35Steam seeped from beneath a manhole cover, wet and slimy. The smoke puffed up toward the apartment buildings and townhomes, fogging the hundreds of cubed windows in the sky.
Cecil and Ava were dropped off several blocks from Perdonna’s home.
Somehow the nights in New York City only amplified the chaos and the glamour. There were no golden stars here. It was a black, smog-lit sky. There were no singing crickets or groaning frogs. Instead, the cars honked louder. And everywhere there was marble. There was concrete. Limestone. Only a small cube of grass was allotted for anything natural, a display case for the world.
“Cecil LeClaire,” a voice yelled out. “How does a monk become president of a modeling agency in a week?”
The reporter for Glamorama, Jeremy White, appeared from behind a lo
