Fear of Heights Read online

  As usual, Ideal is all over me. He holds my hand and my hip, and slings his arm around my shoulder. He frequently stops to kiss me, and his kisses aren’t meaningless—they’re heady and insatiable. I want to tell him what happened with Jaylee, but I’m afraid to dampen his enthusiasm about today’s rescue mission.

  His affection is enough to get stares from strangers, and I wonder if he’s demonstrating victory of a turf war—that turf being me.

  We finally arrive at a haggard-looking townhouse. My blouse sticks to my back with humidity; I’m dreading the onset of full summer, the stale heat waves of August that suffocate the whole city. That terrible heat, I know, will remind me of losing the baby.

  The windows are all boarded, and the porch sags, giving the whole place the impression of melancholy. The façade of the house is covered in wood paneling, unusual in this neighborhood. People buy these and gut-renovate them completely; I’ve seen a few remade into beautiful single-family homes.

  This one is a true relic; it looks like it’s been untouched since the crack-cocaine days that shadowed this neighborhood for almost two decades. The house is like a scar—a reminder of the years of lawlessness, corruption, and poverty that mounted up while city leaders ignored all of northern Manhattan.

  I knock Ideal’s hand away when he caresses my ass.

  “Hey, Ideal? You know what? I’m not your girlfriend or even really your lover. Can we just be partners? Like cops are partners or—”

  Ideal throws his head back and laughs at me. I frown.

  “I went to see Jaylee yesterday. You and I—can we keep it, you know, platonic? Like business partners?”

  I feel the need to say it again because we’ve made love like lovers, and he’s still holding and caressing me, wanting some part of our bodies to always be touching.

  “No me importa quién seas. Sólo es para pasar el momento,” says Ideal with a wink, then lets me go and walks ahead.

  “Funny, most people would look at you and think you’re a hood-rat. But really, you speak like some sort of sage,” I say, and increase my pace to almost a run to keep up with him. He’s speeding up the path to the house like he’s on a mission. He doesn’t care who I belong to, we’re just having fun.

  “Yeah, I mean it,” he throws back over his shoulder. “You don’t have to be anything for me. I like you just being. I know you got shit to deal with, and I know you got feelings for Jaylee.”

  He looks at me and winks again. “I just want to touch you when I want to.”

  He climbs up the front steps, sidestepping the gaping holes in our path.

  “Maybe we should—cut out the touching?”

  “I think you need me too, kittycat. Ain’t no reason to be shy ‘bout it.”

  Ideal has a key to open the metal grating encasing the door. Inside it, the door is made of cheap plywood, and has been visibly battered. It’s crooked on its hinges, bears marks of forced entry, and has deep, raking scratches, which makes me imagine dogs’ paws, begging to get in. The door is unlocked, and Ideal whistles as he opens it and enters. A clipped whistle answers. The entryway is dark and smells strongly of dampness and roaches.

  “Someone lives here?” I whisper.

  “Viejo! ‘Onde tu ‘ta?” Ideal shouts and then whistles again.

  Another short whistle answer: it sounds like it’s rising up from a basement below. Ideal sets down his little bag of groceries from the corner bodega and holds both of my hands securely in his as he helps me step over a large hole in the floor. The house seems long abandoned, stripped of all its wires and fixtures. A dirty mattress and box spring on what was once a living-room floor is the only sign of inhabitants—human ones, at least—as the acrid smell of rodent urine assaults me.

  We make our way to the kitchen, and there are more signs of squalid living. There’s garbage that looks fresh, and a newspaper from earlier in the week sits atop a kitchen table next to a half-full coffee cup. I now understand Ideal’s quick stop to pick up canned beans, avocados, and green plantains. I’d mistakenly assumed the supplies were going home for him to make dinner. I love that Ideal cooks; he’s a natural caretaker. The quality seems so much more endearing in a hardened young thug.

  He unloads the plastic bag of groceries onto the filthy counter top and shouts “Viejo” again, accompanied by his shrill whistle. Somehow, I feel like Dorothy, about to meet the great wizard—some mysterious knowledge-keeper who squats in a dank and dirty basement. The Heights may be changing rapidly, but it’s still riddled with mysteries.

