THE PSYCHS OF MANHATTAN Read online

  THE PSYCHS OF MANHATTAN

  A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  A novel

  By C.C. Harris

  Copyright © 2017 C.C. Harris

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design and interior formatting by Tugboat Design

  Contents

  Prologue

  1: Bite of Reality

  2: Death Wish

  3: Dissonance

  4: The Interview

  5: Occupational Identity

  6: Crystals and Nightmares

  7: Mindfulness

  8: Past Liaisons

  9: Rejection Sensitively

  10: Enjoying the Moment

  11: Missing Persons

  12: Trust

  13: Payback

  14: Nurturing Evil

  15: Cognitive Environment Therapy

  16: Ghost Whispers

  17: Dangerous Façade

  18: Picnic in the Park

  19: Comrade

  20: Bad Seed

  21: Lethal Displacement

  22: Pride

  23: The Brotherhood

  24: Cobwebs

  25: FBI

  26: The Death of a Brother

  27: New York

  28: Gas Lighting

  29: One Step Closer

  30: Propaganda

  31: Megalomania

  32: Plotting Destruction

  33: First Degree Narcissism

  34: Trigger-happy

  35: Automatic Associations

  36: Compassionate Listening

  37: Entrapment

  38: Unconditional Love

  39: Symbiotic Relationship

  40: The Poisoned Dwarf

  41: Wolf's Lair

  42: A Means to an End

  43: If Only

  44: The Human Spirit

  45: Wise Words

  46: Fear

  47: Overcoming Evil

  48: World View

  49: Guilt

  50: Vindication

  51: The Common Good

  Prologue

  The nights were the worst and Joel paced with intrusive thoughts. Emotionally and physically depressed, he feared the dark and had difficulty sleeping. His lack of sleep exacerbated his already low mood and he was consumed by feelings of emptiness.

  Now, leaving his apartment in the early morning, he was looking forward to his counseling session and was grateful for the connection with his psych, which filled a void in his life. His psych offered him a safe place, a place where he didn’t hide his true feelings.

  Joel had been sexually abused by his stepfather since he was eight years old. When his mother had told him to shut his mouth or they’d be homeless, he believed the world would be a better place without him. At fifteen, he left school and ran away from home.

  He made friends who’d also had disturbed childhoods. Getting arrested for drug use and stealing was common. Prison ended up being their home, which further screwed up their minds.

  Joel had survived life on the streets until he’d found a job and a place to live. Although his past abuse had scarred him, he was no longer trapped in a vicious cycle of depression. He had a psych who cared and didn’t charge for his counseling sessions but best of all, his psych gave him permission to cry.

  In his first few sessions with the psych, he didn’t feel entitled to have therapy, especially as there were others who were far worse off. He also feared his psych would think he was weird. Joel had laughed out of nervousness and minimized his story when he first spoke to the psych. He’d said, ‘I’m ok. I survived it. I’m not going to be weak about it and cry. I have to be strong and get over it.’

  Now, things were different, as bottling up feelings was something of the past. He stopped burning and punching himself. He knew that if it hadn’t been for his psych, he would’ve killed himself. Joel couldn’t imagine life without him.

  This morning they were going to do something different. His psych was taking Joel on a walk through Central Park for cognitive environment therapy.

  Joel arrived at his psych’s office at 9.00 am.

  ‘Hi Joel, I’m glad you could make it,’ his psych said reassuringly. ‘If you don’t want to do this I quite understand. It’s not easy trying new strategies to manage anxiety.’

  Joel didn’t want him thinking he was a quitter. ‘I’ll be fine. You know I love nature anyway, so it can’t be that hard.’

  The psych said, ‘We can take the elevator to the basement garage where there’s a quick access to Madison Avenue.’

  The elevator took less than ten seconds to descend and its doors opened to the eerie basement. The sound of dripping water echoed off the walls as Joel inhaled the moldy odors. A chill ran up his spine.

  Joel turned to face his psych but there was something wrong. He froze with fear. His cell fell to the ground.

  He felt the blade of a knife on his neck.

  ‘What are you doing? I don’t want to die, please don’t hurt me.’ Joel’s words were barely audible, blurred by his sobbing. Now he was gulping for breath.

  ‘I can hear that you hyperventilate when you’re scared, Joel. Some people just don’t understand this world and unfortunately, you’re one of them. Remember what we’ve discussed, Joel? Life is a journey. You are going to experience exactly that. You’re going on a trip to be a special gift to a close friend of mine. He likes boys. Look on the positive side, Joel, your therapy has finished, and you have achieved your goal. You’ve let go of your fear and trusted the process. You reached your true potential and self-actualized. Well done, Joel,’ he laughed.

  Joel’s world began to spin, and he collapsed as he realized the sinister reality.

  A van was waiting with its doors open. The psych placed Joel in a metal box recessed into the floor of the van. There were enough holes in the box to keep his client alive until he reached his destination. The doctor gave a signal and the van disappeared up the ramp and out of sight.

  Easy job, the psych thought smugly. No cameras, no one around, and easy access to the van.

