Hawkeye, p.10
Hawkeye, page 10
Milo lounged back on the couch, making himself right at home there far easier than Kate expected. He put an arm on the back of the couch. “Why wait when we can do business now?”
Gregory agreed enthusiastically. “Why wait indeed! I always said to my wife that your grandfather’s books—”
“Speaking of which,” Milo interrupted, and leaned forward conspiratorially, “where’s your collection? I’ve heard so much about it. . . .”
“Have you now?” Gregory’s eyes glittered. It was his one joy, it seemed, as he popped to his feet and led Milo over to closed mahogany doors on the far side of the living room . . . completely opposite from where Kate was. Completely out of reach. Of course it was. She muttered just that under her breath, and Lucky snorted in agreement. Maxwell went on. “I usually don’t show my collection to anyone, but perhaps if it’ll persuade you to sign Immovable Castle over to me . . .”
“It definitely wouldn’t hurt,” Milo replied with fake amiability.
Gregory clasped his hands together. “Excellent! Now, feast your eyes . . .”
Then he backed up into the double doors and threw them open behind him.
Kate’s jaw dropped.
Like the rest of the apartment, the impersonal white bled into the room, over every built-in shelf and desk and chair, and book. A bad feeling began to swirl in Kate’s stomach as Milo stepped into the study and turned in a full circle to get the scope of the . . . damage.
Because it was damage.
Every book, every collector’s item, every precious journal and rare edition and uniquely bound copy of a lost text, had been painted over in white.
“My collector’s copy of The Trials of the Immovable Castle is here somewhere,” Gregory said, waving his hand toward the shelves and shelves of spines painted white, “though I can’t really recall where it is. Perhaps over there by the window?” He frowned in thought. “Or over by the bust of Willy Shakes? Ah, they all look the same eventually,” he said, and turned to Milo with hungry eyes. “Now, shall we, Milo my boy?”
“You definitely stretch the word collection, then,” Milo said dryly, looking at the library. “Only one of my grandfather’s books?”
In reply, Gregory wagged his finger and tsked, “You, my boy, should know it isn’t about the quantity of books, but the quality.”
Kate watched Milo’s hands form into fists, and then relax again. “Of course,” he replied, his voice vacant. “Living room?”
“Naturally. I wouldn’t want to conduct business in here. It’s so impersonal.”
So they returned to the living room, but at least Kate knew where she’d be heading. She looked at Lucky and muttered, “Why can’t any of this be easy?”
In reply, Lucky drooped.
It looked like there might be a hallway back the way she’d come to the other side of the penthouse—and hopefully another set of stairs that would get her closer to the study. She wasn’t against using the air ducts, but she’d really prefer not to. So she and Lucky backtracked the way they came and turned down an adjacent white hallway. The hallways were all the same; the only difference was the portraits, but soon she realized that they were all of the same woman—
Gregory’s wife. Wasn’t Cecelia her name?
They seemed inseparable. Kate wondered why they had separated.
The other side of the second floor held much of the same as the first side—overly large bedrooms with white bedspreads, all so impractical, especially for an apartment for two people. It was like, even with all this space, they’d rather not populate it with . . . anything. Her sister had been on a minimalist kick, too, a few years ago, but nothing to this extent. Living in such a clean, untouched apartment felt . . . hollow. As if it was never really meant to be lived in, but shown off and then sold to the highest bidder when the current occupants passed.
Thankfully, she found a set of stairs down to the first floor, and as luck would have it, the hallway led out to the living room right beside the study. Kate didn’t realize it until she had already stepped into the living room, and quickly pulled herself—and Lucky—back with a yip.
Gregory looked around. “Oh, what was that sound?”
Milo thought quick—and knocked over his teacup. “Oh—drat! Sorry, sorry,” he said, trying to salvage what he could. “I’m so clumsy when I’m nervous.”
Gregory popped up to his feet and rushed toward the kitchen to get a towel, and Kate took that moment to slip around the corner of the hall and into the study. “Thank you,” she mouthed to Milo, and gently closed the doors behind her and Lucky.
