The Girl with the Phony Name by Charles Mathes Read Free Book Online Page A

are.”
    â€œNeed clever assistant.”
    â€œWell, I did go to Harvard,” Lucy muttered.
    â€œFamous American university?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOkay. You come Weehawken tomorrow at ten A.M. Thirty-two Boulevard East. Take cab, I reimburse. My name Wing. Bye-bye.”

    The line went dead.
    Lucy put down the phone and stared out at the air shaft for a long time, hoping to hear a reassuring “I can do it.” Where was Love Choo-Choo when you really needed her?
    â€œSo I puffed up my credentials a little,” she finally said to the ceiling. “So what? Everybody does it. I need the job.”
    The ceiling peeled disapprovingly. Lucy swallowed hard. Why did she feel so guilty? And what was she getting herself into?

SIX
    T he next morning, against her better judgment, Lucy Trelaine was in a cab going through the Lincoln Tunnel on her way to New Jersey.
    She had no idea where Weehawken was. Her New Hampshire bank belonged to a national network of cash machines and Lucy had withdrawn $100 at a local Irving Trust. She hoped it would be enough. As for this Mr. Wing, Lucy was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt but had a fork in her purse just in case. She hoped it would be enough, too.
    Lucy had figured on a long trip, but it took practically forty minutes just to get out of Manhattan. She had only an hour left to make it to Weehawken. Would she still be reimbursed if she showed up late?
    The cab crawled through the narrow, poorly lit tunnel. Lucy tried not to breathe or think of the billions of tons of Hudson River above their heads. The air seemed like it was almost pure carbon monoxide. She marveled at the strange state life had brought her to. As if to confirm the fact, the cabbie tilted his head back and hollered through the bullet-proof partition.
    â€œThis is Joisey. I get double fare from here.”
    Suddenly they were out of the tunnel and the sun was
shining in her eyes again. She took a deep breath; the air still smelled awful. The cabbie took the first exit. They drove up a hill onto a small residential road and stopped. Lucy’s watch said 9:05.
    â€œThat comes to twenty-nine bucks.”
    â€œThis is it?”
    â€œThirty-two Boulevard East.”
    â€œThis is Weehawken?”
    â€œYeah? So?”
    â€œWeehawken, New Jersey?”
    â€œYou mean as opposed to Weehawken, France?”
    Lucy gave the driver a six-dollar tip. She would be reimbursed. She hoped.
    Boulevard East was a quiet street at the top of the Jersey cliffs. There were large, old houses on only one side of the street and they all looked out across the Hudson River to Manhattan. Number thirty-two was a gigantic, multigabled Victorian mansion covered with decorative fretwork and topped with elaborate turrets and chimneys. The trim was white, the clapboards were blue. Stately trees grew all around. A discreet sign next to the driveway read NEAT ’N’ TIDY.
    Lucy studied the quaint architecture for a minute, trying to guess what sort of business went on behind the gingerbread walls. She was baffled, though reassured, by its appearance, which was in fact neat and tidy. One chimney was taller than the others. It was white metal, clearly not an original feature of the house. Braced with metal struts, it extended ten feet above the roof.
    Realizing that she couldn’t possibly show up an hour early, Lucy turned and started up the street. Across from the house on the cliff behind a tall iron fence was a weathered bust seated on a rock. She strained to read the inscription.

    Upon this stone rested the head of the patriot, soldier, statesman and jurist Alexander Hamilton after the duel with Aaron Burr.

    â€œGreat place to die,” said Lucy unhappily to the spectacular view of Manhattan across the river. The panorama stretched from New York harbor past the towers of the World Trade Center, all the way up the West Side to the George Washington Bridge and beyond.
    She followed the