“I knew New York was going to be crowded, but this is ridiculous.” Mollie shoved her way out of the subway car, pushing aside a group of rowdy grade-school kids, two old ladies, and a tall man carrying a tape deck.
“Did you say something?” Johnny asked as the subway doors closed and the train pulled out of the station.
Mollie put her hands over her ears to block out the screeching of the wheels on the track. “Let’s get out of here!” She and Johnny walked up to street level, and Mollie took a breath of fresh—well, not exactly fresh—air. “Which direction is the Whistler Agency?”
“It’s a block uptown from here.” Johnny started walking up the street, and Mollie followed him. It was hard, walking around in high heels, but she’d wanted to make sure she looked nice enough to pass for Bitsy. She’d spent an extra half hour doing her makeup that morning—she usually only wore eyeliner, and she felt like a clown. “Here it is,” Johnny said as they stepped into the fancy lobby of a skyscraper.
“It looks deserted,” Mollie said, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
“It’s Saturday,” Johnny reminded her.
“Excuse me,” said a security guard sitting at a desk covered with miniature television screens. “Where are you going?”
“The Whistler Agency,” Mollie said, giving him her biggest smile. “I’m here for the photo shoot they’re having this weekend.”
The guard nodded. “Sixteenth floor. Sign in here.” He handed her a clipboard.
Mollie wrote her name down, Bitsy Carlisle, then handed the pen to Johnny. She watched as he wrote Arthur Smith. “Arthur?” she whispered as they waited for the elevator. “Where did you come up with a name like that?”
Johnny frowned. “It’s my middle name, but if you tell anyone, you’re dead.”
“Arthur?” Mollie smiled. “So am I supposed to call you Art? Artie?”
The elevator door opened and they stepped in. “Call me whatever you want, just don’t use my real name,” Johnny said.
“Okay, Prince. Don’t forget—everything we say in this elevator is being taped,” Mollie said, barely moving her lips.
“Nice trick. You’ll have to do your ventriloquist act for the school talent show,” Johnny said. “What’s your middle name?”
“Never mind,” Mollie said. It was Snow, and she hated how flaky it made her sound, even though her parents said it had been the maiden name of her great-great-grandmother. The elevator stopped and the doors opened, revealing a massive office suite with large indoor trees, black leather furniture, and brightly colored paintings on the walls.
The receptionist’s desk was so big, it looked like a fortress. Behind it sat a petite woman with dark brown hair, who peered up at them. “Yes?”
“I’m Bitsy Carlisle,” Mollie said. “I’m here for the sisters shoot.”
“Just a moment, please.” The receptionist paged Eleanor, and Mollie could hear her reply over the intercom, “She is?” A moment later a tall, middle-aged woman came out to the reception area. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and, if Mollie’s guess wasn’t wrong, she’d had at least one face lift and possibly some other cosmetic surgery.
“Bitsy Carlisle?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I’m Bitsy,” Mollie said. She pitied anyone who had to go through life introducing herself with that name.
“Eleanor Whistler.” She shook Mollie’s hand. “And you are?” she asked Johnny.
“Arthur Smith,” Johnny said. “The boyfriend.”
“I see.” Eleanor stared at Mollie for a minute. “I thought you couldn’t come. That’s what the San Francisco office told us.”
“My mother decided at the last minute that it was okay. I hope that’s all right,” Mollie said.
“It would be perfectly lovely, only your sister seems to have fallen off the face of the earth.” Eleanor frowned. “We have a private investigator looking for her in Nepal, but with our luck she’s probably decided to climb Mount Everest. Well, come on back and we’ll have a look at you.”
“Can, uh, my boyfriend come?” Mollie asked.
“I suppose, as long as he doesn’t get in the way.” Eleanor turned to Johnny. “Actually, I might have Tomas take some proofs of you. You have an unusually strong face.”
“You don’t say,” Johnny replied.
Mollie elbowed him, and they followed Eleanor down a wide hall to a large office on the right.
“Tomas, would you get me a cup of tea,” Eleanor said. “Cosy Cranberry, please.”
“Right away.” A young man dashed out of the office. It was a huge room, with tall windows, white screens, a few cameras on tripods, and several makeup mirrors.
A woman with short auburn hair walked in. “I heard Bitsy Carlisle was here,” she said. She scrutinized Mollie. “Are you Bitsy?”
Mollie nodded.
“This is Parker Davies, the photo editor at Femme magazine. She’s here to look at the girls who’ll be in the shoot tomorrow evening. We’ll be doing candid shots at a loft party in SoHo.” Eleanor sat at a desk and picked up a clipboard. “It says here that you’re a size seven, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Mollie said.
