I'm Your Man by Timothy James Beck Page A

to get married? Lola’s looking into her crystal ball, readers, and the future seems mighty cloudy. Not only for our star-crossed model, but for Metropole, too.”
    â€œSheila will have a fit,” I predicted.
    â€œA fit has been had,” Violet said. “Sheila’s moved on to rage. She called me an hour ago.”
    â€œMaybe I should go see her,” I mused.
    â€œLet her cool down first,” Violet advised. “She’s working out her aggression in a kick-boxing class. Do you really want to see her right after that?”
    â€œYou’re right, as usual. I don’t. I’ll call her later. We’re pulling up to my building. I’ll see you Sunday night, Ms. Medina.”
    â€œGood day, Mr. Dunhill.”
    My apartment was on the fifth floor of an old tenement building in midtown Manhattan. The neighborhood was affectionately named Hell’s Kitchen. Though I’d lived there for three years, I still hadn’t figured out how its name originated. I’d heard several theories from my neighbors, all of them confirming that the name had been around since the late 1800s. A woman who lived downstairs said there used to be a German restaurant named Heil’s Kitchen a few blocks down from where we lived. The man who owned the dry cleaners on the corner said a New York Times article had named a building in the West Thirties “Hell’s Kitchen” because of a multiple murder that had happened inside; the name spread to the area around it. For more than a century, the west side of Manhattan was home to the mob and street gangs. I personally thought my neighborhood got its name because there were so many restaurants in the area.
    If Hell’s Kitchen was still fraught with crime, I never knew it. When I first moved into my building, it was because the apartment was affordable. Now I appreciated everything about my neighborhood. I loved stopping into St. Famous Bread to grab a muffin and hear a cheery hello from the owner every morning on my way to work. I loved my deli, where I was always greeted like a cherished friend. I liked seeing familiar faces among the people on the sidewalks, even if I’d never have names or histories to go with them. If I wanted to bring work home with me, I could do it on my own terms. Everyone I knew from the world of advertising lived on the Upper East Side, out of town on Long Island, or in New Jersey, so it was rare to run into someone from the office in my part of the city.
    The minute I let myself into my apartment, Dexter was underfoot, howling to be fed. I stepped to the left, trying to avoid trampling him, and knocked over a small table, sending several days’ worth of mail, my keys, and a telephone tumbling to the floor.
    â€œDamn you, Dexter!” I shouted, and he ran through the apartment to the safety of the bathroom. He didn’t fool me. I knew in five minutes he’d forget all about my temper and would come back to let me know he could see the bottom of his food dish.
    I was surprised to notice that my answering machine showed no messages, until I saw that Violet had screened them all and transcribed them onto a small notepad, which I found amid the clutter of stuff that I’d knocked to the floor. The majority of the calls were business related. Except for a call from Gretchen. Figuring she was most likely working, and not wanting to go through her office’s convoluted voice-mail system, I dialed her cell phone, intending to leave a message to let her know that I was back in town.
    â€œHi!” Gretchen exclaimed, surprising me. Before I could say a word, she said, “Hey, I have to take this. Give me a few minutes.”
    I could hear voices in the background when she answered my call, then I heard her walk away until the sounds of New York white noise replaced the voices. She must have stepped outside.
    â€œOkay, I can talk now,” she said. “Sorry about that.”
    â€œAre you