The Saint

“NYU?” He laughed. “You seriously think you’re going to get into a school like that?”

“I’m smart, Dad, if you haven’t noticed. I’m in college-prep classes. I get good grades. I score crazy high on those stupid IQ tests they make us take.”

“How are you planning on paying for it? Turning tricks?”

“Ever hear of scholarships?”

“Don’t kid yourself. You go to a Podunk high school and no preppy school is ever going to let you in.”

“I don’t believe that. My priest says I’m smart, and he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

“If he’s so smart why’s he a f**king priest?”

“You’re an ass**le.”

“I’m not the one who rolled on her father to save her own ass.”

“That’s your own f**king fault,” she shot back. “Nobody asked you to be a criminal. Mom’s got two real jobs. Why couldn’t you get a real job?”

“You want me to work two jobs like your mom and be a frigid miserable bitch like her?”

“Better than being a piece-of-shit lowlife who let his own daughter take the heat for him, right?”

Her father’s hand whipped out and slapped her with such speed she flinched far more from the shock than the pain.

She stared at him, wide-eyed and dazed.

“I hope you rot in jail,” she said. Her father raised his hand to slap her again. She ducked and tried to push past him. He grabbed her and shoved her bodily against the refrigerator. She pushed him back with all her strength and managed to get around him, even as he tried to grab her.

She raced to the door and ran down the four flights of steps as fast as she could and even then she heard her father’s footsteps chasing right behind her. She hit the street and started running again. She turned a corner and found a subway entrance. When she went for her money she realized the horrible fact that she’d left her coat in her dad’s apartment. And it had all her money in it.

“Fuck …” she breathed. She had nothing. Nothing but that stupid list of questions for Søren. No money. No keys. No train ticket. Everything that mattered was in her coat.

In desperation she studied the subway map of the city, hoping she’d think of someone—anyone—she knew in the city who could help her. One street name jumped out at her. Riverside Drive wasn’t that far away from the looks of it. Three miles maybe? She could get there in forty-five minutes if she booked it. Søren had given her that card, that f**king card that was trapped in her coat, for his friend who lived on Riverside Drive. He said to go there in case of emergency. Getting stuck in the city without any money sounded like an emergency to her.

She got her bearings and emerged streetside again, glancing around to make sure her father wasn’t anywhere watching or following her. It seemed safe, so she started out, walking as fast as she could in her boots. She shoved her hands into her jeans’ pockets for warmth and tried not to cry. In her heart, she’d always known her father was exactly what she’d called him—a piece-of-shit lowlife criminal. But she’d wanted to believe so badly that he cared about her, that he’d missed her, that he loved her. She berated herself block after block for believing all that shit he’d shoveled on her. All he wanted was to suck up to her, get her in a good mood, make her think he gave a damn about her, and then get her to lie for him.

The temperature dropped and the air burned her lungs and nose. Tears streamed from her eyes as she walked. She prayed hard that this friend of Søren’s would take pity on her and help her get home. If not, she’d grab a paper cup from a store and beg for change like the homeless people she passed huddled under the dingy blankets.

Finally she reached the address she remembered from the business card. The house—white stone with black iron trim—shone like the sun under the streetlamps.

“God damn …” she breathed. House? This was no house. This was a New York palace. She studied it for a good five minutes trying to memorize all the details. Three stories tall or maybe more. From where she stood she thought she spied glass on the roof—maybe one of those fancy greenhouses or conservatories or whatever they were called. The front of the house was white, but all the trim on the arched windows was black. The second story had a black iron balcony and people in party clothes—dresses and suits—came in and out of the door. She moved in closer as she worked up the courage to knock on the door. Then she saw it. In the shadows at the side of the house she spotted a black Ducati motorcycle.

Søren? She couldn’t believe he was here. Diane had said he was with family for Thanksgiving and wouldn’t be back until Sunday. What was he doing here at a party on Riverside Drive? She didn’t know, but she sure as hell intended to find out. A limousine pulled up and a group of girls in short stylish coats and stiletto heels emerged and headed straight for the front door. Eleanor followed them and when the person at the door let them in en masse, she slipped in behind them.

For five solid minutes Eleanor did nothing but stand in the luxurious marble foyer and stare. To her left in the front room of the house, she saw a woman in a silver dress standing in front of a man wearing a suit. He threw a wad of cash onto a low coffee table. A dozen people around them threw down money, as well. The woman slipped the dress off her shoulders, and it cascaded to the floor. She wore nothing underneath. The man in the suit pulled her down into his lap and dug his fingers between her legs as he bit her neck and shoulders. Eleanor tried not to watch but she couldn’t turn away from the scene. He pushed her onto her hands and knees, opened his pants and started stroking himself. Something started to tighten up in her stomach as he thrust into the naked woman from behind.