Base Notes, page 19
“Come on,” said Miles, pushing me back into the press of manic wassailers. “Let’s go find your arts and crafts lady. We don’t have to talk shop today, but maybe give me a call when business slows down? Start the new year right. Maybe we can get some pork and sauerkraut.”
I smiled and smiled and held my tongue. I hate the smell of sauerkraut.
According to Barry, things went well at the holiday market. I had no time to keep tabs on it, as most of my days were spent on the phone with the lab that had tested our musk ketone, trying to figure out if we should pull it from European shelves.
My nights were spent losing sleep over Pippin Miles. Maybe he hadn’t been following me. But maybe he had. And if he had, was it because I was a suspect? Or a valuable source? Why had his friend Jeff told him to follow up with me? Standard procedure? A hunch? Why had Miles mentioned him? He wasn’t on the force. But he still had friends. That was calculated, surely. It must be a threat.
I tried to soothe myself: old men, gossiping. One friend to another, advice to tie up loose ends. I was winding myself up over an offhand remark.
Unless I wasn’t.
All of this, and Jane hadn’t texted. Beau had, once, but only to send me an article about a perfumer who had spent years of his life perfecting the smell of one woman’s genitalia. No other context except a string of emojis all followed by question marks. The tulip, the kiss, the conch, the taco.
I answered with a kiwi, a honey pot, a racehorse, a bursting champagne bottle, and a mug of beer. Less visually evocative, but then, where do my strengths lie?
He sent me back an emoji of a dark-haired woman with pale skin, and a question mark, which could have meant, Was I describing Jane? Or could have meant, Would I make something that smelled like her?
I didn’t answer, though I felt bad about it. I suspected he was texting me without her knowledge. Maybe he felt guilty about Jane’s ultimatum. I didn’t have the mental fortitude to navigate those waters just now—too many other, nastier squalls to sail through.
I got some good news on Friday—musk ketone didn’t have to be listed as an ingredient on our labeling at all. Relief made my spine go limp. When my head fell back against the office chair, I could feel crumbs of yellow foam padding come loose against the nape of my neck.
First order of business, once the balance of Eisner’s commission came in: replace the office furniture. Hell, upgrade to a nicer lab. Sales in Europe wouldn’t stay so high after the holidays, but we were doing well enough I thought the new year might bring some pleasant surprises.
Still in debt to my eyeballs, of course, so maybe before we moved to Midtown—god forbid—I should use Eisner’s money to pay that down. Then, new office. Or at least new chairs.
I was still in the midst of my daydreams when my cell phone buzzed in my folio. I almost didn’t answer it, so delirious with potential was I, but then I remembered I was waiting on news from Eisner that could pull the plug on all my upwardly mobile dreams.
I caught the call just before it went to voice mail.
“Mr. Eisner,” I said, because familiarity hadn’t won me much the last time we spoke. “I hope you have something nice to tell me. I’m in a good mood and I don’t want cold water poured on it.”
“Lucky you,” said Eisner. “Crack the champagne.”
That got me sitting straight. “You sold it?”
“Pearson sold it, yes, after some relentless prodding. Not finalized yet, but that’s just a matter of inspections and paperwork. The important thing is, he’s got a buyer. He’s suspicious, though, so I hope you work fast.”
“Suspicious how?”
“Not of you. He just knows I’m up to something. But they always think I’m up to something, even when I’m not.” It came out bitter, before a long pause. So long I wondered if he had set his phone down. Just before I asked if he was still on the line, he added brightly, “How nice it will be when none of them are breathing down my neck anymore.”
How nice for me too, when he stopped breathing down mine. “When will they notify the tenants?”
“When the sale is final. Not before the new year, I don’t think.”
Damn. “Can you spread some rumors for me?”
“I could send an email or two, I suppose. If you’ll tell me why.”
“Certainly not. Bcc me, though. And enjoy your rum balls, Mr. Eisner.” I hung up and clutched my phone, staring in delight and disbelief at my vague reflection in its dark screen. The penultimate piece of this puzzle was in place. And I had the last one in my hands, ready to complete the picture.
18
Notes de Tête: Wet Dirt, Melting Snow
Notes de Cœur: Pine Sap
Notes de Fond: Grilled Meat and Diesel
I texted Giovanni on the night before Christmas Eve. Just after official business hours, which meant the shop was still open and he was working for a little while yet. And which also meant, if he wanted to call somebody—the landlord, the management company, another tenant—he would have little recourse and no chance to make a fuss. Except with me.
We need to talk, I said. I’ll be there at eight.
I whistled while I cleaned up the lab. Barry watched me from the sides of his eyes, expression increasingly dubious. Upstairs, Leila yelled, “Barry, you’re driving me nuts; quit whistling!”
He didn’t correct her. Just gave me a silent look that read what the fuck, as if the words had been written across his face.
“Happy holidays,” I said. “Lock up when you go home.”
“Where are you going?” he asked. “You got a date or something?”
“Just going to see a friend.”
“That friend you were messaging on the company IG? If me or Leila pulled that shit you’d be all over us.”
“I’m the boss,” I said.