  He considered himself the best hunter in New York. It was a similar feeling to winning poker. His adrenalin surged as he enjoyed the thrill. Another client outsourced, another contract completed. Today he was going to celebrate his success and enjoy a well-deserved lunch.

  ONE

  Bite of Reality

  I struggled to understand how I’d managed to ruin my life because of one bad decision. My client’s money had disappeared and so had my penthouse apartment, yearly vacations, and entry to the best restaurants.

  I’d risked everything to make millions and rub shoulders with Wall Street’s bigwigs.

  It all began with my colleague, Jimmy Martin. Jimmy was the top financier in the firm and he had the largest office, boasting a panoramic view of Lower Manhattan and the harbor. His success was nauseating. Don’t get me wrong, I was earning a comfortable income, but comfortable meant boredom. I was bored with my job and bored with myself. Boredom was killing me.

  I’d decided to invest the Russian mafia’s dirty money in a biotech company that seemed rock solid. They’d offered me cash in hand as a bonus, so I couldn’t resist. With some creative accounting I covered up their identity, and even invested my own money in what I was told was a sure winner. I’d felt a buzz dreaming of the millions I was going to make.

  How wrong I was! Two months later, the biotech compa
ny director was found cooking the books and he disappeared, along with his company’s money. Not only had I lost my money, I’d also lost $400,000 of the mafia’s money.

  To make matters worse, the investment I’d picked wasn’t in penny shares. It’d taken me weeks to research the company. In the end, no amount of research could have provided information on the ethics of a director. The director is now declared missing with a few extra million in his pocket, and I am declared running for my life. Fuckin’ bastard.

  In my childhood, the parents of my Russian buddies had worn their fingers to the bone to give their kids a better life. Their doors were open to anyone who wanted to share their family’s Sunday lunch and a swig of vodka. I couldn’t understand why I’d taken the risk and associated with the one percent of Russians who were thugs conducting community terrorism. I knew one thing. I wouldn’t be invited anytime soon to their family lunch.

  Jimmy’s words rotated like a razor in my gut. ‘Curtis…correct me if I’m wrong. Rumor has it you made a deal with the devil and lost. I’ve heard the Russians are coming, and they’re coming for you.’

  ‘I didn’t make any deal; the director stole his company’s money. He gave himself a nice retirement package and…skipped the country.’ There was nothing else I could say to the slimy asshole without sounding like a complete dropkick. I felt like a child facing the school principal and justifying insolent behavior.

  He gave me a last verbal souvenir. ‘Good luck…keeping alive. They’ve survived a violent history and they have a ruthless leader. Brutality is in their genes so don’t expect them to email you a friendly reminder. From what I’ve heard, the Russian’s dirty money is synonymous with America’s political corruption and they’re back to using nerve agents they like to call fertilizer. I wouldn’t stick around here. You’ve lost the wrong guy’s money, Curtis. Sorry…wish I could help.’

  Fuckin’ asshole. Why did he state the obvious and give me some fuckin’ history lesson? What a dick. As if I didn’t know. But he was right. I knew I was a dead man walking.

  The partner of the firm called me into his office. He locked the door and handed me a bottle of bourbon and a gun along with ammo. It seemed he cared, until he told me to get the fuck out of his office before they all got killed.

  I had to get out of Wall Street fast. With a gun in my briefcase and hugging my laptop, I ran to my apartment in record time, entering it as if I was robbing the joint. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ I yelled as I ran from room to room and stuffed as much as I could into a gym bag. I grabbed a knife and my bourbon. I was running for the door when I suddenly froze. ‘Jesus, my cell charger!’ I dashed back to my bedroom, ripped the charger from the wall plug, and bolted from the apartment, slamming the door on my privileged world.

  I waited at the elevator, pacing back and forth. It was the longest wait of my life. I heard it approach and hid behind the slightly open stairwell door. As the elevator doors opened, my fear was justified.

  ‘What’s his apartment number?’

  ‘He lives at the end in 418.’

  ‘We’d better do this job right or we’ll be shark bait.’

  As they disappeared, I jumped into the elevator.

  Once the doors closed, I realized the elevator wasn’t going down, it was going up. I was going to be a sitting duck. ‘Fuck no!’

  As the elevator descended, it stopped at several floors. I was gradually pushed towards the back as people entered. Jesus, whacked in an elevator. This was not how I wanted my life to end. I was sure my desperation was visible.

  Sweat trickled down my back as the elevator doors opened on my floor. The two men entered and turned to face the doors. One was dumpy and looked like he should be running a Russian food store, and the other was tall and skinny. They didn’t match their sophisticated suits. Fuckin’ sewer rats, I thought.

  Once the elevator doors opened to the lobby, they walked out, none the wiser.

  Calling the cops was not an option. Money laundering and insider trading would give me a first-class ticket to prison.

  I jumped on a bus to Brooklyn, which gave me enough time to ring several landlords advertising apartment rentals.

  I was in luck. One landlord gave me immediate tenancy if I had a week’s cash up front. I guessed the apartment wasn’t flash.

  Poverty was the very thing I feared and yet here I was heading for some dingy one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. My day had started with a relaxed hot shower, the usual cup of coffee, and checking my emails. It ended escaping hitmen and wondering why the fuck I’d dealt with the Russians.

