In a steady September rain, Battery Park City evokes a soulless, Soviet-style grid—gray concrete, blocky housing slabs, monolithic space, architecture that prioritizes cohesion and planning over messy individuality.
Boone crosses the Rector Street pedestrian bridge—his full beard makes him look older, distinguished yet feral. He moves smooth. Confident. Unfazed. He takes a final drag from his cigarette and flicks it through the plexiglass cracks onto the West Side Highway, splashing traffic below. A nanny pushing a luxury stroller shoots him a dirty look as the tang of nicotine lingers.
Gateway Plaza has six towers and resembles a storage facility for humans, a warm body stashed behind every cold rectangle of glass. The drab, brown brick of the buildings darkens to a charcoal under the downpour. Water streaks the facades in vertical lines, emphasizing the towers’ sheer walls. The courtyard is desolate—shallow puddles across the flagstone and pavement.
He approaches the southernmost tower on South End Avenue—395 in white letters on the sagging, green awning.
When the doorman sees Boone, he extends his fist for a friendly pound:
Mr. Burgh—
my main man.
What’s up, Jeffrey?
Ah…
You know how it be—
same shit, different day…
Where’s your umbrella, dawg?
It broke.
Say no more…
Jeffrey reaches into the receptacle by the door and hands Boone a fresh one.
You can have this one.
Good lookin’ out.
My pleasure.
Oughta last ya’ a few more stops.
We’ll see…
Wanna let her know I’m here?
Already did.
I saw you coming.
She’s expecting you.
Thanks.
Jeffrey tips his hat:
Any time, Mr. Burgh.
Boone’s shoes squeak across the polished tile of the lobby as he makes his way to the elevator.
A musty stink clings to the humid air on the 19th floor—stale water damage trapped under cheap beige carpet. The lighting is old and tired.
He knocks on 19K.
He waits and listens to the usual sounds: the bottoms of bare feet slapping against laminate flooring, drawing near. Then, a series of custom locks being unlatched, each heavier than the last.
A graceful, blonde woman of a certain age opens the door. She wears a sly gaze and a kimono knotted shut.
Mr. Burgh—
you got here fast.
That’s why they pay me, Betty.
He steps inside.
Shoes, please.
He removes them.
She gives him a towel, leers as he dries off.
How you doin’, honey?
Good.
Busy?
Not really.
Well, you’re about to be.
My Chinese friends are some real Willie Nelsons.
Chinese?
Last week it was Russians.
They should make you UN ambassador.
19K is an international hub.
World renowned.
I thought you’d know that by now.
She leads him down the hallway, toward the sound of video games and trash-talk in Mandarin.
Did I ever tell you that I know your boss?
No.
He’s an old friend of mine.
Do you know Jon?
Who?
It’s okay, honey—
I’m an old head.
One of his first customers.
I don’t know who you’re talking about.
Betty tilts her head:
Mm-hmm…
What?
He’s lucky to have someone like you.
Like me?
Fella that knows how to keep his mouth shut.
Boone doesn’t respond.
In the living room, a middle-aged man and his younger accomplice sit in their underwear on the edge of the couch, clutching controllers, locked in a Mario Kart race on the 50-inch plasma.
A red-haired girl wearing a black negligee sits on the floor—she cuts lines of cocaine with a razor blade on an antique mirror atop the coffee table.
Betty turns to Boone:
You’ll have to wait.
The race is almost over.
You fuckin’ serious?
Relax, Mr. Burgh…
Want some coke?
No thanks.
The middle-aged man berates his defeated opponent in Mandarin and drops his controller to the ground.
I am victorious!
Nobody beats me at Mario Kart.
Betty patronizes him:
You’re the man, Ping.
That’s right—
I am the man.
He studies Boone:
This our come-down, Betty?
This is your man.
Ping glares at him:
Different guy…
Same shit as before?
Boone answers:
Same.
Why different guy?
We got lots of people.
I see.
Big operation, huh?
I really couldn’t say.
Okay, big shot—
let’s see what you got.
Boone walks over to the dining table, opens his bag, stacks the cubes in neat piles.
Ping nods:
There’s that smell.
Same shit.
So tasty…
He examines more closely:
Same shit—
100 percent.
He counts the cubes.
25.
I buy everything.
You give me deal?
They’re $50 apiece.
No deals.
No bargain for bulk, huh?
Afraid not.
Not even for Battery Park Betty?
She the legend.
Not even for her.
Betty smiles thinly:
I got no pull anymore, Ping.
Times are changin’…
Change is good.
Life is change.
Very philosophical.
Ah, it’s bullshit.
No such thing as absolute truth.
Ping flashes a roll of $50s—peels off 25. Fans them out on the tabletop.
Take your money—
Good score for you.
Boone collects the money. Ping tosses a cube to the redhead.
Hey Red—
You know how to roll a hog leg?
Sure do, Boogaloo.
Make sure you seal it with a smooch, sexy lady.
The redhead shapes her lips like a kiss and sends it Ping’s way. She cracks the cube and dumps the weed onto a tray.
Ping struts over to the couch.
Boone pockets the cash.
All right.
I’m out.
Enjoy your evening.
Ping snorts a massive line off the mirror.
Hey!
Weed man—
Don’t be a pussy.
Have some fuckin’ blow.
I’ll whip your ass at Mario Kart.
I’m cool.
I need to take off.
Suit yourself, big shot.
A rail in Ping’s other nostril.
He snarls:
Who wants to challenge Ping?!
The young man mutters something and restarts the game.
The redhead twists the beginnings of a massive joint.
Betty escorts Boone to the door.
Thanks for dealing with him.
No problem.
Sorry he cleaned you out.
I know that’s a hassle.
He didn’t clean me out.
That’s just what I showed him.
You’re gettin’ smarter…
She pokes him playfully.
I need a favor.
I’m not in the mood.
She reveals a c-note from her robe, wafts it under his nose—cocoa butter and faint musk.
A friend of mine needs a delivery.
So give ‘em a referral.
She’s at a hotel.
Hotels are off-limits.
C’mon…
She’s a filmmaker from outta town.
Doesn’t know anybody.
Sounds like a pain in my ass.
It won’t be.
She’s cute—
a real pip.
You’ll love her.
I can’t do it until after my shift.
That’s perfect.
He swipes the bill from her grasp.
What’s her name?
Zelda.
She passes him a business card:
Zelda Carradine
Filmmaker and CEO
Miss Information Industries LLC
512-555-0273
zelda@missinformation.com
She’ll be waitin’ to hear from you.