by Ed McBain
"None at all," he said, and returned her smile.
"So look at me," she said. I He looked at her.
"Well?"
"You changed your coat."
"This is my best coat. I only wear it on very special occasions. The collar is genuine fitch."
"What's fitch?"
"An animal."
"I know that, but"
"You've never heard of rat fitch?"
"No."
"It's a close relative to rat fink. There are millions of rat finks in this city, but only very few rat fitches. One of them voluntarily donated his life to make a collar for my coat. Stunning, isn't it?"
"Stunning."
"Also, look." She unbuttoned the coat and held it open, her arms widespread. She was wearing a black skirt and a V-necked black sweater cut very low over her breasts. A string of tiny pearls circled her throat, startling white against her dark skin. "Very sexy number, huh?" she said.
"Very sexy."
"Also," she said, and winked, "black bra underneath. Men like black bras, huh?"
"Yes."
"Now, if you don't mind, I'll close the coat before I freeze everything I own, you don't mind, huh?" She closed the coat and buttoned it. "Brrrr, my hands are freezing." She put her left hand into the pocket of her coat, and then entwined the fingers of her right hand in his, and put both their hands into the pocket of his coat. "There," she said, "nice and cozy and warm, I can't stop talking, what the hell is it about you?"
"I'm a good listener," he said, "that's what it is."
"Yeah, how come?"
"In my house, I listen all the time."
"To who?"
"My mother."
"Mmm, mothers, don't talk about mothers. You should hear the lecture I got this afternoon."
"About what?"
"About you, what do you think?"
"Why?"
"Man, you de white man. You Mr. Charlie." Amelia giggled.
"Is that what Mr. Charlie is?"
"Well, sure. You Mr. Charlie, and you de ofay, and you sometimes just De Man, although De Man is also sometimes a plain old pusher, but he usually a white man, too, so I guess you synonymous, is that de word, man?"
"I don't know."
"It went on for hours, I thought she'd never stop."
"Is that why you couldn't make it at three-thirty?"
"That's why. She had my brother come over to talk to me. He's married and has two kids, and he drives a cab. So she called his garage and asked them to tell him to call his mother as soon as he checked in. He doesn't check in 'til about four, so I knew I'd be stuck there 'til at least a quarter after, his garage is on Twentieth, near the river. Anyway, he got to the house at twenty-five after, and I talked to him for about three seconds flat and then left."
"What'd he say?"
"He said, 'Amelia, you are out of your head.'"
"What did you say?"
"I said, 'Louis, go to hell.'"
"And then what?"
"He said if he caught us together he would cut off your balls."
"Will he really?"
"Louis is a fat happy cab driver who wouldn't know where to find your balls because he hasn't had any of his own since the day he married Mercedes in 1953, do you mind my talking this way?"
"What way?"
"Well, I swear a lot, I guess. Although, actually, I'm only repeating what my brother said. Anyway, I told him to go to hell again, and I walked out."
"I don't mind," Roger said.
"What do you mean?"
"Your swearing a lot." He paused. "We never swear in our house. My mother's pretty strict about that."
"Well, the hell with mothers, huh?" she said.
He felt a momentary spark of anger, and then he simply nodded. "What would you like to do?" he asked.
"Walk a little. I love snow. It makes me stand out."
"You stand out anyway," he said.
"Do I?"
"Yes."
"You say very sweet things, sweet-talker. Mother warned me. Oops, excuse me, we're not supposed to talk about mothers."
"Where would you like to walk?"
"Any place, who cares?"
He didn't like the way Amelia said that, but he told himself not to get angry. She was, after all, allowing him to assume the responsibility. She was saying she would follow him wherever he wanted to go. She was allowing him to be the man. It's you who's the man in the family now, Roger. He did not want to get angry with her the way he had got angry with Molly last night. Last night, he had begun to get angry with Molly when she started telling him about that man in Sacramento. He told himself later that she should not have begun talking about another man when she was in bed with him. That was what had got him so angry. But he had the feeling, even while he was trying to convince himself, that the real reason for his sudden anger had nothing at all to do with the man in Sacramento. He couldn't quite understand it, but he knew somehow he had got angry with Molly only because he was beginning to like her so much. That was the part he couldn't understand.
"There's been only one other man in my life who mattered," Molly had said last night. "Before you. Only one other."
He said nothing. They were lying naked on the bed in his room, and he felt spent and exhausted and content, listening to the February wind howling outside, wind always sounded more fierce in the dead of night, especially in a strange city.
"I met him when I was twenty, just a year after my mother passed away, do you mind my talking about this?"
"No," he said, because he really didn't mind yet, he wasn't angry with her yet, he liked her very much. He kept thinking about how his mother would make fun of him for bringing home another ugly duckling and of how he would say, "Why Mom, she's beautiful, what's the matter with you?"
