tryst two weeks ago? Yours Truly, checking in on her?

  Taylor put the fro-yo on her nightstand (which I’d found in front of a townhouse on Eighteenth Street the week before), and on the third ring—you always waited for the third ring, so as not to seem desperate or overly eager—picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Taylor, honey.”

  The flip side of the thrill of receiving a surprise telephone call, and the reason for the eventual hegemony of caller ID, was the agony of receiving a telephone call you didn’t want.

  “Oh. Hi, Mom.”

  Taylor’s mother was not a drinker and not a born-again Christian. Those were the only two points in her favor, to the best of my knowledge. Darla Jenkins was vintage white trash, from the walrus-like heft of her bloated belly, to the cheap-tobacco reek of her thick feathered hair, to the missing front teeth, to the monthly state disability check that made up her income even though she was perfectly capable of working, to the fact that her daughter was twenty-three and she was just forty, to…but you get the idea. How Taylor emerged from the womb of such a monstrous creature is a mystery for the ages, and could well provide the incontrovertible proof Darwin apologists have long sought.

  “I have some great news.”

  Taylor said nothing.

  “Guess.”

  “You got a job?” Her voice oozed sarcasm, not that her mom could tell.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “You won the lottery?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I give up, Mom. Just tell me.”

  “I’m pregnant!”

  Besides her eldest, Darla had two other daughters, aged ten and seven, courtesy of a drunk named Popeye, whereabouts unknown. She was currently shacked up with a slovenly gas station attendant named Billy Ray. Try as she might, Taylor could not fathom how the addition of another mouth to feed could possibly be considered good news.

  “How far along are you?”

  “Five weeks. Isn’t it exciting? And at my advanced age! Billy Ray thinks it’ll be a boy this time.”

  Taylor first thought was, Good. Plenty of time for a miscarriage. But she choked that down. “I’m sure he does.”

  “Well? Aren’t you excited?”

  She could say no, but then she’d have to explain why the news failed to elicit the requisite enthusiasm. That would be an exercise in futility—Darla never listened, and was too dense to comprehend whatever did sink in. Taylor could play nice and play along, but she wasn’t in the mood to lie. Not at all. So she decided to be honest for a change and tell her mother exactly what she thought.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  And she slammed down the phone, so hard she cracked the plastic receiver cradle.

  Before her mother could call back, Taylor placed a call of her own. After five rings a machine picked up. “Hey, this is J.D. I’m either not here right now, or I’m ignoring you. Leave a message, and if you’re lucky, I’ll call you back.”

  It beeped; she spoke: “Hey, it’s Taylor. Haven’t heard from you so I figured I’d give a call, you know, see what you were up to. Call me back. If you feel like it. Talk to you soon. Um…bye.”

  Immediately she regretted the move. But what could she do? Simple: unplug the phone and wolf down fro-yo. This made her feel better. TCBY always did. Her despair, her panic, her anger slowly washed away. She rolled onto her back, stared at the cracks in the ceiling, listened to our loud-as-fuck downstairs neighbor, who liked to play AC/DC at all hours on a sound system more bass-heavy than the one at Limelight. The cat, sensing a change of mood, made his way toward her. She scooped him up and cradled him in her arms. “Here, Bo.” (I hadn’t let the fact that he was male stop me from naming him for Bo Derek.) “Good boy. Good, good boy.”

  Bo purred, Taylor smiled, they shared a moment. Then Bo abruptly scrammed—he was that kind of cat—leaping from her warm belly to the cluttered desk, in the process knocking over a tower of newspapers, magazines, duplicate résumés, and old mail. Catalogs and low-APR credit card offers and unread complimentary issues of unwanted magazines tumbled to the floor, along with a old letter from Kim Winter chronicling a South Beach party at which she’d met MTV heartthrob Adam Curry. Out of the latest Victoria’s Secret offering and onto the bed spilled a small envelope made of parchment paper that Taylor must h
ave missed when she first went through the mail.

  She picked up the envelope, turned it round in her fingers, and held it up to the light. Her name and address were printed in a hand that was elegant, feminine, and unfamiliar. Curiously, the stamp had not been canceled.

