SWF Seeks Same

by John Lutz

  A toilet flushed somewhere and water gurgled in a pipe buried in the wall. A man was yelling, very faintly, possibly from the room next door or directly above, “Get ’em off, get ’em off!” Allie wasn’t sure what he meant and didn’t want to find out. Thanks to the thick walls, he wasn’t making enough noise to disturb her.

  She walked to the bathroom and found that it, too, was clean, though the fixtures were old and yellowed porcelain. The tub had claw feet, and a crack in its side that had somehow been repaired and painted over with white enamel so that it resembled a surgery scar. There was a makeshift shower with a plastic curtain. The curtain was green with a white daisy design, and looked old and brittle enough to break at a touch. Green tile ran from the floor halfway to the ceiling; a few of the squares were missing to reveal ancient gray ridges of cement. There was a single small window, open about three inches and caked with layers of paint so that it would remain open about three inches today and tomorrow and far into eternity. A plank of cool air pushed in through the window, but the pine disinfectant smell was even stronger in the bathroom.

  Allie locked the door and lay down on the bed, which was soft enough to aggravate any spine problem. She saw that the ceiling was cracked and waterstained. There was another roach up there, not moving and probably dead. She stared hard at it, thought it might have moved slightly, but she couldn’t be positive. Vision itself wavered. The eyes played games with the mind.

  She forgot about the roach and laid her plans.

  Wearing her sunglasses, she’d go out and get some lunch, then buy some junk food to bring back to the hotel. Then she’d buy some new clothes—jeans, a blouse, a windbreaker, some socks and underwear—and return to her room and treat herself to a long, hot shower. Maybe take a nap, if she could sleep. She didn’t feel completely secure here at the Willmont, and it wasn’t only the police she feared.

  This evening she’d phone Kennedy again from a booth, then go to the Village. To Wild Red’s, and see if anybody there remembered Hedra.

  Springs twanged as she got up from the bed. She walked into the bathroom and moaned when she looked at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Her hair was greasy and plastered close to her head. Her face was pale. Her eyes, haunted and wide, stared back at her like those of a creature that had just sensed it was merely a link in the food chain, wild and cornered and resigned to death.

  Hedra had done this to her. Turned her into this.

  She washed her face and used her fingertips to do what she could with her hair. A comb and makeup; something else she needed to get while she was out.

  After about ten minutes she again studied herself in the mirror. She was satisfied. Her reflection looked older, with eyes still haunted, but it wouldn’t frighten children.

  Most children.

  Though she was exhausted, sleep was impossible. Allie climbed out of bed at six o’clock that evening and discovered she was hungry. After relieving herself in the bathroom that smelled like the Canadian woods, she unwrapped and ate one of the cheese Danishes she’d bought earlier that day, washing it down with a can of fizzy, warm Pepsi. Later, maybe, she’d take time to eat a more traditional supper.

  After dressing in her new jeans and blue sweater, she slipped into her black windbreaker and went downstairs. It buoyed her spirit, wearing new clothes, even if the ensemble’s style had turned out to be Paris-punk.

  The two old men in the lobby had been joined by a third. They all stopped talking and stared at her as she walked out to the street. What am I doing? she wondered. Swinging my ass? Sending out vibes? Are they expecting me to return with a man? She didn’t much care if they thought she was an innocent prostitute and not someone wanted for murder.

  She walked for a while on Seventh Avenue, lost among the thronging tourists taking advantage of a clear night. Then she used a phone in a Brew Burger at 52nd Street to call Kennedy.

  “I’m afraid you’re in some trouble, dear,” he said when she’d identified herself and been put through to him.

  Allie was soothed by his gentle, amiable voice. She pictured the bulky detective leaning back in his chair with his big feet propped up on his cluttered desk, a row of cigars protruding from his shirt pocket. She searched for words, then said simply, “I didn’t do it.” That sounded hollow even to her.

  “ ‘Course not, dear.”

  “It was something done to me. Something I let happen. It won’t be easy to believe; I know that.”

  “Ah! I’m listening, though.”

