Werewolves - Chapter 3

Veronica Bell woke up, as she usually did, without the help of an alarm clock. It was nice to get up whenever the hell she wanted, which in this case was just shy of one in the afternoon. She would have to meet with her editor at some point, but she could do that any time before five.

Ronnie rolled out of bed in a white tank top and pink panties. She threw on a pair of gray sweatpants and made her way into the kitchen. The sun was just high enough and at the right angle so that it could shine through the window. Because of the way the buildings were arranged in the neighborhood, this was the sort of thing that only happened during certain parts of the year.

Ronnie smiled at her good luck. She got herself a bowl of Lucky Charms and pulled a chair over to the window so she could enjoy the sunshine. She knew she should probably eat something healthier, but she needed the sugar to get her going in the morning. She loved good coffee, but where the hell were you going to find that in America? Besides, caffeine had stopped working on her a long time ago. It was one night while she was getting her Master’s at Columbia. She had a paper due in the morning and she figured she’d need to pull an all-nighter to get it done in time. It was about 3 a.m. and she needed a little boost so she went down to the Duane Reade and bought two cans of Red Bull. She went back to the apartment and shot them both down. It did not give her wings. She crashed out on the couch and would have missed her deadline if London hadn’t shaken her on his way to work. That in itself was a unique experience, waking up, her face less than two feet away from his. It took her a second to remember that the fanged monster looking her in the eye was actually her best friend and she really shouldn’t scream. Because no matter what he looked like, London was a marshmallow on the inside, sweet and gooey. If she ever let on for a second that his appearance occasionally scared her, she knew it would break his heart.

Ronnie finished her bowl of cereal and tossed the bowl in the sink. She headed for the bathroom to take a shower. She was pleased to see that London had done a good job getting all the hair out of the drain. When they had first started living together, a hairball the size of a large rat had accumulated in bottom of the tub. It had come dangerously close to achieving sentience and taking over the world until she had finally yelled at London to clean it up. It made her a hero, really. At least that’s what she told herself. It had taken her awhile to teach London to clean up after himself. Like many other young men, those skills had somehow escaped him while he was growing up. In a lot of ways it really was like training a dog. She had made the mistake of mentioning it once and London didn’t talk to her the rest of the day. But, in Ronnie’s mind at least, she gave herself a lot of credit because she wasn’t even thinking about London’s condition. It was something she would have said to any guy who left giant hairballs in the drain.

But the shower was clean now, and all she had to worry about was the capricious nature of the hot water pipes. When they were working properly, she found the shower a wonderful place to think. She could ponder what her next assignment might be. Considering her last assignment was to investigate crop circles at a corn farm outside of Poughkeepsie, it could be just about anything.

She worked at the New York Speculator. To call it a tabloid would be a kindness. It was run by Ronnie’s boss, owner and editor-in-chief, Malcolm Sterling Lancaster III, son of the inventor of The Reminder, which was essentially an alarm clock which could be programmed to say things like “Don’t forget your doctor’s appointment,” or “Time to take the kids to school.” This was in the mid-eighties, mind you, when cell phones and palm pilots and whatever else you might use to remind yourself of stuff now were in the same stage of their development as humans were when the first fish-frog crawled out of the ocean. Anyway, this was also around the time that infomercials were first getting big in America, and Malcolm Sterling Lancaster II (well, Jr. really) found a man with an English accent to hawk his invention at three in the morning. And the Englishman sold the fuck out of that shit. Malcolm Jr. made thousands of dollars. Now that might not seem like much, but the bastard was smart enough or lucky enough to invest it all in Microsoft. He was a millionaire within a decade, and by the time he died in ’99 and bequeathed everything he owned to his only son, he was worth eight figures.

The youngest Lancaster took this money and founded the Speculator. He was tired of how the mainstream media glossed over the issues that actually mattered. Who the fuck cared about celebrity couples and dancing dogs when the future of the world was at stake? People just went about their daily lives without really understanding what was going on around them. Would they be so content if they knew who was really pulling the strings? Between the Masons and the Illuminati and extraterrestrials, the fate of the world had been taken out of the hands of ordinary people. Malcolm Sterling Lancaster III wasn’t going to let that happen anymore. His paper was going to blow the lid off the whole operation and show the people what was really going on. The truth was out there.

