Page 13 of Savage Suit

“Hey, Joe.” He had a friend who lived in my building, so his presence wasn’t unusual.

“What up, Ryan?” he asked, nodding. He sipped from a can of beer, half covered by a brown paper bag, and belched. “Can you spot me a nickel?”

I would need to borrow fingers and toes to correctly count how many times I’d given him five dollars in the three years I’d lived here. He rarely told me why he needed the money, and I never asked. Ignorance was best in this situation. Every now and then, he mentioned a meal or food for a dog I’d yet to see. This morning, I didn’t have a lone bill. His nickel consisted of two one-dollar bills, six quarters, five nickels (the coins), five dimes, and a handful of pennies. I’m positive it didn’t add up to five dollars, but it was all I had.

“Thanks.”

He had the nerve to sound annoyed. Getting to his feet, he looked me up and down before leaving.

Asshole. “Ohhhhhmmmm,” I chanted to recenter myself, although I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done yoga.

Directly across the street from my building stood a church over a century old. I’d never attended service and didn’t know if I ever would. After the loss of my parents, my beliefs were shaky at best.

Grimly, I shoved aside the thought. Religion need not enter my headspace. I walked down the steps, gritting my teeth as memories threatened to intrude.

“Behave, Sandy,” I growled once I sat in my light beige 2005 Volkswagen Beetle, so nicknamed because of her color.

Manhattan was one of the worst places to be a car owner. Still, sentimentality was a bitch paid for in time, patience, and money, when I added the grand to my yearly budget for unavoidable parking tickets.

“Come on,” I encouraged, chiding myself again for not sending her to that car park in the sky.

Pumping the gas pedal harder, I asked my guardian angels to start Sandy. Arriving late for this interview would make an awful impression.

Soon, I’d buy myself a new car and keep Sandy in storage or take the subway like millions of other New Yorkers. But, despite how bad off she was, I couldn’t part with her. A decade ago, my parents gave me money on my birthday to save for a car when I turned eighteen. Four weeks later, on a bright Saturday morning, my behavior threatened that dream. On Monday, my parents expected me to withdraw the money from my savings and return it to them. Instead, they were stolen from us, and my life was never the same.

The car sputtered to life, and I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving as I drove away, knowing I would break the speed limit to arrive on time.

An older building on 5th Avenue housed Keegan Enterprises. The scourge gods were assholes to have unleashed such worldwide chaos, but here in the city, the traffic deities had become benevolent beings thriving from so many working from home.

As I turned Sandy into a space in the building’s garage, I decided I’d take the subway if I got the position. It wouldn’t be feasible to drive her to and from work daily.

In the elevator, two businessmen eyed me with curiosity. Although I blamed my outfit, unease prickled my skin.

The older guy opened the glass door leading into the building from the small area with the parking garage elevators.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He nodded. I entered the lobby, quickly clearing the doorway so the two businessmen could continue. Bright abstract art lent a pop of color, yet even in its starkness, the area was intimidating.

Swallowing, I walked to the gray marble circular desk, where a tanned man in a dark business suit monitored an obscene number of small video screens.

“May I help you?” he asked, meeting my gaze.

I smiled at his friendliness. “Could you direct me to Mister Keegan’s office?”

He straightened his tie, then buttoned his jacket. He reminded me a little of Channing Tatum, just with black hair and bronzed skin. “Which one?” he asked, not unkindly, glancing at the screens but still attuned to me.

“Noah Keegan.”

He scowled and brought his hand to his tie, revealing the small, clipped microphone. “Get to Frederick’s office,” he said, his other hand adjusting an earpiece unnoticed until then. “He’s locked out again.” He listened for a moment, then snickered. “Yeah, she probably buried the key. Later.” With his conversation over, he grabbed a clipboard. “Is he expecting you, ma’am?”

I glanced at the wall clock. 9:04. “Yes. I’m Ryan Hagen. I have an interview with Mr. Keegan—NoahKeegan—today."

“You! You’re Hagen?” Eyes widening, he squirmed in his seat, suddenly ill-at-ease.

“Yes.” My stomach knotted. “I’m late. If you’ll be so kind…”

He smiled like a cat seconds away from fucking up the canary. “Floor twelve,Ms. Hagen.”