Page 10 of Bossman

She sighed. “I didn’t get the part.”

“See? Told you. No taste.”

“You’re biased because I have sex with you.”

“No.” I pulled her close. “I sat through a fucking opera last week because you have sex with me. I tell you you’re a good musician because I’ve been to every show you’ve played since college, even when you’re hidden in the orchestra pit. And since you started acting, I’ve seen every one of your off-Broadway shows.”

“Off-off-Broadway shows.”

“Wouldn’t off-Broadway cover any show that isn’t on Broadway?”

“No. Off-Broadway is a small show in Manhattan with less than five hundred people. Off-Off-Broadway is that show I did in the Village in the coffee house.”

“You were really good in that.”

Peyton gave me a skeptical face. “What part did I play?”

“The hot girl part.”

“I played the mother who was dying of tuberculosis. You had your nose in a crossword puzzle the entire time.”

Oh. That play. “I might have missed some of that one. In my defense, I had just found crassword puzzles. Come on…three-letter word for something that goes in dry and hard, but comes out wet and soft? I was busy counting the letters in dick, cock, pecker, and prick a dozen times each before figuring out the answer was gum.”

“You’re such a perv.”

I gave her a chaste kiss. “Where are we going for dinner, Chip?”

She covered her mouth but smiled. “Don’t call me that. I could go for Thai. How about that little place in Chelsea we went to last month?”

“Sounds good.” I took one last look at my new billboard as I flicked off the lights and closed my office door.

Outside, I turned left to head to the nearest subway station, but Peyton turned right.

“Could we catch the 3 train on Broadway instead of the usual one?” she asked. “I want to stop over at Little East.”

“Sure.” Peyton had started volunteering at food banks and shelters when we were in college. I loved that she was passionate about helping people. But this place had some rough, transient types. It wasn’t unusual for a fight to break out a couple times a week. I’d tried to broach the subject of her safety. Unfortunately, her volunteering was one of the few areas where she wouldn’t bend.

When she was five or six, her loser of a father walked out, leaving her mother with Peyton and two other kids. Her mom could barely make ends meet on two salaries, and with only one, she was forced to decide between food and rent. She chose rent, which meant they were regulars at the local food bank for a few years until things got better.

One of the more frequent visitors at this shelter was sitting out front when we arrived.

“Hey, Eddie,” Peyton said.

I’d met the guy before. He was probably only in his forties, but the streets had aged him. His words were few and far between, but he seemed harmless enough. Peyton had a special bond with him—he’d say more to her than he did to most.

“What happened to your head?” I leaned down, careful to keep the distance I knew he needed. He had a wide gash near his temple.

“How’d that happen, Eddie?” Peyton asked.

He shrugged. “Kids.”

Lately there’d been incidents of teenagers beating up on homeless people overnight out on the streets. Eddie wasn’t big on sleeping in shelters. The places were almost always over capacity, and he had issues with people coming too close.

“New shelter on 41st opened,” I said. “Just passed it the other day. Might not be too crowded since it’s new, and the weather is warm.”

“Yeah.” Never more than a one-word answer for me.

“I think you should go to the police, Eddie,” Peyton said.