FlyGirl - The First Edition

Chapter 22: What is it that you see when you take a look at me?

As I headed down to Chelsea, I called Cousin Bob, Corporate Nazi Stooge and Head of Security at The McIver Group. I figured it was a fifty/fifty shot whether he would actually talk to me. Bob was definitely the old school type that might refuse to talk to me because I was disavowed.

To my surprise, Cousin Bob picked on the first ring. "Cousin Siobhan. I am truly honored. To what do I owe the impending verbal abuse I am about to endure?"

"I need a favor," I told him as I turned off the obnoxious streaming news bullshit coming from the cab's backseat Ipad. "Do you mind?"

"I'm afraid that I cannot do. Need I remind you that you're disavowed?"

"Oh Bob," I poo-pooed. "Not only can you help me, but you're going to help me. You want me to tell you why?"

"I wait with bated breath."

"It's like this Bob. This morning, I had this really deep heart to heart with Cesare Cosetino, where he told me that if I didn't marry Alex he was going to rain down holy hell on our family."

"Hmm. Sounds serious," said Bob. "But this can be averted, since you are, in fact, going to marry Alexander." He paused. "Unless, you are not."

"I am getting cold feet," I admitted as I watched the cab next to us narrowly miss wiping out a bike messenger. "If I were you, I'd do an ammunition inventory. It might get all GoodFellas all up in there."

He didn't answer, but the breathing in my ear indicated he was still on the line.

"I'm also inclined to say no and open up a can of this Battle Royale just to see what happens," I added. "You know how I am."

He cleared his throat. "You're absolutely right. I do know how you are. How may I assist you today?"

I smiled. "Pull up the firm's Discovery email."

After a second or two, he said, "Done."

"Find an email from the Hotel 57th, sent a few minutes ago."

"Got it."

"I need a facial recognition done on the woman with the dark hair and sunglasses," I told him. "I want to know everything about her, from her vitals, to her criminal record, to her immigration status. When I say everything, I mean everything."

He was quiet for a minute. "This is going to take some time."

"Don't be such a Debby Downer, Bob. I have every confidence in you that you can have it before 7 pm tonight."

He breathed some more into the phone. "How do you want the information?"

"Text me her address and vitals. Include that information along with everything else you find in the Discovery dropbox under In re Nolan Barnes. Got it?"

The cab driver asked me where I wanted him to pull over; I told him in front of the market.

"In re Nolan Barnes," repeated Bob. "Alright. By 7pm."

"That's Eastern, Bob, not Central."

"You'll have it by then. You know, you're a real kick in the pants, Cousin Siobhan."

"Don't you know it, Cousin Bob. For a corporate stooge, you're not so bad yourself." I ended the call, paid the cab, and jumped out into the crowd.

The Chelsea Market was a relatively new addition to the downtown Chelsea neighborhood. Less than twenty years old and housed in the same Nabisco factory where the Oreo was invented, it's an indoor food court, shopping mall, and office space. Walking up to it, it doesn't look like much - just another basic brick factory shaped building; however, its interior is all reuse - repurpose -recycle urban awesomeness of tastefully oxidized iron, bricks, wood, and stone. Throw in the fact that it's all about food, to the point that it's where they film Iron Chef America, well then, it's where all the cool foodies hang out.