Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6) Read online

  EMERGENCY EXIT

  GERALD HANSEN

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  EMERGENCY EXIT

  First edition. May 29, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Gerald Hansen.

  ISBN: 978-1386560661

  Written by Gerald Hansen.

  Also by Gerald Hansen

  The Irish Lottery Series

  An Embarrassment of Riches

  Hand in the Till

  Emergency Exit

  Watch for more at Gerald Hansen’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Gerald Hansen

  Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series, #6)

  PART ONE | CAREER ALTERNATIVES FOR THE DISENCHANTED FLIGHT ATTENDANT

  Excerpt from Gretchen Barnett's MPPI-3 Psychological Assessment Exam, completed for admission to the New York Police Department:

  CHAPTER ONE TWO YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER TWO NOW

  CHAPTER THREE TWO YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER FOUR NOW

  CHAPTER FIVE ONE AND A HALF YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER SIX FOURTEEN MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER SEVEN NOW

  CHAPTER EIGHT ELEVEN MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER EIGHT PART TWO NINE MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER NINE NOW

  TWO HOURS LATER

  PART TWO | LIKE A PASSENGER IN 2A

  Excerpt from Gretchen Barnett's MPPI-3 Psychological Assessment Exam, completed for admission to the New York Police Department:

  CHAPTER TEN SIX MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER 11 NOW

  CHAPTER 12 FIVE MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER 13 NOW

  CHAPTER 14 FIVE MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER 15 NOW

  CHAPTER 16 TWO MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER 17 NOW

  CHAPTER 18 A FEW WEEKS LATER

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20 THREE MONTHS LATER

  THE END

  Further Reading: An Embarrassment of Riches

  Also By Gerald Hansen

  About the Author

  Mint Books

  New York

  EMERGENCY EXIT

  Gerald Hansen

  Copyright © Gerald Hansen 2017

  Published by Mint Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Also by Gerald Hansen

  The Irish Lottery Series:

  An Embarrassment of Riches

  Hand In The Till

  Fleeing The Jurisdiction

  Best Served Frozen

  Static Cling

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s sort of impossible to write a book without help. I’m so grateful to those who helped me on this journey. And, thanks to the incredible generosity of six amazing people, writing this book became an exciting adventure in Sao Paulo and the city of Macapa, on the edge of the Amazon. I still can’t believe your kindness, and I’ve dedicated this book to you. Lawrence Martinetion, Cassio Brasil, and the Ferreira family, I hope I can return the favor some day. And what would I do without my lovely mentor Maddie? Your pearls of wisdom are always spot on and have saved me from many a horrible scene and/or paragraph. Maddie, I could never have done it without you! Thanks so much from the bottom of my heart! For fashion tips, thanks to the wonderful Ross Erin Martineau. For ‘luxury’ tips, I went to the luxury man himself, Chingiz Akchurin. Thanks to Sena Griffin and Elizabeth Cooke for help with the title. Kassandra Archer for her hair, Ben Dimond for his facial hair, and Bianca Martinez for being herself. Olga Bichko and Matt Scully gave me hilarious lines which I begged to put into the book. Writer supreme Mark Gondelman was so helpful to me, and I can’t wait for your masterpiece to see the light of day.

  I remember being alone in Sao Paulo one sultry (of course) night, and needing help from friends about a part of the book. Thanks to Facebook, there were plenty of suggestions which not only helped the book, but made me feel a bit less lonely. Thanks to Leslie Herbert, Colleen Reeves, Pam Baker, Mark Goodkin, Jennifer Prevete, Kevin Hunt, Heather Greer and Thomas Viola for that evening. Special thanks to Jeffery Peeno, who ‘won’ the competition, but sadly the story had to be left out. Please don’t hate me too much (I’m sure I can slip it into another book). Maciej Rumprecht, as usual, gets a mention for his continued support. To my photographer supreme, Marcin Kaliski, thanks for making me look half decent; I know it’s difficult, ha! Marco Maldera, thanks for the fantastic new direction with the book cover; you’re great! Jennifer Belle, you are amazing, and I thank you so much for your advice. And Antonella Iannarino...what on earth would I do without you? You’ve given me hope! And I am so grateful to you for that! Thanks so much for loving what I do. Thanks, as always, to everyone at the Olive Tree Cafe and Comedy Cellar (especially Colin Quinn for his continued support), and Manhattan Language, NYC.

  And, of course, thanks to everyone who got this book! Without readers, and without my loyal fans, where would I be?