From the other side, she heard the billionaire return. “It’s no problem! Everyone’s a bit of a klutz sometimes. Why Cecelia . . .” He hesitated, and then decided to change the subject. “Now, Milo, my boy, as I’ve said before, Pegasus Publishing is the perfect home for Albright. We could be great together. Decadent collector’s editions, exclusive box sets—we can make your late grandfather’s legacy lucrative and legendary. . . .”
Kate slipped away from the mahogany doors as Gregory Maxwell waxed on and on. At least he liked hearing himself talk. “Keep him busy, Milo,” she muttered, and fixed her attention to the painted-white books, “because I’m going to be a while.”
She quickly set to work. The study was eerie, almost like a set piece. Made to be glanced at but not lived in. Kate tipped out one book, then the next. She was lucky that the entire book wasn’t painted—just the edges that people could see. Which, unless it was the end of a row, was only the spine. It was still horrendous, but not as bad as she’d first thought.
Milo and the owner of Pegasus Publishing discussed acquiring the Immovable Castle novels, much to Milo’s chagrin. He hadn’t wanted to suggest the plan as they caught a cab to Park Avenue, but it was the only sure way to gain an audience with Maxwell, especially this late at night.
“As you can see,” Gregory went on as Kate checked book after book as quickly and quietly as she could. Lucky sniffed around the room, growing more agitated by the moment. He’d whimper, and Kate would shush him each time. “Your grandfather’s current publisher can’t even keep up with demand—that wouldn’t be a problem at my publisher.”
To which Milo replied, “No, you just put out books without any marketing at all.”
“It’s better to have the book out there, available!” Gregory scoffed. “And the Immovable Castle series would never have that issue with marketing. If we re-release it, there will be midnight releases. There will be fanfare! Instead of some measly event in some nowhere shop in Brooklyn—” He sneered at the word, like he’d never set foot there in his entire life. “With Pegasus Publishing, we will give your family—may your late parents’ souls rest in peace—actual respect.”
“I’d rather you not bring up my parents,” Milo replied icily.
Kate frowned. Milo . . . didn’t have parents, either? That was a rather big part of his life to leave out. It was only him and his grandfather? And now just him? She and her sister might not have gotten along all the time, but Kate was still, always, infinitely glad she wasn’t alone.
“Yes, of course . . .” Gregory hesitated a moment, as if he finally realized he had overstepped.
Kate skimmed through shelf after shelf. She suspected the book looked like both the first one from Milo’s satchel and the one from the auction. Leather-bound. Crinkly pages. Golden filigree on the front with the title of the novel.
Lucky paced back and forth near the door.
Kate glared at him. “Shh!” she whispered for the third time. The dog lowered his ears, but he still looked panicked.
Strange. Lucky never acted like this. Did he smell something?
“Just a few more seconds, boy,” she whispered as she quietly dragged the ladder over to begin hunting on the final wall. One thing was for certain with Gregory Maxwell: He could fill silence easily. Milo barely had to say a word for him to go on long diatribes and tangents, only to circle back minutes later to answer the initial question. They talked about things that Kate had heard discussed before in her father’s offices—distribution, publisher backing, marketing strategies, royalties. Gregory even offered to buy the books from the old publisher outright.
“They’re not doing anything for you,” the man insisted. “Why, if it weren’t for your grandfather’s reputation—”
Suddenly Lucky whined—loudly this time.
“What is that noise?” Gregory asked, and Kate heard the floor creak as he stood.
She doubled her effort, pulling books off the shelf just far enough to read the titles. No, no, definitely not, poor Twilight, no, no, William Shakespeare did not craft eloquent phallic jokes to be painted white—
The footsteps were at the door. Lucky hunkered down and bared his teeth.
Kate scanned the rest of the shelves, hoping she’d find a familiar spine—
There!
She reached up on her tiptoes, slipped a book out, and held in her hands The Trials of the Immovable Castle. “Bingo,” she whispered.
Then the mahogany doors flew open wide.