  With a shrug, she tore through the envelope. Inside was an ornate card that resembled a wedding invitation, except for the 212 phone number at the bottom. In embossed letters it read:

  * * *

  JOBS TO KILL FOR

  Had it with other agencies?

  Try the best. QUID PRO QUO.

  * * *

  “Is this a joke?”

  If the cat knew, he wasn’t saying.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  She dialed the number, all the while staring Bo down. On the second ring, someone picked up. A gravelly baritone said, “Quid Pro Quo. Asher Krug speaking.”

  “Oh…hi. I, um…well, I got your ad in the mail just now? And, well, I…”

  “You’ve had it with the other agencies.” Something in his voice suggested a prior intimacy, like they were both in on something, and put her instantly at ease.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She told him.

  “Yes, of course, you were recommended to us.”

  “By whom?”

  But there was some sort of crossing of telephone lines just then, and not hearing her question, he did not reply. Instead he asked several of his own: How long had she been in New York? How many agencies had Taylor been to? In what sort of industry did she want to work? She answered all of Asher’s questions, still not entirely convinced that this phone call was not the work of some prankster. Was someone putting her on?

  “I’m giving an orientation tomorrow at eleven,” he told her. “Would you be able to attend?”

  “That’d be…that’d be great.”

  “Perfect. Just let me add your name to the list…Okay, so we’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Be well, Taylor.”

  “You, too.”

  Taylor waited for the click on the other end of the line before resting the receiver—which five minutes ago she’d hung up with enough force to crack hard plastic—in the cradle as if it were a sleeping baby.

  The positive experience with this Asher Krug person (his last name rhymed with the first syllable of Google) inspired her. Not that she expected anything from his agency—why would it be different from the nine other agencies, whatever they claimed?—but at least Quid Pro Quo had taken her call.

  “To hell with this,” she told the cat, as she slipped into a well-worn Pyromania T-shirt and not-quite-stylish denim cutoffs. “I just need to work harder, send résumés to every job that looks even remotely promising, follow up every cover letter with a phone call.”

  This was when Taylor discovered that almost two-thirds of the ads in the Times employment section were placed by employment agencies. That it didn’t matter if you were a recent college graduate, a dime novelist, or a New York Knick—you either found work through an agent, or you didn’t find work.

  This was also when she had a sort of nervous breakdown. It started, as nervous breakdowns will, with a loud scream, and quickly segued to her storming around the bedroom, hurling clothes to and fro, scaring the bejesus out of the cat, and kicking everything that could be kicked: the baseboard, the bed frame, the closet door. Inevitably she stubbed her toe. As the waves of pain rippled over her, Taylor collapsed onto the futon and burst into tears.

  At that exact moment, like some silent film hero who appears in the nick of time, I came home. Immediately I sensed trouble; this was not the first time I’d found her crying on the futon; Prozac can only do so much. Without wasting valuable time knocking, I burst in, bearing a bottle of chardonnay and two glasses. I helped her up, I embraced her—O, the warmth generated by that radiant body! O, the wonder of her lavender-tinged scent!—and I successfully fought off my nascent erection.

  Once Taylor calmed down sufficiently to speak, I asked her what was wrong this time, and she gave me the skinny.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “This is just temporary. It won’t last. It’s just a rough patch; that’s all.”

  “I know that. I mean, intellectually, I know that. But it seems totally fucking hopeless, you know?”

  “I know all about hopelessness,” I said, trying like hell to disguise my obvious lust. I could watch her for hours—she was better than television—and the tear-strewn face only added to her allure. “More than you know.”

  I poured wine.

  “You know what you need? You need a back rub. Would you like a back rub?”

  She considered the proposal. For a minute, I was afraid I had scared her off—my duties as pro bono personal assistant had not yet extended to massage therapy—but she quickly eased my mind. “If you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t mind. On the contrary, I savored any opportunity to touch her, however clinical. I sat on the futon, she on the floor, and I began to work out a knot in her shoulder the size of a tennis ball. We said nothing, just sat there, me caressing her shoulders (would that I could take her shirt off!), Taylor letting out the occasional pleasure-moan. Soon the silence became awkward, and to fill it, I said, “So. Could it be any more obvious that Andrea is hot for Brandon, or what?”