  And in a rush of words she told him about Hedra and Sam, and about Graham, and what had actually occurred at the Atherton Hotel.

  Kennedy waited until she was finished and said, “Your neighbors at the Cody Arms told us you lived alone. They never saw this Hedra.”

  “But that was the idea!” Allie said in exasperation. “Her being there was a violation of the lease. I had to pretend I lived alone.”

  “Well, it’s a big and impersonal kind of place, all right, so what you say’s surely possible. Tell me, dear, is there no one who could verify that you had this roommate?”

  “No, there isn’t. The only two people who could are dead. That’s why she killed Sam! And maybe she even murdered Graham.”

  “So she could impersonate you without interference?”

  “Yes. I think she planned to kill me, but then it wasn’t necessary. She just blamed Sam’s murder on me and saved herself the risk and trouble. She thought I’d be arrested and out of her way. I think she’s spent time in a mental hospital. Maybe she’s done it before, killed other women she’s lived with.”

  “What makes you think she’s killed other roommates?”

  “There are all those newspaper clippings about murders.”

  “But didn’t you just tell me you saw only one such clipping, on the back of a recipe?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then you’re not really sure about the others.”

  “No. Yes! God, I don’t know. If you’ll look for her we can find out.”

  “But why would she want to impersonate you?”

  “She didn’t just want to impersonate me—she wanted to be me! Psychiatrists probably have a word for it, like they do everything else. It was as if she didn’t have a personality or an identity of her own, so she needed mine to fill the vacuum. She’s mentally ill. Twisted. Do you understand?”

  “I’m trying to, dear. Be patient with me. And you really think she killed this Graham Knox, too?”

  “I don’t know. I—” Allie suddenly drew in her breath. “You’re trying to keep me talking so this call can be traced.”

  “Don’t be so romantic and excitable, dear. That kind of thing happens mostly in movies and mystery novels.”

  “Don’t call me ‘dear’ again!”

  “All right, if you don’t like it. What would it be, then—Miss Jones? Allie?”

  “You! You’re just a cop, like the rest of them.”

  “I’m a cop, dear. I never pretended to be otherwise. You must admit that. Some problems are too big to shoulder alone. I think you should come here so we can talk in person. I promise you—”

  Allie slammed down the receiver and walked quickly away from the phone, out of the restaurant onto 52nd Street. The cacophony of nighttime Manhattan rushed over her in a deafening wave, intimidating her. She felt like hurling her troubles to the pavement and running as fast as she could away from them.

  But she knew that wouldn’t work.

  Across the street several cabs were queued up to collect passengers at the Sheraton Centre Hotel. She waved to one of the drivers, and the cab eased out of the line and waited for her, blocking traffic. Horns blared, but the driver, unconcerned, slung his arm over the seat back and waited for Allie.

  She climbed in and gave him the address of Wild Red’s in the Village.

  Chapter 31

  MUSIC was pulsing from inside, and when she opened the heavy wood door it was deafening. Raw sound tumbled out onto the sidewalk, as if it had wei
ght and substance and might envelope her.

  Wild Red’s was long and low-ceilinged, with a polished mahogany bar that ran the length of one wall and disappeared in dimness and a haze of smoke as if into another dimension. The place was decorated in a motorcycle motif, with wall posters of leather-clad riders slouched on sleek mechanical chargers. One of the riders was a smiling young woman, nude except for black leather boots with high heels, and with incredibly tattooed breasts. The front end of what looked like a real motorcycle was mounted on the wall behind the bar, as if it were a moose head. A plaque beneath it read “Harley-Davidson” in flowing chrome letters. Allie stood just inside the door and waited for the pungent smell of marijuana to hit her, but the only scent was a mingling of stale liquor and ordinary tobacco smoke.

  The music was blasting from large box speakers mounted at precarious angles high on the walls, aimed sharply downward like weapons for maximum volume. The song was one Allie didn’t recognize, but it featured a strong steel guitar and a driving background beat.