  PART ONE

  CAREER ALTERNATIVES FOR THE DISENCHANTED FLIGHT ATTENDANT

  Excerpt from Gretchen Barnett's MPPI-3 Psychological Assessment Exam, completed for admission to the New York Police Department:

  365. MY MOTHER AND FATHER are good people. True

  366. My feet and hands usually feel warm. True

  367. My daily life is full of things that keep me interested. True

  368. I enjoy reading mechanics magazines. False

  369. I often daydream about being a pop star. False

  370. I am just as athletic as most of my friends. True

  371. I am frequently the life of the party. True

  372. My parents raised me right. True

  373. As a youngster, I engaged in petty criminal activity. True

  374. I have never been in trouble because of my sexual behavior. False

  375. Sometimes I feel like cursing. True

  376. I am very strongly attracted to members of my own sex. False

  377. Fire fascinates me. False

  378. I get angry sometimes. True

  379. I have not lived the right kind of life. False

  380. My sleep is often fitful and disturbed. True

  381. I often suffer from constipation. False

  382. I fear that someday alien beings will take over our planet. False

  383. I see things or animals or people around me that others cannot see. False

  384. Everything is turning out just as the prophets of the Bible said it would. False

  385. I feel like smashing things occasionally. True

  386. Evil spirits possess me at times. False

  387. I always tell the truth. False

  388. My sex life is satisfactory.

  CHAPTER ONE TWO YEARS AGO

  IT WOULD NEVER HAVE happened, never begun, if she'd been carrying a different purse. How different things would be now if only she'd chosen her magenta Tory Burch hobo handbag, an actual one, the black quilted Chanel clutch, knockoff, or even her Louis Vuitton bowler bag, irregular, as she was leaving her apartment in Williamsburg that spring day. But she hadn't.

  Gretchen Barnett wea
ved through the throngs of New York's Union Square, the gawping tourists, the hustlers, the skateboarders, the invalids from the local hospital with their canes and casts, the homeless with their carts, the drug dealers, the NYU students, the Hispanic families who seemed to travel in caravan-like hordes, the shoppers, the hipsters, the hip-hoppers, the men in suits, the butch girls, the mincing boys, the people smiling and waving at her as if they knew her but only wanted her to sign a petition and give a donation, the gangs of pimply teens and, Gretchen was surprised to see, a nun.

  She herself was one of the shoppers, and heading for a cup of chamomile tea at one of the many Starbucks that ringed the square. She hauled a Burlington Coat Factory shopping bag in her right hand. It was stuffed with discount emergency underwear and high-end toiletries that were going cheap because their bottles were sticky or cracked. Her beige 'Michael Kors' cross-body satchel, with the chunky gym-locker type lock, was slung over her shoulder. She had chosen it because she thought it matched her blue halter dress with daisies. The satchel bulged, spindly strap straining, as she had shoved too much inside, but you never knew what you might need on a day out.

  The sun was shining and she was happy. It was a rare day off work, a very rare day. Gretchen seldom had the chance to live in the city she actually lived in, spend some quality time there. And who, out of all the 8.5 million people in the city, would she happen to spy in the crowded square during her 'my time,' but Sam. She clutched her throat. Stood frozen. Horrified.

  There he slouched, next to the halal food cart across from the Starbucks door, staring down at his phone. Her ex-boyfriend. With his three day growth and his matted no-color hair and his beer gut straining the Raiders t-shirt she had seen far too many times. The man responsible for the misery of her life right now, and responsible for her current 'look.'

  Gretchen had always worn with pride her naturally curly red hair, hair inherited from her mother Ursula; had spent a lifetime, 28 years, feeling it bouncing, cascading around her freckled face, a field of deep copper with shimmering bronze highlights, always at the receiving end of compliments and jealous dirty looks. Sam had begged her to straighten it, just to see what it looked like. Kowtowing to his strange desires, she had gotten it professionally relaxed, straightened, and now it hung, though still deep copper and bronze, like damp curtains. Long straight bangs above her oversized black-framed glasses gave her a modern look, she supposed, but she was counting down the days, months, until it grew out, until she could feel the comfort of her curls and look proudly into a mirror again. She, or her hair, in any event, had always been traditional Irish farm girl, but now there seemed an edge to her, a look that said the farm girl has moved to New York and discovered uppers, alternative music and bad men. She had, it's true, but that had been a decade ago, and she had tamed down since then, grown up. Though still the bad men lingered. Like Sam. But coercing her to change her hair wasn't the worst thing Sam had done.

  Gretchen scurried behind the stall selling cheap sunglasses, phone covers and dodgy-looking pashminas, thankful the vendor was fat. Hopefully, his bulk would shield her, hide her. But, no.

  As if he were a drone and she a terrorist, Sam's head snapped up and he stared directly at her, as if he had implanted a chip in her, her coordinates always available on some app on his phone. He smiled, delighted shock. Gretchen's heart sank.

  “Gretchen!” he called out, frat-house cheery. Cheer was the last thing she felt. Her scalp tightened, her stomach clenched. She couldn't ignore him, pretend she was someone else. But there was no need to be friendly. She still hated who she was now because of him.

  He rushed around the stall and came up to her. “Wow! How long has it been?”

  “Not long enough,” she sniped. Gone were her thoughts of a tea at Starbucks. Two doors away was the corner, and around that the entrance to the subway. “Please, Sam. Let's not do this. I'm late for an appointment.”

  She raced down the sidewalk, willing him to disappear. He didn't. He followed her like a puppy eager for love. He wouldn't get it from her. Not any more.

  “Aw, that's no way to be,” he said, arms spread out, one before her, one behind, as if to capture a butterfly, trap her once again. “Hey, come on. Gretchen! Let's talk.”