Gregory Maxwell frowned, looking around the empty library. “I swear I thought I heard someone in here!” He massaged his temples. “Forgive me. My head has been fuzzy all night.”
Milo came up beside him, looking impossibly impressed. “No, no, I thought I heard something, too . . .” he admitted, flicking his gaze around the library, all the books, spines white, neatly in their places. Except for a single gap in the third row of the second shelf.
As Gregory started to turn toward it, Milo pulled his attention away with “Is that a first edition of Pride and Prejudice?” and pointed toward the opposite wall.
The collector brightened. “It is! I’m surprised you recognized it with it painted white!”
“It’s hard to forget a spine like that.”
Milo guided Gregory over to the shelf, asking about his favorite Austens, and Gregory was more than happy to tell him with large, flourishing hand waves. “You know good literature, my boy. Cecelia prefers the Brontës. Can you believe it?”
“What a mistake that is,” Milo said in agreement. “Where is she, by the way?”
Gregory said, “Asleep, of course! It is late.” Then, a bit conspiratorially, he added, “I know we’ve had nasty rumors floating around that we were separated, but we’ve recently gotten back together.”
“Ah. I . . . had not heard, sadly.”
“Sadly? Why sadly? It’s perfect!”
Maybe if Kate had been paying a little more attention, she would’ve heard the nervous quiver at the edge of Milo’s voice, but she was a little preoccupied, squeezed into the cupboard with Lucky, a hand clamped around his muzzle. Through the narrow gap in the cupboard doors, she watched as Gregory came toward the cupboard and poured himself a glass of bourbon from the decanter atop it. She held her breath, praying Lucky held his, too.
Gregory offered Milo a glass of bourbon. It smelled strong and rich. Milo made a face and set the drink down, deciding against drinking it. “Cecelia is my other half—do you have a love like that? It’s quite refreshing. I daresay I’d die without her.”
That . . . at least made Kate breathe a little easier. She thought something nefarious was going on here.
“I’m difficult, but that’s why she loves me. I heard your grandfather was rather difficult, too,” Gregory added.
Milo finally settled his gaze on the cupboard. Kate figured he’d puzzle out where she’d disappeared to, but now the trick was to get Gregory to leave long enough for Kate and Lucky to escape. They were so close. She had the book, all she needed to do was to get back to the freaking elevator before the doormen in the lobby suspected anything with the stopped elevator.
“He was peculiar, sure, but most creatives are,” Milo replied.
“Yes, but I heard he went through four—no, five?—different artists until they could replicate that silly language of his to go along the top of his books. And then he never provided a key for anyone to figure it out!”
“Some children have.”
“Resourceful little parasites, the lot of them.”
“For someone who publishes children’s novels, you certainly don’t like them.”
“Children? I love their spending power. A little waterworks and they have their parents buying them the biggest, most expensive thing on the market. Then again, I wouldn’t be caught dead with one!” And he laughed. “I’m sure your grandfather was the same.”
Milo skimmed his fingers along the whited-out spines on the far shelves. “He actually loved kids. He loved their ingenuity. Besides, it’s not the kids who ruin everything, but the adults.”
Gregory stopped laughing and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well . . . to each their own, I suppose—”
“But I certainly hate kids. Sticky, nosy, bratty—the worst,” Milo added happily, and gave the publisher a catty, toothy smile. He almost sounded earnest.
Lucky gave a jerk, his claws scraping the inside of the cupboard door.
Kate held him tightly. “Stop, stop,” she mouthed. Lucky had his head in the air, his nose twitching, like he smelled something off.
“Now I did hear that,” Gregory said. “Is it coming from—over here, maybe?”
Holding her breath, Kate refused to move a muscle, clutching Lucky so tightly he couldn’t squirm even if he wanted to, as Gregory Maxwell came closer. And closer. He stopped in front of the cupboard.
This was it, she was going to be found out.
Milo said, “Perhaps it was an animal?”
“Oh, I hope not,” Gregory replied, and reached for the cupboard handle.
“I don’t want to see it if it is. I have—um—I hate mice. I’m sure it’s a mouse,” Milo reassured him, and backed up toward the doorway to the living room.
