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Friday Morning, November 12^th, 2021

Camille flung the shower curtain open and gasped at the site of him standing there. But then he was gone. She fell back against the wall panting as the final bit of water glugged down the tub’s drain.

          “He is not here,” Camille scolded herself, while wrapping a towel around her shoulders. This was the third time in less than 24 hours that she’d imagined the shady mobster appearing out of nowhere in her apartment, like Michael Myers or Freddy Krueger.

          She shivered, then looked up and saw that the window was open. “Did I…” She rushed to close the ancient window, assuring herself that not only was she five floors up, but the opening was far too narrow for anyone to squeeze through. She pushed down as hard as she could, giving a small grunt as the old window finally dislodged and slammed shut, decades-old paint chips flying from its frame like shrapnel, narrowly missing her beautiful face.

          Her heart was still racing as she snatched a ribbon of toilet paper to clean the steamy mirror––refusing to look at her reflection. She secured the tuck of the towel between her breasts, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply through her nose counting to five, like Joey had taught her, held it for another five and exhaled for ten seconds. Slowly her eyes opened. She met her gaze but was unable to hold it. She rolled her eyes as she spotted and removed an errant paint chip hanging from a blonde curl. 

          Camille pulled her hair back, twisting her red scrunchie around it deftly, despite her shaky hands. Trembling because of the shady mobster. She stared blankly into the weathered porcelain sink. Meeting him yesterday had been a mistake. A mistake a girl in her twenties would make, not a woman in her forties. Idiote!

          The shady mobster’s name was Frankie Marino. Camille knew his name because she had met him last month in the lobby of her apartment building. Gus, the building’s owner, had called a meeting for the seven remaining tenants, and two spouses, to let them know that Frankie wanted to buy the twenty-four unit building from him.

          Sweet, little, five-foot tall Gus had looked even smaller standing next to the musclebound, six-foot-three, two hundred-and-thirty-pound Frankie, who reeked of cheap cologne, arrogance, and a pile of dead bodies in a landfill somewhere off the New Jersey Turnpike.

          The news that Gus wanted to sell the one-hundred and twenty-year-old walkup building had sent shockwaves through the group of tenants, each of them rent-stabilized lease holders, paying ridiculously low rent to live in the very desirable neighborhood of Chelsea, in Manhattan.

          There wasn’t an apartment within a hundred miles they could live in for what they paid in rent here. Cheap rent was New York City folklore, a fairytale, a gleaming city of Oz with no vacancies. Being a part of the one percent of New Yorkers lucky enough to hold keys to a magical rent-stabilized castle meant these tenants would have to be blasted out of their apartments.

          Camille let out a groan and shook her head in disbelief. She reached for her moisturizer, “Who has lunch with a fucking mobster? Ridicule!” She began scolding herself fiercely in French, her native tongue, as she applied lotion to her body.

            Real estate developer Frankie Marino, or the shady mobster, as everyone in the building had taken to calling him, was around forty years old Camille had guessed, and handsome, in that Goodfellas – Jersey Shore kind of way. He had been waiting for her outside of the restaurant, wearing a pair of pricey shoes, and a very expensive suit, tailored perfectly to showcase his huge arms. 

            As she approached him, Camille straightened her spine, quickened her pace, and smiled. At that point, lunch with Frankie was still a game she had decided to play; her, the cat and him the mouse. She could see and hear him ferociously chewing a wad of gum.

          “You are so fuckin’ hot,” he growled. His thick New York accent made it sound comical, rather than seductive. 

          “Thank you.” She raised her shoulder slightly, edging away from his hand.

          “Here.” He reached in front of her, the gum chewing made her cringe the closer he got to her. “Let me get the door for you babe.”

          As she passed him, Camille noticed that Frankie’s eyes were fixed on her breasts. She had chosen not to unbutton the second button on her sky-blue, silk blouse for this exact reason.

          She smiled, Make the mouse wait for the cheese. 

          Frankie sniff-snorted deeply, summing phlegm into his mouth, then hawked it and the wad of gum onto the sidewalk.

          Camille rolled her eyes. Quel cochon. 

          Placing her napkin on her lap, Camille said, “I’ve been referring to you as “the shady mobster” in my head, is that correct?” She let out a flirtatious laugh, leaned in and put her chin or her fist. Frankie froze, his water glass midway between the table and his mouth. 

          Shit. She thought the question would disarm him, break the ice. Had she gone too far already? 

          Frankie let out a loud laugh. Camille jumped in her seat. He sipped his water and winked at her. 

          “Just call me Frankie.”

          He laughed loudly again. It was that over-the-top laugh someone makes when they are trying to kiss your ass; when they…want something from you.