  Then an elderly man appears, shuffling in with a cane. He’s wearing a white tank top like Ideal, coupled with black work pants. Both this man and his clothes have seen better days. He’s got weeks of white whisker scruff that he absentmindedly scratches. He makes his way to Ideal and slaps him heartily on the back.

  “Qué lo qué?” he rasps, which starts a fit of coughing.

  He shuffles back to the counter, passing me with a look of disinterest. He lifts the cans and slams them into the cupboards without thanks.

  “Tu mujer?” He asks Ideal, jutting his chin in my direction.

  I make a face, shake my head “no” and say, “amiga.” At the same instant, Ideal exclaims, “sí.”

  Ideal and I make eye contact and there is definitely confusion, tension and maybe some hurt feelings. He said it didn’t matter, and I narrow my eyes at him to question what the hell he’s doing. But I’ve made passionate love to him twice—no, three times. I’m the one sending mixed messages. Make that completely fucked-up messages.

  But we’re not here to define our relationship or to argue over introductions. I shrug and focus on the fact that we’re here to find my sister. The sex stuff shouldn’t matter.

  “Viejo—if the Colombianos kidnap someone, where you think they would keep them?” Ideal asks. Back to our mission.

  “Pol qué, a tí te van a raptar, muchacho?” the old man asks with a smirk. He strokes his white whiskers along the sides of his mouth. “Y no que ya secuestraron a la jeva, esa?” he says gesturing to me with an elbow.

  “La hermana,” Ideal says.

  “The two look the same,” says the old man, surprising me with barely any trace of an accent. You sure it was Colombianos?

  “It’s been over a week and this one can’t sleep,” Ideal says.

  “Pobre de ella, no sleep,” the old man says, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You sure it was Colombianos?” Hostility blankets his scruffy face. He turns toward me and stares directly at my breasts, which makes me blush and glance down to check that my shirt hasn’t fallen open.

  I step toward him. “They got it wrong. We think they were trying to take me. I can pay for what was lost. So can Emily, my sister.”

  Ideal pulls me to him, squeezing my arm. I’ve said too much. I’m trying to negotiate in an arena in which the boundaries are completely uncharted to the likes of someone like me. The viejo coughs a watery cough that sounds like it taxes his lungs, then pounds on his chest as if he could loosen his own words with his fist. Ideal moves in and thumps forcefully on his back, and the old man stumbles to the sink to spit up the obstruction. I realize with horror, after he dislodges a bloodied ball of phlegm, that he’s got no running water.

  He hacks into the sink, clipping his chest roughly with the side of his hand.

  “Try Don Javier and Lisel, they take in ilegales on the run from the feds. Some others too, that need to go underground. They’re into justice—they ain’t killers—so don’t you go breaking down their door.”

  “¿Yo?” Ideal asks in mock offense at the cut. “They already on our list, but much thanks for the tip. You just saved us a lot of time,” he says, offering his hand for a slap. The old man nods and grabs his hand, clears his throat, and then stares openly at my butt. I say goodbye and extend my hand. He grasps it and smiles lewdly at me, his grizzled lip curling up to reveal yellow teeth.

  Back out on the street, Ideal doesn’t slow down. I jog along beside him, dying to ask him
a million questions: What the fuck was that? Who is he? Do you really think you and I are more than just lovers? But Ideal’s brow is knit, his pace determined, and I’m trying hard to be a good partner.

  “The police, Ideal, do they know about this couple?”

  “Yeah, they know ‘bout them,” he says dismissively, “But your sister’s case is too high profile. See, they hide illegals that might be on the run, but these people are old—they don’t do kidnappings. And they sure as hell wouldn’t normally mess with merch or paybacks—any of that shit. Means somebody offered them big money to take on this job.”

  “Well, we can pay them more. It’s that simple. Should we call or do we just show up?”

  Ideal looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind, and we stop dead in the middle of the street.

  “No, we don’t call, Kate. If they hear anything to scare them, they’ll move her, or worse. Good news is, if she with this couple, you can bet she’s alive. How much ransom they asking from Daddy?”