Ronnie, for her part, believed her boss belonged in Bellevue, but played along with him because he had a lot of money and wrote her checks, checks that were far larger than they needed to be to retain her services considering that she had been blackballed from every reputable print publication in the Tri-State area. Now you have to understand, this had nothing to do with Ronnie’s qualifications as a reporter. She had a Master’s in Investigative Journalism from Columbia’s Journalism School, which, if you didn’t know, was pretty damn good. It had been founded about a century ago with a sizable donation to Columbia by a cat named Joseph Pulitzer. So Ronnie had the makings a fine journalist even if she was still a bit green. No, the problem she ran into was that she actually gave a damn about the truth. Now you might think that this is a fine quality for a reporter to have, and in many other eras you would have been right. But newspapers were slowly dying, and even papers like the New York Times couldn’t be bothered to check their facts. (Just Google ‘Alessandra Stanley errors’ and see what you come up with.) Constantly pointing out other reporters mistakes when you’re just fresh out of grad school is a good way of earning a reputation, a reputation that says, “Wow, that bitch is really good at pissing people off. Let’s fucking can her.” Which, she knew, also had at least something to do with her being a woman. She doubted a man would have gotten such a short leash. And so at the tender age of 25, Ronnie found herself with the choice of either working for the Speculator or finding another line of work and wasting her years of education. So she decided to work for Malcolm and make the best of it.

Ronnie finished her shower and brushed her teeth. She wrapped a towel around her torso and went into her room to figure out what to wear. She chose a navy blue skirt-suit and a baby-blue blouse. Overly conservative for her tastes, but she liked to appear respectable even if her publication wasn’t. Still, as she always did, she wore her white and Capri blue Asics running shoes. She was usually on her feet all day and they were comfortable. Besides, she never knew when she’d have to make a run for it.

One time she was investigating a fraternity at Columbia that Malcolm believed was a front for the Illuminati. Ronnie went undercover at one of their parties. She had decided to wear a little cocktail dress and high heels to mix in with the sorority girls. It turned out to be your run of the mill frat party, drinking, dancing, and drunken come-ons. But there was one door that several frat brothers slipped in and out of throughout the night in a sort of surreptitious way that they probably thought was sneaky but really just called more attention to themselves. The door even had a KEEP OUT sign posted on it. Way to be covert.

Ronnie waited until the party was winding down and the brothers went up to their rooms upstairs, usually with a sorority girl in tow, and she hid in the first floor bathroom until the place was dead quiet. She slipped out of the bathroom and eased her way over to the mysterious door. She put her ear to it. Just silence. She tried the knob. It was locked. Fortunately it was just one of those doors with the little hole in the middle of the knob that could be unlocked with any hard, thin, straight object. She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a hairpin. She bent it open and stuck it into the lock. Pop. Ronnie opened the door and turned on the light. It was not what she expected.

There was a sort of map on the middle of a table with little figures on it. Then she noticed the twenty-sided die and bound volume titled Special Edition Monster Manual. Ronnie had stumbled upon the frat’s dangerous secret. Dungeons & Dragons. Malcolm would be disappointed to learn that the fraternity’s furtive behavior was unrelated to the Illuminati but rather to a desire to prevent anyone from knowing that they were a bunch of nerds. And it also meant Ronnie had wasted her evening. Had the room contained beds of marijuana or tied-up hookers or hookers tied up to beds of marijuana, she could have spun that into a story, but no one would give a shit about this. Ronnie sighed and turned off the light. Then she would have gone home and forgotten all about it. Unfortunately, when she turned around her face smacked into the chest of a frat brother. He was big enough to play left tackle for the Lions. Detroit, never mind Columbia.

Ronnie looked up. “I was just leaving.”

The frat brother’s face was red and his eyes were glassy. “You shouldn’t have gone in there.”

“Sorry. I was just curious. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody.”

“That’s right.” The frat brother looked down, and Ronnie hugged her purse so the goon couldn’t look down her dress. That just seemed to make him stare harder. “Is that a Marc Jacobs?”

“What?”

“Your bag.”

“What?”

“Was your bag made by Marc Jacobs?”

“I don’t think so. I got it in Chinatown.”

“Oh.” The giant sounded disappointed. “I’ve always wanted one, but the guys on the team… Anyway, I can’t just let you walk out of here.”

“Why not?”

“Then you’ll tell your sisters about us, and my brothers wouldn’t like that.”

“So? It’s just a game. Who cares if people know about it?”

“Hey, all I know is that Barrington told me that D&D dries up clams like pouring salt on a slug. He said if any of the sororities found out about it, we’d be toast.”