  Fifty minutes later, the bus was on Lewis Avenue. I gazed out the window knowing I’d lost everything in the absence of a stock market crash. My finances sucked dry by a company rogue.

  The bus screeched to a halt. I stood up, hoping I’d wake up from some crazy nightmare, but instead I heard a voice yell, ‘Don’t just stand there! Are you getting off or not?’

  I reluctantly left the bus and walked onto Lewis. It was only a minute’s walk to the apartment block.

  Inside, a middle-aged woman approached.

  ‘You Curtis Carter?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I need one week’s rent. My husband will see you later to discuss your rental agreement.’

  I handed over the rent and took the keys.

  TWO

  Death Wish

  As I opened the apartment door, I was welcomed by yellowish-brown walls. It looked and smelt like a public restroom. I collapsed on the bed with my bourbon.

  Nothing made sense. My thoughts were foggy, and I imagined crawling into a dark hole.

  I’d taken a risk and the red flag had been flying high. I’d totally fucked things up.

  As I loaded my gun, I thought how easy it would be to kill the feeling. That way, the Russians would be off my back and I wouldn’t have to keep running. Suicide was an easy solution.

  The probability of killing myself was a nine out of ten, ten being the trip to the local morgue.

  I imagined the pop of a gun and the pieces of my intellect hanging off the wall while a cop yelled at his rookies, ‘Hurry up with the body bag! I’ve got dinner tonight at the Sheraton!’

  I pushed the barrel to the roof of my mouth and felt its coolness resting on my tongue, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.

  I laughed at my dilemma, a laugh that bordered on a cry. I didn’t have the guts to extinguish myself. Being a coward saved my life. Killing the feeling was one thing but killing myself wasn’t going to happen.

  I’d given up smoking years before but now the thought of a cigarette was irresistible. I didn’t give a fuck about my lungs. My form of self-harm was in a packet.

  After smoking and staring at the ceiling for an hour, I managed to crawl off the bed. Standing up was an effort.

  Emails and messages were constantly beeping on my cell: from a former colleague, the dry cleaner’s, an update on the latest trading, and confirmation of my restaurant bookings for the month.

  I turned on the shower and leaned forward until my head was immersed under the cool spray. My life had turned to shit, and I felt like shit. Time stood still until I heard a thumping on the apartment door.

  ‘Open up! It’s the apartment manager!’ a voice yelled.

  ‘Coming!’ The last thing I needed was to piss this guy off.

  I opened the door to see an overhanging beer gut and bits of food on a scraggy moustache.

  ‘Yes?’ I asked.

  ‘What the fuck happened to you? Why are you in a suit and dripping wet? You better not be doing any weird stuff in this apartment or you can get the fuck out.’

  ‘You see…I…um…sleepwalk and this time I ended up in the shower.’

  His expression was fixed as his stubby finger pointed at my chest. ‘I don’t want any problems around here. I manage this place and it’s a shithole, so I don’t need any more shits to deal with. Got it?’

  ‘Sure. I understand,’ I replied.

  ‘I want one m
onth’s rent in advance by the end of the week or you’re out.’

  It was a relief to see the fat man waddle off. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. As I closed the door, a roach scuttled across the wall.

  I had to find work, and fast. This guy would be in my face again if I didn’t cough up the cash. He had my balls in a vice.

  I changed my clothes, strapped my gun to my ankle, grabbed my cell and laptop, and escaped my roach palace. It was already 4.00 pm and I was hungry as hell.

  Walking along Lewis, everyone looked suspicious, from the newspaper vendor to the little old lady stooped over with a walking stick. I trusted no one and suspected everyone. I headed for the nearest diner. At least Brooklyn had plenty of places to eat and the food was cheap. The chilly day gripped my neck. I pulled up my coat collar and joined Brooklyn’s pace.

  Walking the streets brought back memories. My parents had worked in the local church when I was a kid and they had helped the homeless. They were compassionate, the ideal community role models. I could still hear my mom’s voice: ‘Curtis, if your kind to others the good spirits will be kind to you.’

  I’d been a shithead, so any spiritual power around the universe wasn’t going to tap me on the shoulder too soon. I wondered why I didn’t possess my mom’s kindness. My moral compass was non-existent. Are my actions being jabbed with a sharp syringe called payback?

  To survive, I had to be mindful of every noise, sight, and smell. I was no longer on a dinner invite but on a mafia hit list.

  I soon found a diner on Lewis with Wi-Fi. It gave me a chance to grab a bite to eat and search for jobs. I also scanned the latest news. The headlines read: ‘Drug doping in sport’; ‘Politicians offshore money laundering and secret bank accounts.’ Life could be worse, I thought. My name could be exposed. ‘Wall Street financier, Curtis Carter, suspected of insider trading and money laundering for the Russian mafia.’

  Feeling temporarily relieved, I searched for jobs online, made a few phone calls, and scored two job interviews. It was then a pretty waitress caught my eye. I resisted a smile. I didn’t need anyone. I only had enough energy to keep myself alive.