High Heels in New York Read online

  “Oh, sorry,” She said and handed Melissa back her credit card.

  “Me too.”

  Rosario leaned in close and whispered, “No. I meant that I was sorry your card was declined.”

  “What?” Melissa shrieks. “That’s impossible. Run it again.”

  “I ran it three times already.”

  Holy mother of all that is fashion! This can’t be happening. Melissa’s face flushed red from embarrassment. She quickly thinks of something to say. “I bet someone stole my identity. I hear that happens to people all the time,” She said, trying to deflect the blow to her ego but it wasn’t working.

  Rosario just stood there, arms crossed in front of her chest. Slowly, Melissa handed her back the gift set. Her fingers gripped the box tightly. Melissa had never been so humiliated in her entire life. She stares at Rosario and realizes that standing in front of her was no longer her shopping liaison. Nope. Standing before her was …an employee.

  #

  After being escorted out of Bloomingdales for lack of money, Melissa decided to stop by the bank and find out why her ATM card was telling her lies. What she didn’t expect was to have an epiphany.

  Who ever said money is not important has never wanted or needed anything. Melissa had never been a money hungry bitch. Money is just something that she needed to survive. Some people need a lot. Some people need more and some people need slightly more than others. Melissa was the type that needed more than everybody else. Why? Because living in Manhattan meant that she was expected to wear designer labels, eat out every night, hang out at the most posh places and live in an over-priced apartment. They were the necessary surviving skills of a Manhattanite. And Melissa was just about to find out exactly how little surviving skills she really had.

  “Something is wrong with my account,” She told the sadistically dressed bank greeter who walked Melissa over to an office in the back and told her to take a seat. A few minutes later, a short, burly of a man shuffled into the office and closed the door behind him. “Good evening. How can I help you Mrs. De La Rosa?”

  “It’s Ms.,” Melissa corrected.

  “Right.” He said, waiting for her to tell him why she was there.

  “There’s something wrong with my account.”

  “Okay,” he said. “First I’d like to confirm the number of accounts you have with us and then we can go from there.”

  “Just a checking account,” she said, handing over her debit card.

  “I see,” He said, typing something into his computer. He had a huge hairy mole on the side of his neck that she tried desperately not to stare at. It was very difficult.

  “It seems Ms. De La Rosa, that you’re funds have been transferred and is currently in the negative.” He said, typing away again.

  Melissa shifted in her seat and leaned in closer. “Excuse me? What do you mean transferred?” She asked in disbelief. An overdraft? She had never over drafted anything in her entire life. This was absurd. She quickly discerned that Mr. Mole man was looking at someone else’s account.

  He turned the computer screen so that she could see it for herself. All of the money that she had in the entire world was really gone. And to make matters worse she owed the bank thirty five dollars because her rent check had bounced.

  “I don’t understand. I didn’t transfer any money. Where did it go?” She asked him.

  Mr. Mole man turned the screen around, typed some more and then dug that knife called life a little bit deeper into her back. “The prefix of the account number tells me the funds were sent to an off shore account.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me? Who transferred it?” She felt faint.

  Don’t say it. Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say, Melissa repeated over and over in her head.

  As the words escaped Mr. Mole mans’ lips, she could feel her heart sink to the bottom of her chest. “Mr. Jonathan Henry.”

  11

  Strutting down the bustling Manhattan streets, Angie kept her eye on the prize, a lead role in an upcoming movie called Show Stoppers. There was a small buzz starting circulate around the production and she wanted to get her hands on it before other actors got wind of it. So, after begging Charlie for hours and promising she would be on her best behavior, he gave in.

  The downside was that she had to wake up earlier than usual just to make sure she had enough time to get a full body tan, makeup airbrushing and get her hair styled just right. Angie knew that at her age and with her reputation, anything less than fabulous would not work. So, sporting six inch, red Ila Miranda heels, short black skirt and very revealing top, she headed to the meeting.

  She had been waiting all year for this meeting. Finally, Marty Steinberg was going to give her a shot to read for the role as the teacher in the remake of Top Gun. She was finally going to be able to show them that she was perfect for the lead role and even though it was a remake, from what she read of the script, it was going to be a movie well done. Her excitement was through the roof.

  “You get ‘em girl,” her hairstylist beamed as he finished packing up his hair tools.

  “We’ll celebrate with cocktails afterwards darling,” Angie said as they exited her condo. The meeting was taking place in a loft space in the Flatiron district. From her condo it would only take her a mere five minute walk which she was more than eager to take. Swaying her hips with each step, she kept reminding herself about the three S’s; Stay Sexy and Smile. It was a silly, but favorite idiom that she came up with when she first moved to Manhattan and it had always helped her stay focused during nerve wrecking auditions. Though, whenever she was really nervous she would repeat in her head - Cool, calm and collected and that worked just as good.

  As she crossed Fifth Avenue her cell phone rang. “Angelina Stevens,” She said chirpily.

  “Hello beautiful,” Carlos said.

  Hearing his voice made her shudder. She couldn’t believe that he had the balls to call her after she had told him not to. Maybe he had been dropped as a child, she thought. So, she decided that he obviously needed to hear it one more time. “They have restraining orders intended for people like you,” Angie said, rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, come on doll face, I just want to feel you in my arms again,” He said sounding really sexy.