“Look,” Ronnie said, “I’m not even in a sorority. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“I’d like to believe you, but I can’t take that chance.”

“Seriously, I’m a reporter from the New York Speculator. My editor thought your fraternity was linked with the Illuminati.”

“The illumiwhatta?”

“The Illuminati. You ever read any Dan Brown?”

“No, that shit is awful.”

“Nevermind then. The point is, I don’t care what you guys do with your free time. College dudes playing Dragons & Dungeons is not a story.”

“Dungeons & Dragons.”

“What?”

“It’s called Dungeons & Dragons.”

“Whatever. Can I go?”

“Wait, you’re trying to tell me that you’re a reporter that came here because you thought we had something to do with Dan Brown?”

“Close enough.”

He laughed. “That’s the dumbest story I ever heard. What paper did you say you were from?”

“The Speculator.”

“Never heard of it. You just made it up. Nice try. Now…” He grabbed her arm.

“Hold on,” Ronnie said. “I can prove it. I’ve got my press pass in here.” Ronnie went into her knock-off purse. She pulled out a can of pepper spray and shot the giant in the eyes. He let go of her arm, covered his face with his hands, and screamed. Ronnie pushed by him and ran for the door.

Half-naked frat boys wrapped in sheets appeared at the top of the staircase. “You all right, Benji?” one of them said.

“No,” the giant said. “Some bitch just maced me.”

“Get her!”

Ronnie managed to make it outside and down the stoop when she snapped a heel and fell on her ass. She flung off her shoes and was getting up just as a dude in his boxers came out the front door. Ronnie sprinted barefoot until she reached her car. She started it up and sped off. She was just about to breathe sigh of relief when she realized she’d left her shoes behind. The bag might have been a knock-off, but the shoes had cost her a hundred-fifty bucks.

*

Ronnie made sure the laces of her sneakers were tied tight, and she made her way out of the apartment. She ended up taking the R Train to Times Square. Malcolm rented a space in the basement of a building near the New York Times Building. He had decided that he wanted the Speculator headquartered as close to the Times as possible. Even with such a small place, what he was paying in rent would bankrupt him sooner rather than later. He didn’t care. Eventually the Speculator would break a story that would open people’s eyes and its popularity would swell from there. Of that he was convinced.

Ronnie, for her part, was not as sure, but she had to appreciate Malcolm’s enthusiasm. There were times she nearly got roped into his dopey theories. Once he had nearly convinced her that the Bush administration was behind the 9/11 attacks, but then she saw the footage of President Bush at that school in Florida when he first heard about them. She didn’t think anyone could truly fake such a dumb expression. She couldn’t understand how anyone could think that man could be responsible for any sort of complicated conspiracy.

She reached the Speculator’s tiny office and knocked on Malcolm’s door.

“Come in,” he said.

Ronnie opened the door and stepped into the small room. There was barely enough room for Ronnie to step inside and close the door behind her without bumping into Malcolm’s desk.

Malcolm stood up when he saw Ronnie. “My favorite reporter.” He might have been crazy, but when Ronnie looked at his big smile, his round, wire-framed glasses, and the giant puffs of curly, red hair surrounding the quickly growing bald spot on his head, she couldn’t help feeling that he was completely harmless.

“How’s it going, Chief?” Ronnie said. Malcolm loved it when she called him Chief.

“You’re just the person I wanted to see. I’ve got a huge story for you to look into.” Of course, to Malcolm, every story was huge.

Ronnie couldn’t help smiling. “What have you got for me?”

“Have you ever heard of Jon Brody?”

Ronnie raised an eyebrow. “No. Should I have?”

“He’s only the key to our entire economic collapse.”

“Really?”

“All I know is that after he left his job at Lancaster Hunter Chatham, the economy hit the toilet.”

“Don’t you think that might just be a coincidence?”

“Ronnie, what do you take me for? People quit their jobs all the time and the economy doesn’t collapse. Don’t worry, there’s more to it than that. I have it from a very good source that this Brody kid knew full well that this mortgage thing was going to hit. He advised his firm to pull out of all the companies he thought would be affected. And voila.”

“OK, back up a step. How’d that tank our entire economy? And who did he work for again? I never heard of them.”

“You wouldn’t. They’re a small brokerage firm that only deals with the supremely wealthy. New World Order types. They don’t advertise and they try to stay out of the news as much as possible.”