  Half a dozen people sat at the bar, two women and four men. One man was wearing a business suit, the other three had on leather jackets and boots. One wore leather pants to go with his outfit, and a long white scarf draped around his neck, as if he were a Kamakazi pilot living it up before his brief flight to oblivion. Maybe that was what it was all about, Allie thought.

  The two women seemed to be together. The nearer of them was a hefty redhead and had on a tan windbreaker and jeans. Her thighs were so thick and muscular they visibly strained the jeans’ stitches. On her jacket was a gold pin, a miniature set of handcuffs. Her companion was a petite brunette with squared bangs and a face like a leprechaun, wearing a studded Levi’s jacket and baggy camouflaged fatigue pants. The pants were tucked into what appeared to be highly polished army boots. She looked like a tough orphan who’d been drafted by mistake.

  There were a couple of people slouched at tables along the wall opposite the bar, mostly dressed in leather. They were drinking and talking softly. A man wearing what looked like a World War I flying suit, complete with leather helmet and dangling goggles, was dancing swing with a woman in a tight blue jumpsuit with BEYOND BITCH lettered on the back. The impact of their boots on the hard plank floor could be heard as an echoing beat under the music. Whatever the uniform at Wild Red’s, boots seemed to be in fashion.

  Without moving their bodies a millimeter, the three men at the bar turned their heads and stared at Allie. She ignored them and walked over to the bar and sat perched on the end stool, near the door. There was an empty glass in front of the stool next to hers, and a wadded white paper napkin with lipstick on it. A similar red-smeared napkin lay on the floor.

  The bartender was a wiry young guy with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Moving lightly, as if he had much more energy than weight, he came over and said, “Yes, ma’am?”

  Allie told him she wanted a Scotch and water on the rocks.

  When he brought the drink, he said, “Been a while.”

  “From when?” Allie asked.

  He looked puzzled. Then he put on a smiling but vacuous expression. Instant department-store mannequin. “Sorry. Thought you were somebody else. A regular.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Well, I couldn’t really say. You know how it is, something struck a note in my mind.”

  Allie said, “Has Allie Jones been in lately?”

  The bartender smiled. “I don’t know many customers by name. What’s she look like?”

  “Something like me, they say.”

  He grinned, genuinely this time, crinkling the flesh around his eyes and making him look handsomer but ten years older. “Which explains why you looked familiar, I guess. Now I think I know the woman you got in mind. Not that you look a lot like her in the face; it’s more the way you carry yourself or something. Just … something, but strong. Your gestures and all. But like I said, it’s been a while, even if we’re talking about the same person.”

  “Know anybody who could tell me where to find her?”

  “Don’t know anybody who would, even if they could. This isn’t the kind of place that acts as a referral service, you know?”

  “Sure.” Allie sipped her Scotch. It was surprisingly potent, or maybe she was lightheaded from all that had happened to her. The bartender wandered off to see if anyone needed a fresh drink. Glad to get away from her, she thought.

  She sat there awhile, watching, waiting. The other drinkers were studiously ignoring her, she was sure. They had the instincts of herd animals. There was something about her not setting quite right with them, throwing the night slightly out of sync. Danger at the waterhole.

  The blaring music stopped and a softer, slower song came over the speakers, a number by Sade with a hypnotic Latin rhythm. The two guys in leather swiveled down off their stools and started to dance. They were good. What they were doing looked like a slow, grinding cha-cha in perfect time to the syncopated beat. The gamine brunette in the fatigue pants and studded jacket stared openly at Allie, grinned, and stuck out her tongue and wriggled it. The guy in the business suit said, “Stop that, Laverne.” Laverne said, “Fuck you, Cal!” but not as if she were mad. They were friends, Laverne and Cal.

  Allie got up and carried her drink over to where Cal sat with his elbows propped on the bar. He was slightly overweight, in his forties, and had very blond unruly hair and a pleasant moon face. Like a grown-up Huck Finn, Allie thought. Though it was unlikely Twain had ever imagined Huck frequenting a leather bar. Where was Becky Thatcher?

