First Born(51)

‘You like Vietnamese food?’ he says casually.

I pause. ‘I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure I’ll love it,’ I say.

‘Pho?’

‘Sure.’

‘Tonight at eight? You know where Chelsea Market is?’

‘Sure.’ The lies keep on coming.

‘See you outside at eight, then. Will be nice to talk about Katie some more. I miss her.’

‘See you there.’

I end the call and my stomach is doing flips. It’s not because I’m attracted to Scott, although I am. It’s because we’re almost repeating history. Almost. Some of the joy and anticipation that KT would have experienced before her first dates with Scott Sbarra. Some of the same glances and probably some of the same jokes. Sure, it’s not a date exactly, but it kind of is, you know?

I find a cheap café and I stream some movie soundtracks through my phone headphones: Fargo and Pretty in Pink and Gladiator. Setting up the tablet is easy; it’s identical to the ones I bought in London this past year. Using the Google Play tokens and a brand new Gmail account under a fake name I manage to buy some video editing software and an app that vocalises, in a computerised voice, anything I type, and I set up a brand new YouTube account. I research and screenshot old hidden Reddit posts deleted by Shawn Bagby. I read about metadata and algorithms and YouTuber strategies. I access the dark web and screenshot posts he made under an alias and then I screenshot the evidence I have that he used that alias. Similarities in cadence, the way he writes sentences. One word he regularly misspells. The way he describes proms as loser fests and women as disposable femoids. Then I edit some of the screenshots: cutting and pasting. Some of the evidence is true, some fabricated, some exaggerated. The lies are best hidden among the truths. You need more truths than lies, though, that’s vital. You construct a pattern, a series, a myth. I have enough raw material now. Which means I can work on it offline, no wifi, untraceable, in the comfort of my thirty-five-dollar YMCA single room with a view.

There are several people milling around Cherry Hill Fountain when I arrive. Joggers stretching and dog-walkers dragging their pooches.

But no sign of him.

I walk closer to the fountain, scanning around, my view cut in half by the brim of my baseball cap.

I sit down on a low wall, my hand on my bat.

A minute later I sense someone sit opposite from me. They came out of nowhere. I look around out of the corner of my eye.

‘Keep looking the other way,’ he says. ‘Take out your phone and start talking into it.’

I consider running away.

Because it’s not him.

But I take out my phone. There are more people around us and right now that’s a good thing. If I scream they will take him down – they will come to my assistance and not to his.

I say, ‘What the hell is this?’ into my phone.

He makes his own phone ring and answers it in a jovial tone. ‘My name is Peter. How are you?’

‘That’s not your name,’ I say.

‘Peter Hill,’ he says.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Your name is Bogart DeLuca.’





Chapter 28


‘How did you know I’d be here?’ I ask.

‘Does it matter, Molly?’

‘He sent you? What do you want?’

‘Keep talking into your phone.’

‘I am talking into my damn phone.’

‘You raise your voice like that again and I will walk away.’

I don’t say anything.

‘My name is Peter Hill.’

‘Whatever.’

His accent is different from before.

‘I work with The Man. I work for him.’ His accent has shifted from Brooklyn to LA.

‘OK.’

‘He couldn’t make it today in person and he sends his apologies for that.’

More like he never planned to be here in the first place. Sent his henchman.

‘OK.’

‘What can we do for you, Molly?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I need one more favour.’

‘The deal,’ says Bogart DeLuca, Peter Hill, whoever he is, ‘was one favour. One significant favour.’

I take another breath. A teenager glides by on roller-skates.

‘New deal,’ I say.

I can’t see him smile because I have my back to him, looking out at the lake, but I sense it.

‘Go on.’

‘I’m here for another week or so but I have no funds. I need ten thousand dollars in cash – that should be pocket change to your boss – and I need a safe room, a room you guarantee is secure.’

‘OK, Molly.’

‘Understand?’

‘Loud and clear.’

Neither of us says anything for a while. I hold my phone closer to my mouth and start speaking, but then it rings and I almost jump out of my skin.

‘You gonna answer that call?’ he says.

I silence the call and look at the screen. It’s Mum. I let it go to voicemail.

‘Real smooth,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You’ll get, in full and final settlement of this arrangement, fifty thousand dollars in small used bills, and a hotel room I’ll guarantee is clear and secure. I’ll select it personally and I’ll sweep it for bugs and cameras. I’ll inspect it. Is that acceptable to you?’