          And suddenly, like a hammer to her head, Camille realized that meeting with someone she and her neighbors had been referring to as “the shady mobster” for the past month was probably a bad idea. She cleared her throat, pulled her shoulders back and sat up straight. Tits.Out.

          “You’re lucky you’re so beautiful. And that accent is hot as hell. What is it, French?”

           “Oui oui,” Camille said with a smile. Frankie winked at her. Camille shivered in disgust. She eyed the waiter. “Vodka tonic, please. Double vodka, double lime.” 

           Camille was beautiful. Five-foot-eight, one hundred and ten pounds, thick curly blond hair and ice blue eyes that stunned. Her irises looked like colored contact lenses used for vampires or villainesses in Marvel comic book movies. Frankie had dark green eyes. They were locked onto hers. Camille did not look away––she wanted to; Frankie was suddenly extremely intimidating. She needed to maintain some sort of power in this lopsided equation, so she cocked her head and raised her chin. Take a swing, I dare you. As Frankie looked away at his buzzing phone, Camille quickly undid the second button of her blouse. Stacking the deck in her favor seemed like a good idea.

          “I should have never gone,” she shouted heading to the bedroom to dress. She should have told Alex, Joey, Connor and Ryan the moment Frankie contacted her. But she didn’t want to be talked out of meeting with him? Why?Because now she wished she had been talked out of meeting with him. Yes, Camille’s life was great, but she had become a little bored. And horny. She needed a distraction. Frankie was hot, although clearly dangerous, but Camille was fierce, she could control the situation.  Plus, she had thought it would be a funny story to tell the boys, “Oh my God you guys, I had lunch with the shady mobster.” 

          She had almost told them about her lunch with Frankie when they were on the roof of their apartment building last night having drinks, but she didn’t want to ruin the mood. She thought about inviting the boys in for a nightcap and telling them in her apartment, but they had gotten locked out on the roof, and that fucked everything up. It was just as well, telling all four of them would have freaked them out. Her gays. Her neighbors. Her best friends. She loved them like brothers. But Alex and Camille were the closest. He was her gay husband. More than finished sentences, they were connected in a way that boggled them still, after twenty years of friendship.

          Alex would have never let her go meet Frankie and would have been furious if she told him she had. Now that it was over, and she had made it out alive, there was no reason to bring the meeting with Frankie up. 

          Camille forced down a piece of toast. She held out her hands. Still trembling. “Everything will be fine.” She kept repeating that.

          She looked at her watch, 6:50, her train to Connecticut left Grand Central at 7:40. She stared at the jelly-smeared knife on the counter, leaning on the crumb-filled plate. She wasn’t doing the dishes right now; certain a wet plate would slip from her shaky hands. She peered into her bedroom. She wasn’t making the bed either. She would change the sheets when she got home. She loved the first night on fresh sheets, and she knew exactly which set of sheets she was going to use.  What Camille didn’t know was that she would be dead by the end of the day.  

          She had exactly seven minutes before she had to leave. Seven minutes to collect herself before walking out the door. She sat on the sofa.  Everything will be fine. Camille had met with Frankie, listened to his bullshit and it was over. No need to be this upset. No need to get her gays upset. She bit her lower lip recalling Frankie’s face when she turned him down as they dug into their cannolis.

          “I’m sorry Frankie,” she had thickened her accent, something she did when she was trying to flirt with a man. “I don’t think I can help you.” It had come out easier than she thought, thanks to the vodka. 

          He froze, just as he did at the start of the meal, but the ass-kissing laugh was replaced with a death stare. “You’re gonna want to rethink that. It’s a lot of money I’m offering.” 

          “I’m not taking money from you to get my friends to change their minds about moving.” She pressed her finger into a lone chocolate chip on her plate and hurried it to her mouth. “I don’t think I want to get involved.”

          “You just ate a hundred dollars’ worth of food.” He slammed his giant hand on the table, causing some of her half-drunk cappuccino to slosh onto the saucer, “You’re involved.” 

          That was the point of the meeting when Camille’s hands had started shaking, the exact moment when she realized that shehad become the mouse. 

          “I can pay for my…” She had reached in her purse for her wallet, unable to keep a grasp on it.

          “I’m kidding,” he said, forcing a smile and waving his hand at her as she reached into her purse. “But I do think you’re making a mistake.” He leaned across the table, put his hand over hers and smiled as she trembled. “Ya know, I have a way of making people change their minds.” 

          She closed her eyes and sunk into her sofa. “Okay,” she whispered. She would tell the boys about it tonight.  Just in case. She rose and headed for the door