A Manhattan Ghost Story Read Online Free Page A

here.”
    “Oh,” I said, and put the photographs away, the briefcase on the floor.
    “We want a big book, Abner,” she said. She took the tiny red rose from her lapel, began fingering it as she talked, her gaze going to it occasionally. “We’re not going to be using a lot of text, a few lines per photograph—most people don’t read anyway—and I’d like you to do a good amount of black and white. I think you’re pretty good at black and white, Abner.”
    “Thanks.” I knew it was just something for her to say. I didn’t believe I was any better working in black and white than in color.
    She went on, “And I’d like something a little off-key, too.”
    It took me by surprise. “Off-key? I don’t understand.”
    She looked at the rose; I saw her smile and guessed that she was somehow amused. “No,” she said, and looked up at me. Her smile faded. “You probably don’t understand.” She pushed herself to her feet, went to the window that overlooked West 44th Street, and stood at it with her back to me. “I don’t even care if the people who buy this book notice it, Abner.” Her tone had become low and meditative. “This ‘off-key’ thing, I mean.” She turned her head briefly and grinned a quick, sad grin. She turned back, continued, “They don’t even have to notice. Maybe your angles could be slightly off, or the colors not quite right, and the people—we need lots of people in this book, Abner; it’s what Manhattan is all about—and the people,” she repeated, paused, glanced around again, “should be … just people—like you and me. Just people.” She turned back to the window. “Christ, I’m not making any sense at all, am I?”
    It was a good question, but I had no idea how to answer it; I said nothing.
    “Do you like this city, Abner?” she asked, her back still turned.
    I answered truthfully, “No, Serena, not very much. It’s a good place to do business, but … May I call you Serena?”
    She ignored the question. “I despise this city! I live here; I work here—and I despise it.” She nodded to indicate the street. “My brother was killed out there three weeks ago, Abner. Some cretin put a knife into his heart and he died in a couple minutes. Right on West 44th Street, in front of a dozen people. There was no motive; no money was taken. Someone decided to put a blade into him, and that was that.” She shook her head quickly, as if in anger and disbelief.
    “Serena,” I began, “I’m sorry, I …” I had no idea what to say. “Right out there on West 44th Street, huh? My God, that’s awful …”
    She waved backward at me in agitation. “No, Abner, I’m sorry; forget it. Please. Forget it. I loved him—I loved my brother; we were close, we were always very close. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to burden you.” She turned around, stood behind her desk chair with her hands on the top of it. “Give us a big, pretty book, Abner. Make all your angles perfect and all your colors true. Give us something that will draw the tourists here.” A short pause, then, “Tell the big lie, Abner.”
    “Sure, whatever you say, Serena. May I call you Serena?”
    She sat in her chair. “Your contracts will be ready within the week, Abner. We’ll talk again, then. Thanks for coming in.”
    I stood. “Thank you ,” I said, and I left.
     
    I was on the twentieth floor. I got into the elevator, pressed the button marked “L,” for Lobby, and waited. The doors didn’t close. I stuck my head out, looked right and left, saw that the receptionist was talking on the phone. I pressed the button marked “Close Door” and heard, from down the hallway, toward the receptionist: “Hold that, please.” I pressed the button marked “Open Door.” “Hold that please,” I heard again. I stuck my head out and looked toward the source of the voice. I saw a man ten feet away. He was in his mid-forties, was wearing a threadbare gray suit and carrying a brown attaché case in his right