  “I still can't forgive you,” she said stiffly, lips crimped, unwilling, unable to look at him, staring ahead as startled people parted on the sidewalk before her, a woman on a mission. To escape. “Do you realize what hell you've made of my life? What hell my life is now? And all because of that damn alarm clock. You just had to turn it off, didn't you? And because you did, I'll be forced to live like this for five more years, with the constant abuse, an inhumane boss to answer to, derided and pitied by everyone. And no chance of it changing any time soon. Five more years of torture! Because of you.”

  He was panting with the effort of keeping up with her. Gretchen hated how he had made her seem unreasonable, full of anger to all those around. She wasn't usually.

  “Come on!” Sam said, an unappealing whine to his voice now. “Gimme a break! Anybody coulda done it.”

  “Anybody didn't do it. You did.”

  “Let me at least carry your shopping. It looks heavy.”

  It weighed a ton, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  “Get your hands off it,” she said, smacking them away. “And get away from me. Do you want me to yell?”

  “Gretchie-baby!” Sam implored, hot on her heels as she stepped onto the empty escalator. “Gimme another chance! I'm going crazy without you.”

  Gretchen was clomping down the moving steps, but now she whipped around and yelled up at the chins which towered over her, “And I'm going crazy because of you! You...you...asshole!”

  Sam jerked back in alarm, staggered, then toppled forward. Gretchen gripped the handrail as his hands flew down for support. Only four steps to the bottom. She screamed as he snatched the strap of her purse and fell against her. The shopping bag tumbled to Gretchen's shoes. The teeth of the steps snatched the bag and gobbled it up, her underwear and the bottles shooting out past the last step, across the bottom platform and out onto the entrance of the subway lobby beyond. Sam still clung to the strap of her handbag, and it snapped, whipping through the air, cracking Gretchen in the face, then back down. Where it disappeared in the crack between the churning steps and the escalator side.

  “My purse!” Gretchen wailed as it whipped through her fingers. The machinery gargled and burped. Gretchen was flung past her purse and the steps and onto the concrete, palms stinging. Sam plunged after her. Both splayed across a floor littered with old metro cards and strange stains and Gretchen's new panties. Her purse whizzed across the bottom platform of the steps that now convulsed strangely, her purse grinding again and again against the bottom teeth, lipsticks and tissues and money and pens spewing out, the lock clanging as it smacked against metal.

  “You fool! Look what you did!” Gretchen's voice echoed in the din of the subway. Heads in the Metrocard machine lines turned like periscopes.

  Passing girlfriends held their boyfriends tighter and flashed her superior looks. Nobody cared to intervene. Gretchen scrabbled through the field of conditioners and shower gels. She reached out for her shuddering, mangled purse, which was still being attacked by the teeth of the escalator. She finally noticed the massive red EMERGENCY STOP button and pressed it. The machinery shuddered to a stop. And as Sam, wincing and clutching his leg, lumbered over to, she supposed, offer help there was no way in hell she would accept, and as she tugged at her purse and yelled at him, “Just stay away! Stay away from me!” down the still escalator bounded a sharply dressed man.

  “Leave her alone!” he yelled at Sam, leaping past Gretchen and positioning himself between the two. “Get away from her! She asked you to! More than once.”

  Alpha Sam's face of concern hardened, offended. King of the jungle provoked.

  “And just who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.

  “Someone who respects w
omen. Unlike you.”

  Gretchen, her head turned from her purse for a moment, saw Sam's puce face, the veins throbbing on his forehead, the clench of his hands into fists.

  “You trying to tell me how to treat my girl?”

  “I'm not your girl!” Gretchen yelled.

  “You heard her,” the stranger said. “Get lost.”

  Now a crowd had formed, including a woman with three children shoved in a stroller, all of whom were licking on popsicles like this was the afternoon's entertainment. Sam must have realized most were eyeing him with disapproval, that he was on the losing team.

  “Ah, who gives a shit anyway,” he said, hands up in surrender. “You can have the bitch if you want her. Not that you look like you'd want her. You look like a goddamn wop fairy.”

  Sam shoved through the crowd, bumping as many shoulders as he could, and Gretchen thought How did I ever put up with him for so long? How did I not see it? The crowd dispersed, a few spectators on the fringes scooping up the freebies on display, the underwear and toiletries.

  “Let me help you,” the stranger said, hunching down next to Gretchen and gathering together her belongings. He was about her age, slender and handsome, rather like Johnny Depp, and was wearing a Beatles-type shiny gray suit, had his black hair slicked back with the part on the right, and a soul patch. She would have said 'stylish' rather than 'a fairy.' This man would never own a Raider's t-shirt, she was sure. And that made her happy. “I think you won't be able to pull that purse free without maintenance being here. I think they're going to have to dismantle the escalator to get it out.”

  Halfway up the steps, Gretchen saw remnants of her shopping bag. She looked around the floor for her purchases and gathered them up. Most of those remaining were covered in shoe prints.

  “I'm sure I bought more than this,” she said, puzzled, clutching three bras, some black leggings, a cracked Eternity and two bottles of shampoo. The stranger had made a mound of the things from her purse.