  This sounds spiteful, but I ignore it.

  “It’s not ransom. It’s a reward. Nearly two million dollars.”

  “And your pops is good for it?”

  He already knows I come from money; there’s no point in trying to hide it now.

  “Yes! He’ll pay it. Emily is their favorite—they’d do anything for her safety.”

  Ideal touches my throat and wraps his fingers around the back of my neck. He pulls me to him and inhales deeply. Then his mouth is on mine, moving swift and deep. My senses are knocked askew, my adrenaline charging, but I’m unsure if it’s from his kiss or the urgency of the moment.

  “No more kissing,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders and pushing hard. He pulls back and looks at me. My face is on fire. I’m ashamed that I want his kiss, though I keep trying to deny it.

  Robert says I crave attention; maybe he’s right. Maybe part of my need to save Emily is a need for approval from my parents. If I can bring her back, maybe I’ll be forgiven for fucking up. Maybe they’ll forget it’s my fault that she disappeared because they’ll be so happy to have her back. And so will I. I’ve been missing my absent sister more than I ever imagined, considering I barely even see her. If they’ve hurt Emily—I should have been the one getting hurt. If they’ve damaged her—the damage was meant for me.

  When I picture her now, I see her as I saw her when we were little. Her dark ringlets and big blue eyes. Following me around, begging me to play with her. I want to save her. I want a chance to say sorry—for this and for everything —for not being closer.

  “I’m gonna go in armed. That’s the only way with this kind of money. Cause this shit‘ll be like jacking the two million.”

  “Ideal, take me with you,” I’m pleading already, because I realize he thinks he’s going after her alone.

  “You forget what happened last time? This ain’t your style, kittycat. You get yourself killed and your baby sister. I’ll bring her home. I ain’t gonna disappoint.”

  “You’re going to risk your life to save my sister? That hardly seems fair. We’ve only just met, and Emily you don’t even know. Can’t we just hand the tip over, and let the police or my father take care of the rest?”

  “How’s about you and me go see if she’s there, and if shit feel ratchet then we go with your plan. Hell, I wouldn’t mind some of that prize money for myself.”

  Those words shouldn’t make my blood run cold. Ideal should be given a reward for helping me and for bringing my sister home. He needs money—it’s not like he and his grandfather are rolling in abundance. Maybe some income could help him get out of the business on the streets. He hasn’t been spending time with me because he knows that I’m wealthy. But I can’t help but hear Robert’s patronizing voice saying, “he just wants you for your money.”

  It’s what my parents ingrained in me: Be careful who you trust. People will only befriend you for personal gain.

  I wish Ideal just liked being with me.

  ‘What? Did that hurt your feelings?” Ideal asks, sensing my mood.

  All I can do is look down at my feet.

  “It’s stupid. Something I’m insecure about,” I say, wiping the tears that are now free-falling from my face.

  “I would never take money for that,” Ideal says.

  “For what?” I ask, looking up into his eyes. I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand.

  “For sex?” Ideal whispers. “Is that what you think?”

  I shake my head “no,” but the tears return. I’m fucked up. I’m a basket case. I don’t even know what I think.

  Ideal holds me close and begins to kiss me sweetly, taking gentle control of my mouth with his tongue. Then he kisses away all the tears that slide down my face. These aren’t little licks, flicking away tears with a pointed tongue. Ideal, full-on, open-mouthed, makes out with my cheeks. He eats my tears like a tender monster, making a warm, wet, ridiculous meal of my face. Ideal makes me laugh in spite of myself.

  I want to save Emily. I want to go do it. What the hell, I think. I can’t hold on to babies or boyfriends or husbands. I’ve failed in academia, at a real job, at drug trafficking and smuggling. I’ve lost my sister, my marriage, I’ve almost lost my family. I’m starting to think I have nothing left to lose.

  “Ideal?”

  “¿Qué?” he says, lips still against my cheek.

  “Take me with you. I’m not afraid to beg.”

  He pulls back and holds me at arms’ length, smiling mischievously, laughing at my frustration.

  “Better idea,” he says. “I’ll make you beg later,” and one arched brow rides up high on his face.