“Right.” He shook his head. “Okay, head-bitch-in-charge, do we get tomorrow off?”
“If I’m in a good mood.”
“When will you know if you’re in a good mood? If I’m gonna go out tonight, I need to find somebody to pay for my drinks, you know? I need a little lead time to work things out.”
I looked at the clock hung over the Metro shelves, which ran ten minutes slow. “Mm, eight fifteen?”
“I’m gonna text you and ask,” he said.
I swung my scarf around my neck with a flourish. “Be my guest.”
“Will you answer?”
I patted his cheek on my way out the door. “I promise nothing.”
The temperature outside had jumped up to a disconcerting midfifties, melting the snow further and bringing out a hint of piss smell from the alleys. At West Fourth, halal cart generators belched out diesel fumes and traffic kicked up oily water from the gutters. Sweaty boys in unseasonal shirtsleeves screamed obscenities on the basketball courts. At the corner, waiting for the light to change, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It smelled like spring.
Then a bicycle deliveryman sped by blasting Darlene Love’s “Christmas” on a Bluetooth speaker, and I was rudely reminded of the holiday season.
Giovanni had strung fairy lights along the inside edges of his windows and hung a wreath on the door. A tasteful wreath of real pine, still fresh enough its resinous odor hung in the vestibule. The bell rang when I entered, and the scent of sap gave it the air of a sleigh decoration.
“Hi,” said the girl at the counter, eyes smudgy with last night’s liner. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for Giovanni,” I said. Over her shoulder, he was already watching me. His hands had paused on the head of his client, who clearly didn’t know him well enough to feel alarmed. The other barbers had all gone home; he was the last man standing.
“Sorry,” she said, checking her schedule. “We’re about to close up. I can schedule you for the twenty-sixth, though.”
“No thanks,” I said. “We just need to talk.”
She opened her mouth to say something, though it didn’t look like she knew what.
“Babs,” said Giovanni. “It’s all right. This is my last.” He didn’t say anything to me.
He didn’t rush the rest of his cut. If anything, he took more time than he might have, clipping carefully around the man’s ears. I poured myself a glass of water from the carafe on the end table and sat down with an issue of Harper’s Bazaar, flipping idly through glossy advertisements for bad perfumes that sold ten times better than mine.
When Giovanni finished up, he shook the client’s hand and sent him on his way. Babs took his credit card while Giovanni swept, and then she too was ushered out, with a kiss on the cheek and a “Merry Christmas.” Too close to the date proper for a noncommittal “happy holidays.”
She looked over her shoulder as she went, her Louise Brooks eyebrows puckered with worry. I smiled at her, but it only spooked her further. Giovanni locked the door after she left.
He went to his station, put a hand on the counter, considered his razors. His clippers. His own reflection. Still without looking up at me, he fell into the chair.
Leather creaked. He let his head fall back against the neck rest, and his eyes were closed. Beneath the neatly shaved skin of his vulnerable throat, his Adam’s apple moved in a hard swallow. I almost spoke. And then, he began to cry.
No heaving sobs. No single tear. It was silent weeping, incredibly contained. Like everything else about him, his tears were neat and tidy, colored completely inside the lines. They spread in shining threads along his crow’s-feet, eventually dampening the close-clipped sideburns that bracketed his ears. The only sounds he made were sharp inhalations, released in staccato beats that felt like counted measures.
It was very efficient grief.
Eventually he reached some bargain with himself, took a deep breath, and squeezed the heels of his hands into the hollows beneath his brows. He sniffed, took a handkerchief from the pocket of his white coat, and touched it to his nose.
“You said we needed to talk,” he said.
I set aside Bazaar. “I did.”
“So talk.”
“They’re going to sell,” I said. “This building.”
He nodded. I hadn’t surprised him. The tears told me as much.
“I heard they’re going to make it a food hall or some shit,” he said. “Like Chelsea Market. Little shops, and coworking. Offices on top.”
This was what I had inferred from Eisner’s emails. It made sense. This was a historic district, but if they kept the exterior, I had no doubt they could completely reconfigure the inside. Midcentury lamps, velvet sofas, the smells of crisp venture capital and desperation. Believe me, it does have a smell. If I had distilled the sweat that regularly gathered under my arms during this period of my life, I would have an excellent example for you now.
In with the cold-pressed juice and kombucha on tap, out with the cornstarch and Proraso. Out with Giovanni and his humble three chairs. Unless . . .
“Little shops like yours?” I asked.
He lifted his head, looked at me like I was hopeless. “Of course not. They’ll replace me with fucking Fellow Barber or something.”
“Ah, but you’re better than Fellow Barber. Why shouldn’t they keep you?”
“Exactly,” he spat. “That’s exactly why they won’t keep me. I’m not a goddamned brand. I’m not the Blue Bottle Coffee of barbers, so nobody gives a shit.”
“I do,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “and I’m sure you can stop this right in its fucking tracks.”
I smiled. “Maybe.”
The pause that followed had a curious dynamic quality. It began as one thing: hope, surprise, disbelief. But I felt the moment it became something else. The moment Giovanni realized the gist of what I’d done.