Gregory paused. “You know, my neighbors have been complaining of something in the walls. It’s probably a rat, really. You know how rats are in this city,” he went on in disgust. “I’m surprised there isn’t a super hero for rats. God knows there’s one for everything else these days—two, sometimes!”
Kate rolled her eyes.
“But perhaps I should look, just in case. Turn away, Milo my boy, this might be dangerous!” Gregory announced, and squatted to open the cupboard.
This was it. They were done for—
Milo suddenly blurted, “Where do I sign?”
Gregory gave a start, and stood. “You mean it?”
“I think we could be a great team.”
“Oh, absolutely! Let’s go contact my rights people. Come, come, to my office!” he declared, and with a flourish he pointed toward the opposite end of the penthouse, up a wired spiral staircase, and into a lofty space with a rolling barn door and not nearly enough privacy. He welcomed Milo inside, but Kate listened to their footsteps fade out of the library, the door slide shut, and their voices cut off completely.
Then she and Lucky tumbled out of the cupboard and scrambled for the door. Lucky kept turning his head, distracted, but Kate managed to get him to concentrate long enough to return to the elevator and squeeze their way inside. She closed the ceiling hatch and pressed the emergency release button.
The elevator gave a jerk—and began to descend.
She waited on the bench outside the building until Milo came down about ten minutes later, looking as tired as she felt. Lucky didn’t even growl at him as he plopped down beside her, and they stared, blankly, down the street.
After a minute Milo said, “I’m hungry.” He glanced at Kate. “You?”
She nodded. “I know a good twenty-four-hour pizza place around the corner that allows dogs.”
Lucky liked that idea, too.
There was nothing like midnight pizza in the city that never slept. Greasy and gooey, it was exactly what Kate needed after cramming herself into a cupboard the size of a mouse hole and being hot-boxed by her favorite dog.
Bad Pizza was a small restaurant scrunched between a nail salon and a tourist shop, and because of its name, most tourists stayed away from it. The grease stains on the vinyl seats were permanent, the gum plastered on the checkered tables gray with dirt and time, and the small jukebox in the corner of the narrow restaurant murmured a soft pop song from the early 2000s on a loop. The pizza was delicious, however; by far the best in Midtown. The owners spoiled Lucky whenever they came into the shop, and gave him extra slices and the throwaway bits they usually reserved for the rats out in the back alley.
They ate their pizza in silence, because there really wasn’t much to say. The heist had gone both great and poorly at the exact same time, and Kate wasn’t quite sure how to process that. She was sure eventually she’d be able to tell Clint about it over drinks—
No, she could never do that.
After they’d finished eating, Milo finally asked, “Are you okay?”
She jerked her head up. “Hmm? Why?”
“Because this is the longest you’ve ever gone without talking since I met you.”
“Wow, are you trying to say I don’t shut up?”
He grinned. “Never. This place was an excellent choice, by the way. I’m usually not a fan of pizza, but I might make Bad Pizza an exception.”
“That’s a pretty good idea,” she agreed. “When I was little, my sister and I weren’t allowed to eat greasy pizza. It was always gluten-free, sprinkled with caviar, or . . . you know. Expensive.” She tilted her head, recalling the first time she found this place. It’d been after one of her parents’ fights. She’d been thirteen, maybe fourteen. Snuck out of the apartment. Took the service elevator down so the doorman didn’t notice her slip out the side exit. She remembered walking for hours, and then finding this place, and her stomach felt like it was eating itself, she was so hungry.
She remembered that girl, fingers bandaged from the blisters of practicing archery, dreaming of the day she’d be as good as Hawkeye—when she could save people, instead of the other way around.
“Yours, too? My dad hated pizza, but whenever he was gone on business trips, my mom used to buy those frozen ones and stick them in the oven. She’d put extra cheese on them—whatever we had in the fridge at the time. Expensive cheeses on a five-dollar pizza—that was the kind of person she was. That was actually the last thing we ate together. I guess we’re both part of the dead parents club,” he said.