  “But today, for an undercover rescue, I’ll take cash or check. Preferably from your pops or your sister’s husband. I got other ideas for making you pay.”

  Ideal has given in to my plea. He’s never once discouraged my self-destructive vein from the moment we met.

  “Do we go now?” I ask.

  “Yeah, carajo! What the fuck you waiting for? This job’s gonna be mad fun! I just gotta make one stop so I can get my gun.”

  I knew it. Or at least I had a good idea as far back as the park-house bathroom—Ideal gets off on danger. Ideal and I are well-matched in reckless behavior. I’m a dangerous woman; that’s why he wants me.

  Chapter 16

  We walk up Broadway into the upper 170s, Ideal is now packing a 380. It’s the same gun Jaylee carried, the kind he had in the bathroom. Everything around us would have you believe it’s a normal day. The summer heat is subsiding, and the sky looks as if it wants to rain.

  “Are we going in just like this or should we try to be undercover?”

  “As we are. But if she’s there, that means no more me and you,” Ideal says blankly.

  I stop in my tracks.

  “What? Why?”

  “Kate, whoever took her is on to your family’s money. They thought they were snatching you to get their drugs or cash back, but instead they got lucky. A fucking tycoon’s daughter.”

  Ideal looks at me and adjusts the gun in his pants.

  “If we go up in there and steal her back, then we as good as stealing the money right out of they pockets. Bounty be out on both our heads.”

  “So if we do this, we’ll have to lay low? You and I can’t be seen together? You mean ever?”

  “Yeah, and you gonna have to watch your back, baby girl. These gangstas don’t forget no vendetta.”

  Ideal stops, stretches his arms up to the sky, and rolls his head abruptly to each side as if loosening up to get ready for a fight. His dark eyes are intense and smoky, alit with danger and the thought of such large sums of money. According to him, we’ve arrived at our destination already. How ironic if Emily has been missing this entire time within walking distance of my house.

  “Or we can call it a day. I stay broke and you and I stay together. We leave it up to the police to find your sister. They won’t touch her, Kate, the dealers, not when she’s worth that much money.” />
  Ideal clasps his fingers together and pulls his arms back behind him, stretching out his biceps and cracking all of his knuckles.

  “Are you trying to tell me I have to choose between you and Emily, Ideal?”

  “You know what, Kate? Sometimes you really fucking annoying.”

  “Thanks,” I say, punching him hard in the chest. “I’m just trying to figure out the right thing to do.” I shake the pain off my fingers. Ideal’s hard chest didn’t even register the blow.

  Ideal grabs my hand and yanks me up against him. I bury my face into him and inhale his scent.

  “I’m trying to be your partner! Like you said—no relationship. We two cops on the beat,” he says, his chin coming to rest on my head.

  “I’m not ready to let go,” I say, toying blindly with the gold chain around his neck. “I feel safe when I’m with you. Not so alone.”

  “I’ll let you decide, kittycat. I won’t go nowhere if you don’t want me to. But I could use the money. I can’t make you let go of Jaylee. It don’t even matter if I try,” Ideal mumbles the last few words as if regretting them the moment they left his mouth.

  I didn’t realize Ideal was trying to love me. I could make love to him as much as I want to, but no other man can ever fill up the hole that Jaylee left in my heart.

  “I’m not close to my sister, but she doesn’t deserve any of this. I love what you do to me, Ideal, but I—well, I can live without it.”

  “Doubt it,” he murmurs with a sly little grin.

  “I’ve got to save my sister. Let’s see if she’s there; I’ll make sure you’re compensated for your services.” I squeeze his hand and we start walking.

  The building is beautiful, with a giant courtyard that opens up as we pass under the arched entryway, revealing a hidden space invisible from the street. A fountain stands in the middle, long dry but still regal. The inner walls rise up around us. Ideal clasps the back of my neck to make me keep my head down as we scurry across the open space. I guess he thinks there could be a lookout above—I never would have thought of that. My naïve approach could already be putting us in danger. Ideal’s footsteps are light; he barely seems to touch the ground as we make our way safely to the shadowed interior stairwell.