~
As we walked through the park, Ace noticed me looking up at the tall buildings that peeked out above the treetops. “First time in New York?”
“Yes, I can hardly wait to see the city,” I said excitedly.
We passed a beautiful fountain I had seen in several movies and the Central Park Zoo. “Next time when you are here for fun, I’ll take you to all the cool spots,” he promised, but his mouth held a sly grin. “Today we work.”
As we left Central Park, the tall buildings sprang up around us. We strolled down Madison Avenue. Many of the shops were open thanks to the time change between Texas and New York. Ace popped in to Armani and picked out a really terrific jacket.
Ace had decided the best place to look for Marco would be his penthouse. He reassured me it would be better to catch Marco midmorning than to wake him up, so shopping was a good diversion. I was beginning to like Ace and all his eccentricities. We cut back to Fifth Avenue, and I gawked at Tiffany’s and Gucci. After an hour of completely satisfying browsing, we set our sights on finding Marco.
Ace stopped at the corner and looked up and down the street. “Marco lives in SoHo. We should probably catch a cab.”
“Why don’t we get one of those?” I said, pointing to the pedicab that was waiting curbside. The bicycle-driven cart was missing its driver.
“You’re kidding, right?” Ace frowned.
“C’mon, I want to see the city, and it looks like fun.”
“Girl, you got a weird definition of fun, but if you want to risk your life, I’m game.” He pointed to the group of guys huddled around another bike, and a lanky, dark-skinned young man came over to help us.
We climbed aboard a rickety, pale-blue pedicab, and our driver welcomed us with a big white smile that glowed in his rather dark face. He told us his name was J’rule and he was from South Africa.
“Newlyweds, yes?” he asked.
“No offense, love, but hell no,” Ace responded.
J’rule wove through traffic and took us down Seventh Avenue, right through the middle of Times Square. It was amazing. The lights of the billboards blinked at us, and people rushed around on their way to wherever. The huge marquees displayed the latest musicals, and ABC Studios showed the most up-to-date news.
J’rule talked us through the garment district, avoiding a large red double-decker tourist bus by mere inches. Ace shrieked and grabbed my hand.
“Do not fear, good people, you are in safe hands with J’rule,” our driver said.
“If we get through this alive, transporting should be a cakewalk,” Ace said, cutting off the circulation in my fingers with his death grip.
“Haven’t you ever ridden in one of these before?” I asked.
“I can thankfully say never, and this will definitely be the last time.”
As we Fred Flintstoned down Seventh Avenue, the traffic eased up, and Ace took a deep breath. I could see the top of the Empire State Building to the left, and the smells of the local pizzerias preparing their dough infused the air.
“So, how are we going to pay for this cab tour?” I asked Ace.
“Rule number one: when you lateral-travel, make sure you take your driver’s license and credit card. Stealing in the twenty-first century is much harder than while traveling back in time. No one leaves her doors unlocked, and most everyone has an alarm system. If you go back to 1955, you can hot-wire a car in ten seconds. No alarms, no fuss, and most of the time, the keys are left in the ignition.” Ace sighed. “The good old days when people trusted each other.”
I laughed. “Maybe if you didn’t steal their cars, the alarm system would never have been invented.”
“Hmm, food for thought.” He tapped his finger to his chin.
“So you just put your credit card in your mouth and hope you don’t choke to death?” I asked.
Ace laughed. “Lateral travel is different. You can put things in your pockets. Cell phones, credit cards, money. You keep the same clothes, so you keep the contents of your pockets. But for some reason you can’t take luggage, purses, and such. One transporter tried to take some Prada luggage home, and the thing ended up shredded. Such a loss, but I thought it was so last season anyway.”
J’rule turned left down Houston Street, and cute little shops representing the artsy nature of SoHo appeared. He took a right on Mercer and stopped short in front of a tall brick building laced with intricate scrollwork on the outside. Ace and I lunged forward, trying not to get thrown from our seats. We stepped out, and Ace paid the driver.
“See you later, honeymooners.” J’rule smiled as he rode off.
Ace growled, “Get a real job.”
The building had several buzzers outside the door.
“Marco lives here?”
“You expected something fancier?”
“Well, yeah, I thought being the son of a multimillionaire, he would at least live in a building with a doorman.”
“Marco likes to keep things simple.” Ace began pressing all the buttons.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You don’t actually think he’s going to buzz us up, do you?”
“Well, why not?”
“Because to him, we are the enemy.”
Several voices came over the speaker asking who’s out there. One sounded like the Chinese guy I took my laundry to at the Superclean. Ace spouted off something back, and the door buzzed open.
“You speak his language?” I asked.
“I told him I was delivering a pizza.” He did a shoulder shrug. “Just wait, the WTF will have you speaking six languages and shooting an Uzi.”
“A machine gun, really?” I asked. My voice rose an octave in angst.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Well, maybe they will give you a slingshot.”
“It worked for David against Goliath.”
“Somehow, doll, with your gumption, I think you would have the same result.” Ace grinned, holding the door for me. Inside was a long hall that contained mailboxes, a door marked “stairs,” and a single elevator.
We rode the elevator up to the top floor. It opened out to a long hallway. There was a door to the right and one at the end opposite us. I followed Ace to the door at the end, passing a large gold-framed mirror. My reflection looked back at me as I walked by. Jeez, my hair was a mess. How was I supposed to convince Marco to help us if I looked like Barbie on acid? I stopped and smoothed down a few flyaway pieces of hair, then bit my lips to give them a little color. Ace turned around and came to stand beside me. We looked at each other in the mirror.
“Don’t fuss; you have natural beauty that even Christie Brinkley would die for. No makeup needed.”
“Really?” I asked, wide-eyed. No one had ever told me I was a natural beauty.
“Trust me; I’m a professional when it comes to appearances.” He kissed his first two fingers and planted them on my reflection in the mirror.
True, he did have good taste in his designers.