“You know, it just goes to show you that genes do strange things.” Parker walked around Mollie, making a complete circle. “I’d hardly believe Kathy was your sister if I didn’t know it.”
“There’s some strong resemblance in the eyes,” Eleanor mused.
“Yes, but the body!” Parker looked horrified. “If Kathy was this short—”
“I’m five six,” Mollie said.
“Exactly,” Parker said. “Well, I’m sure you have some other career in mind. How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” Mollie said.
Parker nodded. “I suppose Andrew will be able to do something with you. You need to go down to his studio and have them make you over. All the clothes and stylists are down there, too. They’ll pick out your outfit for tomorrow night.”
Johnny started to walk toward the door, but Parker stepped in front of him. “And who are you?” she asked.
“He’s my boyfriend,” Mollie said. “Arthur.”
“Arthur, have you ever modeled?” Parker reached out and touched Johnny’s long black hair. “Beautiful hair. Good eyes, too.”
“You want to check my teeth?” Johnny pulled back his lips. “Or maybe I should run a few laps for you.”
“We could find a lot of work for you,” Eleanor said. “It pays very well, you know.”
“We have a men’s fashion magazine that’s just dying for some fresh faces,” Parker added.
“I’ll sleep on it,” Johnny said. “Are you ready, M—Bitsy?”
“You think about it.” Eleanor handed him one of her business cards.
Johnny shoved the card in his pocket. “Sure.”
“Here’s the address of the photography studio,” Parker said. “You’d better go down now. I don’t know how long it’ll take for them to work on you.”
Mollie felt like punching her. Since when was she such a dog?
“And if you hear from that sister of yours, tell us right away,” Eleanor said. “I might have to hold her in breach of contract.”
Mollie nodded. As if Kathy Carlisle would be calling her!
“This is the worst project I have ever worked on,” Parker complained. “We were shooting all last weekend, and now we have to work this weekend, too. It’s simply dreadful.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Johnny said.
“Just a second. Excuse me,” Mollie said to the receptionist on their way out. “We’re going to need to hire a limo tonight. We’re going to a big party. Do you know the name of a place we could call?”
“Sure, there’s a company we use all the time.” The receptionist jotted a name and address down on a slip of paper and handed it to Mollie.
“Thanks,” Mollie said. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Frances. Everyone calls me Fran.”
“Well, thanks, Fran.”
Mollie and Johnny were waiting for the elevator when a short man—a dwarf—dressed in black from head to toe walked past them. His hair was slicked back—a trend in the modeling business, Mollie noticed—and he had a goatee.
“Who was that?” Mollie asked Fran. “He looks familiar.”
“That’s Moeller. He runs the modeling shows,” Fran replied. “He arranges everything, makes sure everyone’s on time, helps do up zippers—”
“They let him in the dressing room?” Mollie asked.
Fran nodded. “I don’t think he’s interested in women, or men for that matter, if you know what I mean. He has more of a reputation for … well, I shouldn’t say anything.”
“Come on,” Mollie said. “I’m just visiting from California. It won’t matter if I know.”
“Revenge. He has a reputation for revenge,” Fran said.
“Meaning?” Mollie asked.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen him ruin a few people’s careers.” Fran snapped her fingers. At that exact moment, the elevator door opened.
“Nice trick,” Johnny said.
“Thanks for talking with me, Fran,” Mollie said. They boarded the elevator, and Johnny pressed L. The doors were just about to close when someone stuck a black umbrella in between them and wedged them open again.
“Pardon me,” Moeller said, stepping into the elevator.
Instead of turning around and facing the front of the car, he continued to stand facing Johnny and Mollie. He stared into Mollie’s face and grinned. Then he shifted his head slightly—he had to look up a lot more, since Johnny was six one—and stared at Johnny for a full fifteen seconds.
“Do you mind?” Johnny said.
“Not at all,” Moeller replied. He turned around to face forward. Mollie heard him chuckle softly to himself, and she looked at Johnny and shrugged.
Johnny pulled a matchbook out of one pocket and a pen out of the other. He wrote something on the matchbook cover, then tore it off quietly and gave it to Mollie. “Meet me at my cousin’s at seven. I’ll follow laughing boy,” it said.
“Be careful,” she whispered to Johnny as they got out on the ground floor, keeping a few paces behind Moeller.
“You, too,” said Johnny. “Don’t buy any phony watches on the street.”
“What do you think I am, gullible or something?” Mollie turned to walk downtown to Andrew Janowitz’s studio.
“Or something,” Johnny said.