"It was the first job after secretarial school, I really didn't know how to handle either the job or him. I never went out much with boys, boys hardly ever asked me out. I think I'd been kissed maybe half a dozen times in my life, and once a boy touched my breast when we were decorating the high school gym for a senior dance. I didn't even go to the dance because no one asked me." She paused. "His name was Theodore Michelsen, he had a brother who was a priest in San Diego. He was married and had two children, a little boy and a little girl, their pictures were on his desk. His wife's picture was on his desk, too, in the same frame, one of those frames that open like a book. His wife was on the left-hand side and his two children on the right. Do you mind my talking about this?"
"No," he said. He didn't mind. He was lying with his arm around her, and her lips close to his ear, staring up at the ceiling and thinking how soft her voice was and how warm and smooth she felt in his arms.
"I don't know how it started," Molly said. "I guess one day he just kissed me, and I guess it was the first time I'd ever really been kissed by anyone, I mean really kissed by a man. And then, I don't know, we just began, not that same day, but a few days later, I guess it was a Friday, I guess it was after everyone had gone home. We made love in his office, look, I know you don't want to hear this."
"No, that's all right," he said.
"We did it every day," she said. "I loved it," she said.
That was when he got angry.
He could hear the snow squeaking under his shoes. Amelia held his arm tightly and said, "We're heading for the river, did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"What were you thinking?"
"Thinking?" He shook his head. "Nothing."
"Oh, yes you were. Just a few minutes ago. You were a million miles away."
"I was thinking I ought to be getting home."
"I must be a real fascinating girl. You're walking with me, and all you can think about is getting home."
"I didn't mean it that way. It's just my mother's all alone up there. Not really alone, I have a younger brother, but you know."
"Yes," Amelia said.
"It's just I'm the man in the family."
"Yes."
"That's a
ll." He shrugged.
"Still, you are here," she said. "You are with me."
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have"
"I mean, I am a fairly good-looking girl, you know, what with my rat-fitch collar and my sexy black sweater." She grinned. "I mean well, you know, a girl doesn't get all dressed up so some guy can think of running back home to Gulchwater Flats."
"Carey," he said, and smiled.
"Right?"
"Right."
"So what do you intend to do about it, look, there's ice on the river, you could probably walk clear across to the other shore."
"There wasn't any ice last night," he said.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Were you here last night?"
"Well, I meant early this morning. About three o'clock."
"What were you doing here at three in the morning?"
"I wasn't here"
"But you said"
"I had to make a delivery."
"A delivery?"
"Yes. Vegetables."
"Oh."
"So I had a chance to see the river, that's all I meant."
"And there was no ice."
"No. I guess it must have been a little above freezing."
"It felt a lot colder than that yesterday," she said.
"Yes, it did. But the river wasn't frozen."
"Okay," she said. "You want to walk across to the other side?"
"No."
"Vegetables, did you say?"
"Yes, I got the job from a man, to pick up these vegetables and deliver them. With my truck."
"Oh." She nodded, and then said, "How cold do you think it is now?"
"I don't know. In the twenties, I'd guess."
"Are you cold?"
"A little."
"My feet are cold," she said.
"You want to go someplace? For coffee or something?"
"I thought you had a room," she said.
"I do."
"Let's go there."
They walked in silence for several moments. The river was frozen from shore to shore. The bridge uptown spanned the ice, rose from the ice as if it were a silvery spidery extension of it.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
"Hurt me? How can you hurt me?"
"I don't know," he said, and shrugged.
"Honey," she said, "I've been had by experts."
"Amelia, there are . . ." He shook his head.
"Yes? What?"
"There are a lot of things . . ." He shook his head again.
"What is it, Roger?"
"I should do."
"What?"
"Things I should do."
"Yes, like what?"
"Well ... I want to be with you."
"Yes, I want to be with you, too."
"I want to kiss you again, I've been wanting to ever since"
"Yes, yes"
"But I don't want to hurt you."
"But, baby, how can you possibly"
"I just want you to know that."
She stared at him silently. At last she said, "You're a funny person." She reached up and kissed him swiftly and then moved back from him and looked into his face and said, "Come," and took his hand.
12
The party in Roger's room started at about five-thirty when Fook Shanahan came in with a man who lived on the second floor and whom Roger didn't know at all. He and Amelia had just come into the room, had in fact barely taken off their coats when Fook knocked on the door and without waiting for anyone to answer opened the door and came in, followed by a very tall thin man with thick-rimmed eyeglasses and a thatch of brown hair turning white. His eyebrows were already completely white, thick and shaggy; they looked fake to Roger, as if they had been pasted on as a disguise. Fook had a bottle of bourbon in one hand, and two glasses in the other. He went immediately to the dresser where he put down the bottle and the glasses and then he turned to Roger and said, "Aren't you going to introduce us to the young lady?"
"Oh, sure," Roger said. "This is Amelia Perez. Amelia, I'd like you to meet Fook Shanahan, and I'm afraid I don't know the other gentleman's name."
"The other gentleman's name is Dominick Tartaglia," Fook said, "and he's no gentleman, believe me." Tartaglia laughed. Fook laughed with him and then said, "I gather you two have just come in from the frozen tundra out there, and would appreciate a drink."
"Well . . ." Roger said hesitantly, and then glanced at Amelia.
"Sure," Amelia said. "I'd love a drink."