  Settling onto the stool next to him, Allie said, “I’m looking for Allie Jones. Know her?”

  Cal smiled. A beautific smile despite crooked teeth. “Not as I can recall. Wanna dance?”

  “No, thanks. You ever heard the name before?”

  “Allie Jones? Yeah, I think so, but I couldn’t be sure where. Hey, whoa! Aren’t the police looking for an Allison Jones?” Tumblers in his mind had obviously clicked into place. Without waiting for her to answer, he said, “Yeah …” Looked apprehensive. Then his open, pale features went as blank as if a lamp inside him had been switched off.

  At first Allie was afraid her photo might have been in the papers or on TV and he’d recognized her. For a crazy instant she considered running for the door.

  Then she realized he probably thought she was an undercover cop, searching for … herself. Well, that would make a kind of sense from his point of view.

  She thought, the best defense … Said, “Still like to dance?”

  “Uh-uh. Sorry, gotta go.” He turned away from her and dropped a folded five-dollar bill on the bar, then got down off his stool and walked outside, moving fast but trying not to hurry.

  The two leather freaks on the dance floor had been snorting something from a white handkerchief while they swiveled their hips to the beat. Probably butyl nitrate. One of them had been watching what went on at the bar. He blew his nose in the handkerchief and stuffed it in one of his jacket’s many pockets. Innocent guy with a cold, that’s all he was. Sure.

  Allie decided hanging around Wild Red’s any longer was useless. She paid for her drink and got down off her stool.

  As she was walking past the two women at the bar, the redhead in the tan windbreaker said, “C’mon back sometime when you’re not lookin’ for that dumb cunt Allie. You don’t really wanna find her anyways; girl’s sicker’n sick.”

  Laverne said, “Speakin’ of dumb cunts, shut the one under your nose.”

  The redheaded woman smiled and shrugged. Allie nodded to her and went outside, wondering if the stares she felt would leave holes in the back of her jacket.

  She was glad to be on the sidewalk. Breathing fresh night air.

  She’d taken only a few steps when a man’s voice said, “Hey, Allie, you in the deepest shit, girl!”

  She turned and was facing a husky black man with a full beard and a dangling gold earring. He’d been hurrying toward her, but now he stopped in midstride. A surp
rised, suspicious look washed over his blunt features. He frowned, calculating. There was something wrong with his face, a puckered scar beneath his left eye, almost like another, squinting eye.

  He said, “Sorry, Miss, had you wrong,” and turned to walk across the street.

  “Wait a minute!” Allie said, starting after him.

  He shook his head without looking back. “Ain’t got a minute.”

  He obviously knew Allie was wanted for murder, and thought it more than coincidence that a woman who so much resembled her—Hedra—had emerged from Wild Red’s. He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t know her and didn’t want her to link him in any way to the Allie Jones he did know.

  “Dammit! Need to talk!” Allie called, as he picked up too much speed for walking and started to jog.

  She began chasing him, and he glanced back and broke into a flat-out run, crossing Waverly diagonally. He’d decided she was trouble he could outdistance.

  He was bigger, faster. But Allie was desperate. Damn him! She lengthened her stride, feeling the strain in her thighs. Tried to breathe evenly through her nose, the way she’d been taught in gym class in high school, so she could regulate the flow of oxygen to her lungs and wouldn’t get winded too soon.

  The man ahead of her could run; he had an easy, athletic stride despite his bulk. His arms swung loosely and rhythmically and his shoulder muscles rippled beneath his tight brown jacket. He gave the impression he had strength in reserve.

  He cut around a comer, using some of that strength to run faster. Allie tripped over a raised section of sidewalk and almost fell. She stumbled forward half a dozen lurching steps before regaining her balance.

  By the time she’d rounded the corner, he was well ahead of her. Pulling away. She was sure she was going to lose him.

  But at the next corner a cluster of pedestrians waiting to cross the street slowed him down.

  He glanced over his shoulder, saw Allie gaining ground, and elbowed people aside. Tires screeched and a horn blared at him as he interrupted the flow of traffic.