  Just then, a fire truck with its siren blazing begins to cross the intersection. Angie covered her ears to alleviate the piercing sound. When she hears the siren again, this time, echoing from her cell phone, she looks around her to make sure that Carlos is not following her.

  “You’re going to feel my foot up your ass if you keep calling me,” she said and then remembered that during their last sexscapade her hand wandered a little too far when she tried grabbing hold of his buttocks and he didn’t complain. “On second thought, you might like that.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you sound so sexy when you’re trying to sound angry,” He said.

  “Listen, Carlito from the block, what we had is over. Let me spell it so you can understand, O-V-A.” She said, sardonically. “It was fun while it lasted but this ride has come to a complete and final stop. Do not pass Go and do not collect a hundred dollars. Capiche?”

  “Oh I get it, I rock your world and then you want to throw me to the side like last night’s leftovers? Well I’m no left over lady,” Carlos screamed at her.

  Angie held the cell phone away from her face and stared at it, as if she was looking right at him, then she turned it off while he was yelling midsentence. She had never been with a guy who became obsessed with her. She didn’t know how to react to his behavior but she knew that she was really going to have to do something about him soon.

  When she reached her destination, she rechecked her makeup, sucked in her stomach and repeated Stay Sexy and Smile all the way up to the thirtieth floor.

  There were young girls everywhere when Angie exited the elevator. Her first thought was that this had to be a mistake. There was no way she was auditioning at an Open Call. She w
as under the impression that she was having a private meeting. She was so angry that she turned around and waited for the elevator to return.

  “Angelina Stevens?” A young girl screamed, running up to her.

  There goes your graceful and quiet exit, Angie thought. Gathering some courage, Angie turned around to face the youngster who couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. As Angie looked at the girl, she could feel another wrinkle appear on her face. “Hello,” Angie said, trying not to sound like an old cranky bitch. (Which was exactly how she was feeling.)

  “Oh my God,” the young girl screamed again. “I can’t believe that right in front of me is Angelina Stevens! I could just die. Couldn’t you just die?” She asked the group of girls who were now surrounding Angie.

  Angie just stood there smiling, looking around the faces of the young girls and feeling miserable. They were all very young and very pretty with smooth skin and not an ounce of fat on their bodies.

  “You’re not here to audition are you?” The girl asked confused.

  “Why would she audition? She’s Angelina Stevens,” another girl chimed in.

  “Yeah. Duh.” The first girl said.

  “Actually, I got off on the wrong floor,” Angie said backing up into the elevator when it arrived. “I meant to hit the button with the G on it.”

  “Aww that’s too bad,” one of the girls wined.

  “It is isn’t it? Ta-ta for now ladies,” Angie said as the elevator door closed. She couldn’t believe that Charlie would stoop so low just to teach her a lesson. Setting her up like this was uncalled for. Livid, she prepared to rip him into shreds.

  She hailed a lit cab and quickly dialed Charlie’s office. It rang five times. No answer. So, she tried his cell phone. But it went straight to voicemail.

  “What the fuck,” Angie screamed, putting the phone back in her purse. The ten minute cab ride gave her enough time to think of a million names to call him; she just had to pick one. She was so furious that she was practically running out of the cab and into the office building where his office is located.

  “Ms. Stevens,” Sophia, Charles’ receptionist, seemed startled to see her. “Charlie isn’t seeing anyone at the moment.” Her voice cracked as she spoke.

  Angie slammed her purse on Sophia’s desk. “Oh, he’s going to see me right now!” She screamed and walked past Sophia. Turning the doorknob to Charles’ office and swinging the door open, Angie expected to see him sitting at his desk, smoking his cigar and giving her his usual sly grin.

  She’s quickly stopped by two police officers who had been standing over something on the floor. The office looked like it had been ransacked. There were papers everywhere and all the furniture had been overturned. “What the hell happened?” Angie asked, turning to the Sophia who was now crying.

  “Miss, I asked you to lock that front door.” A man dressed in a gray suit queried Sophia from Charles’ office.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophia said, walking over to the door and locking it. “It’s locked.”

  Angie turned to look back at the man and then at the cops. “What’s going on? Who are you and where’s Charlie?”

  “Ma’am if I can ask you to step outside for a moment,” the man in the suit said walking up to Angie and forcing her to step back into the waiting area. As he closed in on her, Angie spotted a police badge attached to the side of his pants’ belt.

  Confused, Angie looked over to the Sophia again, “What’s going on Sophia?”

  Sophia starts bawling, “He’s dead.”

  Just then Angie got a view of what the officers were standing over. Charlie was lying on the ground and there was blood all over his clothes.

  “Oh my God!” Angie screamed. “What happened? Did he kill himself?” The room began to spin around her. She tried grabbing hold of anything that could steady her.

  “I gotcha,” the man said, grabbing Angie and walking her over to a chair. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Did you know Mr. Stein?”

  “I’ve known Charlie for over fifteen years,” Angie said, taking a cup of water that Sophia had handed her. “Thanks.”

