The Deal Series Collection by Adam Gittlin

Author:Adam Gittlin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing

CHAPTER 17

NEW YORK CITY

2013

7:15 p.m.

It’s going to be tight.

In 1993 my father bought a warehouse in Soho. Why did he buy it? To keep it out of a rival’s hands.

Get what you need, Pop said. Always. No matter what.

When I was a kid, in the summer my friends and I used to hop from one Hamptons house to another. One night a girl named Jenny Gaynor and I hit one of the six guest bathrooms in my friend Jim Brezen’s house after rolling around in the grass of his estate grounds at about two in the morning. Once the bathroom had become a steam room, and we were able to separate our naked, sweaty bodies enough to come up for a second’s air, we jumped in the shower. I picked up the half-used bar of soap. The second I did, Jenny let out a shriek.

“Eeeewwww—nasty!”

“What?” I asked, dumbly, as I soaped up while gazing into her eyes—almost taunting her.

“You have no idea who used that!”

“No. I don’t.” I answered, never missing a beat while lathering up. “Because I don’t care. You know why?”

She actually thought about it for a second.

“Why?”

I moved close to her. I reached around with my free hand, grabbed her tight, glistening ass, and pulled her body into mine.

“Because it doesn’t matter who dirtied me up. All I need is a minute or two, and this soap will know exactly who it belongs to.”

The world has dirtied me up.

And, fuck if I haven’t made that same world my guest-bathroom bar of soap.

Golf umbrella overhead I charge east to Park Avenue. Though I need to end up more west, Park runs downtown as opposed to Madison which heads up. Because of the rain cabs are hard to come by. A black town car pulls up, no doubt a driver with a little downtime looking to make a few extra bucks.

“Where to?” asks the driver, as I jump in.

He’s a stocky fella—short and thick with a cheap, black suit, a size too small, and a ridiculously heavy New York accent to match his deep voice. Looking into the front seat, I can’t help noticing his white socks.

“Meatpacking District.”

“That’ll be twenty-five bucks from here,” he goes on.

“You get me there quickly, I’ll make it fifty.”

No sooner than I say the words, we’re on the move. The car’s warm. I crack the window and hear the tire treads slosh through the street. I take the disposable from my inside pocket. I dial. All these years, and I still remember the number by heart.

“You have reached Luckman Meats.”

Voicemail system as it’s after hours.

“If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it now. For a company directory—”

I go through the motions. Extension twelve takes me to the office of my closest friend since I’m a little boy. Tanqueray Luck-man—L. L’s family has been the biggest meat distributor in New York City since horses drew carriages on dirt roads. The last time I saw L, we were running away from a cop through his family business’s distribution warehouse, where I’m headed right now.

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