“You piece of shit.” He radiated a taut and quivering put-togetherness, and I was afraid to approach lest it shock me or snap. Instead I put my back to the wall behind his chair and watched us both in the mirror.
He was small, hunched, white coat rumpled and eyes red. Over his shoulder, reflected against a backdrop of bright white tile, I was a silhouette. A cutout. My wardrobe of all black, my dark hair, made me look like a hole punched through the pristine wall into the vacuum of space. Cold and hungry. Irresistible.
“Maybe I can stop it,” I repeated. “More likely, I can simply ensure your continuity. And who knows? Maybe the advent of your success.”
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Nothing that couldn’t be undone,” I said. “Or mitigated. But service does for service, Giovanni. You told me that yourself.”
“What the fuck can I give you?” Then, backpedaling: “Vic, how? Why me?”
“You remember Eisner,” I said. “His firm owns this building. And he had me over a barrel.”
“So what, you switched?”
“I’ve been known to.” My levity landed on an unappreciative audience. “Not quite. But it was in our mutual interest to . . . motivate you.”
“Motivate me to what?”
I waited to see if he would work it out. But he was stubborn, and believed in people. Or in something. “I wasn’t joking,” I told him, by way of a hint. “Though we won’t actually turn him into a rug.”
A beat, and then it landed. “No,” he said, the shake of his head like an echo. But he couldn’t look away from the reflection of my face.
Our brains interact curiously with mirrors—put one straight down the center of your body and you can feel the flex of your reflected hand even if you haven’t moved the hidden half. Maybe he felt safer looking in the mirror than at me. But it meant exactly the same thing.
“I knew it,” he said, contradicting himself. He sounded shocked, disgusted, as though he had only just discovered some truth that had lain hidden inside him like a teratoma, or a bezoar.
“But you didn’t want to believe it.” I thought of Beau. You’ve really done this? You seem so . . . normal. “Why didn’t you call the cops, then? If you thought I was serious.”
“I like you,” said Giovanni. A surprise to me, just like hearing him call me “friend,” and running into him at Katie’s pop-up. Did I like him? There’s that word again. I appreciated what he did and how he looked. I admired the care he took with things. Our business arrangements furthered my interests. I needed what he could offer me. What other metrics were there? What was I to him?
“I thought you were up to something, sure, and I just wouldn’t get involved. But murder . . .” He collapsed against the back of the chair again and swore. Then, despondently: “What do you want him for, anyway?”
“I’m going to turn him into perfume.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” What little blood was left in his cheeks drained fast.
“A special kind of perfume. One that only I can make. Eisner hired me to do it.”
“The one who’s blackmailing you.”
“Yes. I wasn’t lying about prison. If I don’t succeed, he’ll turn me in.”
“Will you? Succeed?”
“Yes.”
Silence for a moment. “Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“Circumstances have conspired against me.” I would keep Pip Miles to myself for now.
“Great, so you redirected them my way?”
“Circumstances have been conspiring against you for a while,” I said. “If anything, you should view this as an opportunity. I’m sure the marketing budget for this new development will put your shop on the map.”
“Fuck you,” he said, and not the friendly version. This had real venom in it. Then, defeated: “Is it just this guy? Pearson?”
“And the Yateses.”
He shook his head. “I can’t—”
“Oh no. Don’t worry. They’re taken care of.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed, then closed altogether. “Beau and Jane.” For a moment I thought he would start weeping again. But he breathed in and looked up.
I nodded. He shook his head. Outside, a drunk girl laughed.
“You’ve been planning this,” he said. “Since brunch, you’ve been planning this.”
“Since a while,” I said. “But it isn’t as though I have any choice.”
Glaring into the silvered glass, he said, “And how am I supposed to get at him? Break into his house? Follow him down a dark alley?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll come to you.”
“Right,” he said. “Because you’ve already handled all of it, except the dirty work.” He closed his eyes and gave me a brief respite. “God, it isn’t fair.”
Hadn’t I said those very words to him weeks ago? And I had hated myself for saying something so obvious, so pathetic. Of course it wasn’t fair.
But when he said it, he sounded truly betrayed. Like the bottom had gone out of something he believed.
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
19
Notes de Tête: Gin and Peppermint
Notes de Cœur: Coconut, Coffee
Notes de Fond: Mildew and Concrete
I did give Barry and Leila Christmas Eve. At that late date, anything that needed to be shipped would never make it to the buyer in time for the big day. Not if you weren’t Amazon. I resigned myself to a few angry emails, which I didn’t mind answering. Maybe I’d send a couple of conciliatory sample packs. Or not.
After a festive breakfast of cornflakes and bad coffee, I marshaled my wits and called Jane. She had not been happy with me when I left her house. I doubted she was happy with me now, having been left in uncertainty for more than a week. Had she been hoping to get out of it? Surely not. She needed the money as badly as I did, and hated Reg even more than I hated Eisner.
Still, it was a long time to wait in suspense.
The call went to voice mail, which probably meant she was busy—though the semester was over and the bar wasn’t open yet. Studying? Or she had seen the number and thumbed the ringer off. Maybe she just had her phone on Do Not Disturb and was taking the rare opportunity to sleep in.