  “My condolences,” he said, pulling up a chair next to Angie and then he began to write something in a notepad. “I’m Mr. Evans. I’m going to have to ask you some routine questions unless you’d rather go with one of the officers to the station and do it there.”

  “I can’t go to the station. If people see me…” Angie said scared.

  “Right. Okay, well let’s start then,” He said.

  Angie stayed in the presence of Mr. Evans for over an hour answering all his questions. She stared at him the entire time. Mr. Evans was just a regular guy. But there was something captivating about him. She couldn’t pinpoint if it was his eyes or the way he made her feel comfortable while her manager lay dead in the room next door. He asked her everything from where she was the night before and even wanted to know all the details of her day. She noticed that he was very detailed about the things he wanted to know. She wasn’t used to anyone asking her questions like this.

  By the time he was done she was so exhausted that she went straight home to bed. But she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, Charlie’s dead body kept popping up in her head. So, she went into her dressing table and took out the black velvet bag. Within seconds she was in another world; a world that didn’t contain pain and heartache.

  12

  The upper west side is not that difficult to navigate if you know how to get around Central Park so that you don’t end up having to walk through it. Knowing this, Melissa took the A train to 59th street and crossed Columbus Avenue. The address Regina gave here was only a few blocks away from the train station so she took her time walking.

  She arrived to Valerie’s’ luxurious upper west side apartment building almost two hours late. But, she didn’t care. Valerie was lucky she was showing up at all. As she walked up to the building, a white gloved doorman opened the tall glass door.

  “Good afternoon,” a security guard said behind a large security desk. “May I help you?”

  Her palms were sweaty. “Good afternoon,” she replied. She couldn’t believe that she was about to sit down to talk to the bitch who had stolen her fiancé. “I’m here to see Valerie Clark.”

  “And you are?”

  “Melissa De La Rosa.”

  He flipped through a book on his desk. Melissa assumed it was the list of visitors. “She’s waiting for you,” he points to the elevator bank. “Take the elevator to the Penthouse.”

  Standing in front of the elevator her mind goes into overdrive. She began picturing Valerie and Jonathan together in compromising positions and she started to get angry again. She took out her cell phone to text Christina when the elevator doors opened abruptly. She entered quickly without looking up and bumped into someone who was in a rush to get off.

  “Sorry,” Melissa said, looking up from her cell phone.

  The guy didn’t bother to look at her. He just mumbled something under his breath and kept walking. As he walked away, Melissa couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing a pair of Bruno Magli lace up dress shoes that did not match his choice of wardrobe. Who wears Bruno with a leather jacket and a baseball cap? The elevator doors closed and she presses the PH button. Within seconds the elevator dings informing her that she had arrived at her destination. Her stomach tightened up into a knot.

  She had never been inside someone’s’ pent house. Of course, her obsession with HGTV helped fuel her imagination. And she didn’t have to imagine long. Before she knew it the elevators door opened and she was face to face with Valerie’s’ penthouse door. She took a step into the small hallway and proceeded to walk up to the door. As she knocked, she began to remind herself that she was doing this for her career.

  “Hello.” She screamed out when no one came to the door. “Valerie? It’s me, Melissa from Hush Magazine.”

  She knocked again.

  Silence.

  Cautiously, she turn
ed the knob on the door. It was unlocked. “Hello,” she screamed out again. Against her better judgment, she walked inside and instantly felt uneasy. Something about the apartment felt strange, out of place even. “Hello. Is anybody here?” Why would anyone leave the door open? She kept walking, having no idea where she was going. She walked through the large living room. No one is there to greet her. Then she finds the kitchen and stops to silence her ringing cell phone.

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Christina screamed. Melissa pictured her pacing frantically in her apartment with excitement.

  Then she turned down another hallway, passing a bathroom. “For real.”

  “And you’re there? With her? Oh my God. You have some balls,” she squealed.

  “Or perhaps you were right after all, and I do like the abuse,” Melissa said, walking by an office.

  “Or maybe, subconsciously, you want to confront her face to face,” Christina suggested.

  Melissa hadn’t thought of that before. “Maybe.”

  “How long are you going to be?”

  “An hour tops. I can’t imagine she’s had a life worth listening for more than that,” Melissa said, turning a corner.

  “Eldridge at seven for Happy Hour?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Great! I want to hear all the gruesome details.”

  “Okay.” She stopped walking and hung up the call, pausing briefly, and then slowly opened a door that she assumed led to Jessica’s bedroom. Peering in, her eyes swept the room from left to right. Gold colored curtains draped the floor to ceiling windows. The massive wooden, four post bed appeared misplaced in the overly large room. A fireplace, crackling with a dimming flame, led her to believe that someone had recently been there.

  “Valerie. It’s me Melissa. I’m really sorry for coming in. Your door was open and well I really need to get this interview over with,” Melissa yelled out. She then took a few steps inside. The room smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. An antique chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, came into view. It created a centerpiece for the nine-foot high ceilings that were accentuated by rosewood columns. If Melissa didn’t know that she was in Manhattan, she would have thought she was in a Palace. This room definitely did not match the sleek, cold décor of the rest of the apartment.