  This made her laugh—success! Awkward silence averted! As we rehashed the latest installment of Beverly Hills 90210 (then in its second season), and as I poured every ounce of my being into massaging her shoulders, we methodically polished off the wine.

  “You feel better now?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Todd.”

  I crackled my knuckles and shook out my tired fingers. “Hey—that’s what I’m here for.”

  “I feel like we always talk about me,” she said, turning to face me. “Let’s talk about you. How was your day?”

  “My day? It was pretty fucked up, actually.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Well, the features editor—features are stories that aren’t breaking news stories…”

  “I wrote for the school paper, Todd. I know what features are.”

  “Right. Sorry. Anyway, the features editor is this guy named Doug Schiffer. He’s old—in his seventies I think—and he’s got this big bulbous nose and lots of hair in his ears, and he’s sort of out of touch. People like him well enough, he’s a nice guy, but he’s been working there way too long. People call him—this is funny—they call him Schiffer Brains.”

  “That is funny.”

  “I can’t take credit—they’ve called him that for years. And he’s so oblivious, he doesn’t even realize it.”

  “So it’s an appropriate nickname.”

  “Oh, yeah. Anyway, come to find out, over the weekend, he was—this is the not funny part—he was murdered.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah. Someone broke into his apartment—he lives on Riverside Drive, on the Upper West Side—someone broke into his apartment, tied him up, and shot him in the back of the head, like, execution-style. Like a Mob hit or something.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know, right? Really grisly stuff. And no one has the foggiest idea why. I mean, he was a doddering old man, but he wasn’t, like, a dick or anything. People are, like, totally baffled.”

  “Were there any witnesses or anything?”

  “No. His wife died a few years ago. Lung cancer. Let me get that for you.” Before Taylor could wave me off, I had the Zippo I kept on hand solely for this purpose (I didn’t smoke) fired up and waiting at the tip of the cigarette she’d just installed between her well-ChapSticked lips.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. And, like, whoever did it must’ve used a silencer, because none of the neighbors heard gunshots.”

  I finished off the last of my wine.

  “I didn’t know him that well,” I said, “but it’s weird, you know? I mean, someone I knew—someone I saw every day—was murdered.”
<
br />   We sat there a moment, pondering the last of Doug Schiffer and the last of the chardonnay. Finally Taylor took a long, slow drag on the smoke—would that she would kiss me with such desperation, such longing!—and said, “Look on the bright side. One more job opening, at least.”

  You probably think I made that up, but no: she really said it, she was really that disillusioned. And maybe it was because I was pretty loaded—I have the alcohol tolerance of a prepubescent ballerina—but I laughed my ass off.

  CHAPTER 2

  A

  piercing ring woke Taylor from a fitful, alcohol-induced slumber. Instinctively she swatted at the alarm. When that didn’t stop the ringing, she picked up the telephone. In the process she knocked over the empty wine bottle from the nightstand. Her voice was heavy with the husk of hangover: “Hello?”

  “Is Taylor Schmidt there, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Taylor, this is Debbie from Fraulein. I have an opening you may be interested in.”

  “Yeah?” This had the stimulant effect of three cups of coffee and a can of Jolt. Taylor’s hangover evaporated like so much morning dew. “Where is it?”

  “It’s a publishing house—Braithwaite Ross. You’d be an editorial assistant. They pay sixteen-five. Are you interested?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “I know it’s short notice, but could you come in for an interview this morning at eleven a.m.?”

  Six interviewless weeks and now they wanted her two different places at the same time! Taylor socked the pillow. “Could we make it after lunch? This afternoon is better for me.”

  “I think so. How’s three o’clock?”

  “Perfect.”

  After giving her the low-down on Braithwaite Ross—it was a smallish publishing house that dealt in murder mysteries and political thrillers—Debbie reminded her to maintain eye contact, sit up straight, ask questions, and bring several copies of her résumé, as well as addresses and phone numbers of her professional references. Halfway through the briefing, the alarm clock went off.