"The problem is one of numerical disproportion," Fook said. "We seem to have four people and only three glasses."
"Roger and I can share a glass," Amelia said, and smiled gently at him.
"Then there's no problem," Fook said. He went to the dresser and opened the bottle. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and leaning forward, resting her elbow on her knee, one hand toying with the pearls at her throat. Tartaglia stood alongside the dresser, smiling as Fook poured the drinks. Roger glanced at Amelia to see if she minded them being here, but she seemed to be pretty happy. We'll make love as soon as they leave, he thought.
And suddenly he was frightened.
"We were waiting for you to come home, Roger," F/ook said, "because we wanted to know how you made out with the bulls."
"Oh, we had a nice talk," Roger said.
"Were the police here?" Amelia asked, and she suddenly sat up straight and looked at Roger.
"Yeah," Tartaglia said. "Our landlady had a refrigerator stolen from her."
"A refrigerator?" Amelia said. "Thank you," she said to Fook as he handed her the drink.
"I apologize for the lack of ice," Fook said. "Would you like a little water in that?"
"Spoils the taste," Amelia said, and grinned.
"Ah, an Irish colored girl," Shanahan said. "The best kind." He lifted his glass. "Cheers, Miss."
Amelia sipped at her drink and then raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes. "Whoosh!" she said, and handed the glass to Roger. Roger sniffed it, and then took a short swallow.
"So what happened?" Fook asked.
"Nothing," Roger said. "They came in and they were very polite, and they asked me where I'd been last night, and I told them. Then, let me see, I guess we talked about how much I thought the refrigerator was worth, and then they said I could go home or stay here, whichever I wanted, they had no more questions for me."
"That means they think he's clean," Tartaglia said to Fook.
"Of course," Fook said. "We're all clean. Who the hell would want to steal that old bitch's box, excuse me, Miss."
"That's all right," Amelia said, and she took another sip of the drink.
"Did you tell him about the shelves?" Tartaglia said.
"No," Fook said.
"What about the shelves?"
"They found them."
"What shelves?" Amelia asked.
"From the refrigerator. They found them near the furnace downstairs," Tartaglia said.
"Which means," Fook said, "that whoever went to the trouble of stealing that broken-down piece of machinery also went to the trouble of removing the shelves from it first. Now does that make any sense to you?"
"None at all," Amelia said, and finished her drink.
"Are you ready for another one, young lady?" Tartaglia asked.
"Just to take off the chill," Amelia said, and she winked.
"She's Irish, I tell you," Fook said.
Tartaglia took her glass and poured it half full. He poured more bourbon into his own glass, and then handed Amelia hers and walked to Fook with the bottle, filling his glass as Fook talked.
"What good is a refrigerator without shelves?" Fook asked. "You're not drinking, Roger. You're supposed to be sharing the young lady's drink."
"Amelia," she said.
"Yes, Amelia, of course. You're a beautiful girl, Amelia," Fook said. "May I congratulate you upon your taste, Roger?"
"Yes, you may," Roger said, an
d smiled.
"Congratulations," Fook said. "Isn't there another glass in this place?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I insist that you share the lady's"
"Amelia," she said. , "Yes, I insist that you share Amelia's drink. Amelia, let the man have a sip."
"Well, I don't want to drink too much," Roger said.
"He gets violent when he's drunk," Fook said, and winked at Amelia.
"No, I don't think so," she said. "I don't think he's that kind."
"No, he's a very sweet man," Fook said, taking the glass from her gently, and handing it to Roger. "Drink," he said "And tell me what you think about those shelves."
Roger sipped at the bourbon and then handed the glass back to Amelia. "Gee, I don't know what to make of it," he said.
"Why would anyone steal a refrigerator and leave the shelves behind?" Fook asked.
"Maybe it was too heavy to carry with the shelves in it," Tartaglia said, and burst out laughing.
"Let me get this straight," Amelia said, drinking. "A refrigerator was stolen from your landlady's apartment last night, but the shelves"
"From the basement," Tartaglia corrected. "It was stolen from the basement."
"Oh. I see. Oh. But in any case, whoever took it first removed the shelves from inside, is this right?"
"That's right."
"Fingerprints." Amelia said.
"Of course!" Fook said.
"They'll find fingerprints on the shelves," Tartaglia said. "That's right. You're right, miss, have another drink."
"I'll get plotzed," Amelia said. "You'll get me plotzed here, I won't know what the hell I'm doing." She held out her glass.
They won't find fingerprints on the shelves, Roger thought. I was wearing gloves. They won't find fingerprints anywhere in that basement.
"But why did he take out the shelves?" Fook insisted. "That's the problem. Fingerprints aside, why did he bother to remove the shelves?"
They were all silent, thinking.
"I don't know," Amelia said at last, and took another swallow of bourbon.
"I don't know, either," Tartaglia said.
"Nor I," Fook said.
"Roger?" Amelia said. She grinned somewhat foolishly, and cocked her head to one side, as though she were having trouble keeping him in focus. "You seem to have an idea."
"No," he said.
"You seemed very thoughtful there," she said.
"No."
"Didn't he seem very thoughtful there?" she asked.