“If they’re so small, how-”

“They might be small, but they’re extremely influential. They hire only the brightest and most innovative analysts. Their track record is astounding. So when they make a move, a lot of other brokerages follow suit. And our economy falls down like a bunch of dominoes.”

“It’s probably not quite that simple,” Ronnie said.

“Of course it’s not. That’s what I have you for. To figure this stuff out for me. I want you to track down this Brody kid and figure out what’s really going on.” Malcolm pulled a slip of paper out of a drawer. “There’s his home address. That should give you a place to start.”

Ronnie looked at the slip of paper. Upper West Side. Fancy. “I’ll get right on it.”

Malcolm smiled. “Good. That’s what I love to hear.”

“Good grief, the comedian’s a bear.” Ronnie smiled.

Malcolm looked puzzled. “What?”

“No he’s a-not, he’s a-wearin’ a necktie.” Ronnie opened her arms and leaned to one side as if to say Tada!

Malcolm just stared.

Ronnie sighed. “Not a Fozzie fan? Never mind. See you later, Chief.”

Malcolm nodded and Ronnie headed out the door.

*

She took a cab to Jon’s address on Central Park West. The white-gloved doorman let her into the building, and Ronnie walked up to the concierge slowly, trying to figure out what her angle would be. If she was dealing with some wife-beater-clad super in the lower rent parts of town, there were a variety of tricks she could use to get inside an apartment. Granted, most of them only worked because she was an attractive young woman. Ronnie had occasional pangs of conscience for using her looks to get what she wanted, but she would have felt like an even bigger idiot if she didn’t use every weapon in her arsenal. It would be like bringing a bazooka to a shootout and using a pistol instead because it wasn’t fair. But in this case, the concierge was an older man with graying hair and large round glasses that he adjusted on his nose. Stern expression. Ronnie knew the type. All business. She could flash him, and he wouldn’t even blink. This would require something particularly clever. Perhaps… Yes, she knew just the thing.

She walked up to the front desk. “Hello.”

The concierge squinted at her through his coke-bottle glasses. He smiled. “Hello, Ms. Brewster. I have that package that you were expecting right here.” The old man handed Ronnie a FedEx box the size of a textbook.

“Oh, thanks,” Ronnie said.

“You’re welcome,” the concierge said. “Have a nice day.”

“You, too.” Ronnie took the box and walked towards the elevators. It looked like somebody needed new glasses. The box was addressed to Christine Brewster on the 15th floor, two floors above the address she had for Jon Brody. She took the elevator up to 15, dropped the package off on Christine Brewster’s doorstep, then took the stairs down to the 13th floor. Jon lived in apartment 1313. Ronnie knocked on the door. No answer. A minute later, she knocked again. Same response.

Ronnie looked around and pulled her lock-picking kit out of her bag. Luckily it was an older building with older doors and older knobs. She held the lock in place with a simple L-shaped torsion wrench, and then she tried bouncing the pins in the lock with a couple of different rakes. She finally found one that seemed to be working and a minute later the door popped open.

Ronnie wiped the sweat from her brow and exhaled. She stepped into Brody’s apartment and closed the door behind her. The air was stale. A fine layer of dust covered the wooden coffee table in the living room. The little kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom showed similar levels of disuse. Ronnie guessed that no one had been in the apartment since Jon had quit his job a couple months ago. There were a few empty hangers in the closet and a place between two suitcases where another one might have been kept. So he had packed light.

Ronnie nosed around a little more, but she didn’t find anything interesting or out of the ordinary. She went back down to the lobby. The half-blind concierge was still at the front desk. Ronnie approached him and glanced at his name tag.

“Ms. Brewster,” he said, “welcome back. How can I help you?”

“Hey, Arnold, I just had a question for you. There’s a guy who lives a couple floors below me, I think his name is Jon. I used to see him in the elevator a lot, but I haven’t seen him in a couple of months. Does he still live here?”

“I believe so. I haven’t seen him in awhile either, but I think I heard he went on vacation.”

“OK. Thanks, Arnold.” Ronnie turned to leave.

“Oh, Ms. Brewster?” Arnold said.

Ronnie spun back around. “Yes?”

“Are you feeling all right? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Just my allergies. It’s that season.”

Arnold nodded. “Well, I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks.” Ronnie headed towards the door. Just as she was walking out, another woman walked into the lobby. She could have been Ronnie’s sister. Ronnie winced. “Sorry, Arnold,” she said under her breath.